Chandigarh, Kashmir: When the lights went out in Chandigarh that May evening, Vanshika didn't panic at first. The final-year food technology student assumed it was routine—maybe a short circuit, maybe load shedding. She reached for her phone's flashlight and returned to her exam preparation.
But then her phone pinged.
“DRONE CRASH NEAR CAMPUS. BLACKOUT INTENTIONAL. BE SAFE. 🚨”
Another message popped up in her hostel’s WhatsApp group:
“Pakistan has hacked the grid. Don’t open ANY links on Instagram. All data can be wiped.”
Within minutes, the entire hostel floor was in chaos. Doors slammed. Someone screamed. A junior burst into her room, crying. No one knew what was real anymore. Vanshika sat on the floor, phone in hand, trying to Google the truth. But there was no signal.
Later, the administration confirmed it was just a routine military drill. But the damage was done.
“I couldn’t sleep that night,” Vanshika recalled. “I didn’t know what to believe. My brain just… spiraled.”
In an era where misinformation spreads faster than facts, Vanshika’s story isn’t an exception – it’s the blueprint of a new kind of crisis. One that thrives in the blurry space between war, technology, and the human mind.
The Invisible War
In May 2025, as tensions flared between India and Pakistan, a different kind of conflict unfolded across Indian cities and villages. From Chandigarh to the remote hamlets of Kashmir, people received a barrage of false forwards warning of malware attacks, bank account freezes, mass evacuations, and nationwide blackouts.
What scared cybersecurity experts wasn't just the volume of misinformation—it was its velocity and credibility.
“These hoaxes ride on timing,” said Ritesh Bhatia, a cybercrime investigator and founder of V4WEB, a Mumbai-based company expertising in cybercrime investigations. “They exploit people’s anxiety when they’re already on edge. You combine fear with virality, and that’s a recipe for chaos.”
The anatomy of digital panic, experts discovered, follows a predictable pattern: a grain of truth, wrapped in technical-sounding language, amplified by trusted messengers, and spread through intimate communication channels like family WhatsApp groups.
In Budgam district, situated near Tosamaidan—once Kashmir's largest artillery firing range—residents were already gripped by constant fear of possible attacks from Pakistan. But alongside the traditional fears of bombs and missiles, a different kind of war was unfolding on their phone screens.
Suhail Akram, a 19-year-old commerce student, discovered this firsthand when he went out to buy supplies on May 10. No shopkeeper would accept UPI or digital payments. Even ATMs had unusually long queues.
"I thought it was a network problem," Suhail recalled. "But then I heard someone say, 'The banks have been hacked. Don't use Paytm.'"
The rumor stemmed from a viral WhatsApp forward warning of a massive ransomware attack targeting Indian banks. Grocery shop owner Razzaq Dar had received the same message in his family group.
"It said that Pakistani hackers could steal everything," Dar explained, tapping the dusty Paytm soundbox his son had recently installed. "I shut it off immediately."
The panic was entirely unfounded.
“There was no cyberattack,” confirmed Gulzar Ahmad, a bank manager at J&K Bank in Budgam. “Our systems were functioning. But people believed what they saw online. That day, we had to refill one ATM with over ₹80 lakh just to calm things down.”
For Razzaq Dar, the sleepless nights weren't just about war coverage on television. "The fear of losing my customers had stolen my peace," he admitted.
Likes, Reels, and Rising Panic
Among the most viral pieces of misinformation was a supposed malware named "Dance of the Hillary," allegedly created by Pakistani hackers. It warned users not to click on any Instagram links or open videos shared on WhatsApp, claiming entire phones would be wiped clean.
The truth? It was a recycled hoax dating back to 2016, reborn in the shadow of war.
"The 'Dance of the Hillary' story is completely fake," Bhatia explained with exasperation. "It's one of those zombie forwards—it dies for a bit and comes back whenever people are scared. Since 2010, we've been making Hillary dance."
Fact-checkers confirmed this forward was a blend of old chain messages and vague technical-sounding gibberish. But it gained massive traction because, as experts note, fear travels faster than facts.
Even public figures and influencers shared the malware warnings uncritically.
The misinformation ecosystem extended beyond WhatsApp. On Instagram, a reel from the account @bhanu_pathak went viral, warning people not to open any Instagram messages. It garnered over 60 million views despite containing no verifiable information.
Another page, @indiainlast24hr, posted a dramatic video claiming an Indian satellite had been taken offline by cyberattacks. The post was later retracted, but by then, it had already been screenshotted, reshared, and archived into public paranoia.
Apar Gupta, Advocate and Founding Director of the Internet Freedom Foundation (IFF), believes that tackling misinformation in India requires more than just content moderation. “At IFF, we treat misinformation as a public-safety and civil-liberties problem,” he told Decode. “It demands three things: rights-respecting platform design with transparent moderation, evidence-based regulation grounded in the Constitution, and widespread digital literacy. Anything less is either censorship theatre or techno-solutionism.”
