Chapter 3: Viral Scandal

Even though I’d calmed things down for now, I was still a bundle of nerves.

There’s an old saying in my family—'relatives are like chutney, they turn up everywhere.' Hanuman ji’s connections run deep, touching gods, mortals, and spirits alike. One wrong move, and you’re trending for all the wrong reasons on every afterlife WhatsApp group.

This Hanuman ji has relatives everywhere and a whole army of sworn brothers. If this Old Corpse accidentally tangled with one of them, disaster would be guaranteed.

The list of people who’d rush to avenge Hanuman ji could fill a Kumbh Mela. This wasn’t just about professional embarrassment—it was about keeping your name out of the ‘log kya kahenge’ gossip in the afterlife newsletter.

While I was sweating bullets, Director Amit came running in with the report.

He nearly toppled the office tea tray, sending a ripple through the little steel chai glasses. His hands shook as he handed me the file, the faint scent of Mysore sandal soap trailing behind him. I could hear the distant whistle of the office kettle, the sound oddly comforting.

As soon as I opened the report and saw ‘Case Unclosed,’ my heart sank.

The ink on that heading looked as ominous as a black cat crossing your path during exam season. My stomach clenched, as if I’d eaten a plate of stale samosas.

Exactly what I’d feared.

Somewhere in my mind, I flashed back to a time when one small mistake had led to a major scandal—a family photo, the worried faces of my wife and daughter, that terrible week when I thought my whole career was finished. The Underworld is no place for unfinished business.

Turns out, this Old Corpse, leading a gang of wandering spirits, had caused havoc in the countryside. But with news crawling in on the back of a tractor, the case bounced around for half a year before landing at the Underworld Office—only to be buried by some lazy fool.

Only in India, yaar—whether it’s a missing ration card or a haunting, paperwork always gets lost. Stories move fast, but news? That comes slow, sometimes too late for any good.

Just my luck.

I grabbed another report and read carefully, my fingers unconsciously rubbing my forehead as if that might summon an answer from the ceiling’s cobwebs.

Here’s what happened:

Thanks to the internet boom, news now spreads like wildfire. Someone posted a question on ‘Puchho Bhai’ (our supernatural Q&A forum):

[Can Hanuman ji instantly destroy a fierce spirit like the Old Corpse of the Mountain Village?]

Within hours, the question was forwarded to every WhatsApp group in the afterlife—right between the latest wedding invitation and a video of dancing sadhus. Whoever posted it must’ve been either bored or dangerously gutsy. These days, sneeze and someone puts it online, tags you, and makes a meme.

And wouldn’t you know it, Hanuman ji’s secretary spotted it.

Always the way—the one post you pray gets ignored goes viral in a flash.

Who is Hanuman ji now? A total celebrity in the Heavenly Court. How could his name get mixed up with some rotten corpse?

In the age of social media, reputations are as fragile as a diya in the wind. Even gods can’t ignore a trending topic—not when their followers number in crores.

So, when Hanuman ji’s motorcade passed by the Underworld, his secretary called a spirit messenger to ask about it. She wanted to know who this Old Corpse was—no namaste, no sweets, just the kind of demand you get from a Delhi aunty at a wedding buffet.

The spirit messenger took one look at the VIP number plate, realised the stakes, and sprinted up the chain. Hanuman ji’s crew didn’t bother waiting—they just left.

The messenger’s chappals slapped the floor as he rushed—no one wants to be late with news when such big names are involved.

The chain of blame began. He reported to Inspector Kala Prasad of Law Enforcement. Kala Prasad turned pale as a bedsheet. He told Sub-Inspector Shweta. Shweta’s face went black. Every face changed colour, every file landed on a new desk with a thud like tabla before a storm.

She said, “This is no small matter! Report it immediately!”

She adjusted her dupatta, squared her shoulders, and barked orders like a school principal during exams.

She reported to Choudhary Vikram. Choudhary Vikram was so shocked, his kurta tore and the scattered agarbatti ashes burned through seven or eight files. Word is, he had to pay over a lakh for repairs.

Nobody’s ready for disaster—least of all Choudhary Vikram, whose kurta collection is legendary. The burnt files’ smell lingered for days, a warning to never mess up paperwork.

He frantically checked nearly a year’s worth of records, but found nothing major. Still, just to be safe, he reported it up the chain.

Each time the file changed hands, a new layer of red tape appeared, as if the forms themselves multiplied out of thin air. Blame moved upward, as fast as possible.

Director Amit got wind, searched online, and found the ‘Puchho Bhai’ post. Checked the system—bam! There it was, an unresolved case about the Old Corpse hurting people. Status: still open.

The sight of that open case must have made Amit’s heart race like a rickshaw dodging potholes in the rain. He scrambled to double-check everything, hoping some technical glitch might save him.

No wonder he rushed to report it to me.

After reading the report, I cursed under my breath:

“Who’s so jobless they have to stir up trouble online?!”

I almost flung the file, but thought better of it—no use breaking another office fan. My head ached as if I’d just sat through an entire family function of gossiping aunties.

I called Amit:

“Tell Kala Prasad to close the unresolved case. And draft a notice—tighten management of wandering spirits and lost souls.”

My tone left no room for argument, like a mother issuing orders before a wedding.

I put down the phone, hesitated, then dialed again:

“Director Suresh, how’s it going?”

“Haha, it’s me, Old Rajendra. Have you heard about the Old Corpse causing trouble?”

“If not, check ‘Puchho Bhai.’ The question is, ‘Can Hanuman ji instantly destroy a fierce spirit like the Old Corpse?’”

There was stunned silence, then a volley of curses. Next came the criticism:

“I told you to keep things tight! If Hanuman ji gets angry, the whole Underworld will have to reshuffle!”

The shouting was so loud, I had to hold the phone away, like when Amma scolds you in front of the neighbours.

“Old Suresh, chill. Our office dropped the ball, but if things go south, your Legal Affairs won’t escape either. We’re drafting the notice—just work with us. If we get ahead of this, maybe we’ll all survive, samjha?”

He grumbled, but the edge softened. In the end, we all cover each other’s backs—no one wants to be the last one holding the file.

“Don’t let it happen again!”

Phone dead. I let out a long sigh—like the relief after the first good rain. I loosened my collar, poured some chai, my hands still trembling a bit.

As long as Kala Prasad takes care of the Old Corpse, we’re safe.

But in our world, nothing is ever that simple. I stirred my tea, the sound of distant tiffin boxes clattering in the kitchen, and prayed the next news would be better.

But just as I was making chai and scrolling today’s trending topics, a headline nearly gave me a heart attack.

[Body of Kala Prasad, Inspector of the Underworld Law Enforcement Team, Discovered in Mountain Village]

For a second, everything stopped—the fan, the office, even my heartbeat. The headline blinked back, sharp as Lucknow’s winter air.

Kala… Kala Prasad is dead…

The cup slipped from my hand, chai pooling around my shoes. The taste of fear—bitter and strong—filled my mouth, and I knew: our troubles had just begun. Somewhere in the shadows, a bell tolled—once, twice, thrice. The Underworld was listening.