Fake Credit Card Customer Care
Mr. Rajesh sat quietly in his living room, sipping his evening tea. His thoughts wandered as he looked at the bill he’d just paid — two lakh rupees to clear his credit card. He prided himself on his financial discipline, keeping a meticulous record of every rupee spent and paid. But there was something off today. As he opened the app to check his Bank of Baroda credit card balance, he noticed that the amount hadn’t been credited. Panic started to creep in, but he reassured himself. Maybe it was just a delay.
The next morning, he woke
up determined to get to the bottom of it. He decided to call customer care to
check the status of his payment. Not trusting automated services, he preferred
speaking to a person who could provide real-time answers. After a quick search
on Google, he found a number that appeared to be for the Bank of Baroda
customer care. He dialed it quickly.
“Hello, Credit Card
Department. How can I help you?” The voice on the other end was calm,
professional, and reassuring.
Rajesh explained his
situation, detailing the payment he’d made and his concern that it hadn’t
reflected on his statement. The person on the line listened attentively, and
after a brief pause, asked for some details.
“Could you please share
your credit card number so I can look into this for you, sir?” the voice
requested.
Without hesitation, Rajesh
rattled off his card number, grateful to be getting assistance. The person then
suggested that perhaps there was an issue with his account, and if Rajesh could
provide another card number — say, his RBL credit card — they could credit the
two lakh rupees there instead.
“Alright,” Rajesh said, following the instructions. He wanted this resolved quickly. But something seemed odd when the person asked him to download a mobile application called AnyDesk.
“It’s just for verifying
your details remotely, sir. Don’t worry. It’s completely safe,” the voice
assured him.
Without realizing the gravity of what he was doing, Rajesh followed the instructions. He shared the ID generated by the app, believing he was simply helping to expedite the process. Moments later, strange alerts started popping up on his phone. Transactions he hadn’t made were appearing on his RBL card, then his One Card. Before he could grasp what was happening, the amounts started disappearing — ₹1,90,000 from his RBL card and ₹3,55,000 from his One Card.
“Excuse me, what’s going
on?” Rajesh asked, his voice shaky with anxiety.
“Don’t worry, sir. There
seems to be a glitch. We will reverse these charges if you can share one more
card’s details for verification.”
The polite tone no longer
sounded comforting. It felt predatory.
“No. No more details. I
want my money back!” he shouted, fear rising in his chest.
There was silence on the
line for a moment, then the call abruptly ended. Rajesh stared at his phone,
his hands trembling. The realization hit him like a punch in the gut. He had
been conned by a voice that seemed trustworthy, by instructions that seemed
professional, and by his own urgency to resolve the issue quickly.
Despair turned to anger.
He immediately rushed to the nearest police station, the Cyber Crimes branch in
Cyberabad, to file a complaint. There, seated before an officer named M.
Ranjith Kumar, he poured out the entire incident. The officer took down every
detail meticulously, and the more he wrote, the clearer the picture became.
“These people are
professionals,” Officer Ranjith said, shaking his head. “They operate in teams.
The number you called was fake. They manipulated your trust and used that app
to take control of your device. Once they had that, they drained your accounts
without a second thought.”
Rajesh felt a chill run
down his spine. ₹5,45,000 gone in minutes.
The FIR was registered Sections
420 of the Indian Penal Code (IPC) and 66-C, 66-D of the Information Technology
Act. The officer assured Rajesh that they would do everything in their power to
trace the perpetrators, but it would be a complex process. They had only a few
leads: the names “Rajesh and others” and a couple of phone numbers.
As Rajesh walked out of
the police station, a strange numbness enveloped him. He had lost his
hard-earned money not through negligence, but by being too trusting, too quick
to act without thinking. He kept replaying the moment he’d downloaded that
application, wishing he could turn back time and stop himself.
But the damage was done.
Now, he could only wait and hope that the police would catch these con artists.
Maybe someday, someone else would read about his experience and be spared from
making the same mistake. Until then, he would keep fighting for justice for his
money, and for the peace of mind he’d lost that day.
The story of Rajesh was
one among many, but it served as a stark reminder: trust, once misplaced, can
cost more than money. It can strip you of your security, your sense of control,
and sometimes, your belief in others.