Gupta points to peer-reviewed studies showing how social media platforms often amplify falsehoods faster than corrections—especially in low-trust environments like India. He recalls how the Supreme Court’s landmark Shreya Singhal judgment in 2015 struck down Section 66A of the IT Act for chilling free speech. Yet, in 2023, the government sought to empower the PIB Fact Check Unit (FCU) to unilaterally flag and take down content under the amended IT Rules—a move the Bombay High Court stayed, citing the risk of unconstitutional censorship. “We didn’t oppose fact-checking itself,” Gupta clarified. “We opposed the remedy: takedowns without appeal violate the principle of proportionality.”
He also cited a 2025 Aspen-DEF study across five Indian states that found fewer than 1 in 10 villagers could tell apart a sponsored ad from a real news story, or perform a reverse image search. “In such environments, misinformation spreads through kinship trust. If a cousin sends it, it must be true.”
When Fear Becomes Profit
The misinformation crisis created opportunities for cybercriminals to exploit heightened anxieties. Ramkishan, a 55-year-old farmer from Haryana, became a victim when he received what appeared to be an official security alert.
"Important Security Update: Foreign hackers may target your phone," the message read. It warned him to verify his device to avoid a "national security breach" and provided a link to what looked like a government website.
"I entered my Aadhaar and bank details," Ramkishan admitted. "I thought I was doing my duty to protect the country."
By nightfall, his account was emptied.
"I felt stupid, but mostly I was afraid," he reflected. "What else could they do if they could steal my money?"
Ramkishan now keeps his smartphone turned off most days. "I feel like I'm being watched now," he says—a sentiment that psychologists are beginning to recognise as a new form of trauma.
What Ramkishan and thousands of others experienced is now being described by mental health professionals as "digital trauma"—a psychological response to repeated exposure to perceived digital threats.
"We're seeing a rise in compulsive phone-checking, anxiety, and tech-phobia," explained Chanchal Sehrawat, a counselor affiliated with TISS Mumbai's iCall helpline. "People feel they can't trust their phones, their news, or even their instincts anymore."
At the women's college in Chandigarh where Vanshika studies, counselors reported a surge in students seeking help for anxiety. Many described having nightmares or feeling constantly on edge, even after learning the truth about the fake drone crash.
"Digital fear isn't just about malware," Sehrawat said. "It's about safety, identity, and control. When people feel like they can't trust their phones or their information, it robs them of calm—both online and in real life."
The psychological impact extends beyond individual cases. In Pathankot, a tense border town, Ranjeet Singh and his wife Geeta found themselves caught in a cycle of escalating fears fed by their family WhatsApp group.
"First they said our bank accounts would be frozen," Ranjeet recounted. "Then Pakistani hackers could access our phones through the camera. Then came warnings about military evacuations. It's like you don't know what to believe anymore."
Geeta, who suffers from diabetes and hypertension, found the constant stream of alarming messages particularly distressing. "Should we tell the neighbors?" she would ask frantically with each new forward.
The Amplification Effect
The crisis revealed how trusted figures inadvertently became vectors for misinformation spread. Even public figures and influencers shared malware warnings without verification, lending credibility to false claims.
"When ministers or verified influencers share these forwards, it makes people believe them," Bhatia noted. "We don't just need fact-checking. We need accountability."
In rural India, where WhatsApp has become the primary information channel for many residents, the impact was particularly severe. During periods of national tension, these communication networks became flooded with unverified information that created severe psychological distress among villagers.
Ram, a social media manager in Himachal Pradesh's Rakkar area, found himself becoming an unofficial fact-checker for his extended family and community. "From my office to my relatives, I had to fact-check every message and call," he said. "What made things worse was the constant fear-mongering by media channels."
The additional burden of verification created what Ram described as "sleepless nights, not because of the war only but also because of the additional role of a fact-checker."
The Trust Deficit
Across cities and villages, screens that once connected people became sources of suspicion. Where once there was curiosity, there was now compulsive checking. Where there was convenience, there was now fear.
Back in Budgam, bank manager Gulzar Ahmad worries less about actual cyberattacks and more about eroded belief systems. "Our systems were working fine on May 10," he reflects. "But people didn't believe us. They believed a WhatsApp forward instead. That's the real danger."
The crisis highlighted the limited reach of fact-checkers, particularly in rural and semi-urban India. While fact-checking organisations worked overtime to debunk viral hoaxes, their corrections often failed to match the reach and emotional impact of the original misinformation.
"Fact-checkers are heroes, but their reach is still limited—especially in rural India," Bhatia said. "The platforms, the influencers, and the political ecosystem need to step up."
Bhatia reserves particular criticism for social media platforms and their apparent inability to contain misinformation spread. "When you can build driverless cars and space tech, why can't you stop fake news?" he questioned. "If you don't verify something before sending it to millions, you're part of the problem."
The investigation revealed that despite advanced algorithms for content recommendation and advertising, major platforms seemed ill-equipped to handle the rapid spread of crisis-related misinformation. Meta, which owns both WhatsApp and Instagram, did not respond to requests for comment about their moderation protocols during the crisis period.
Months after the crisis, the human toll remains visible. Vanshika still finds herself jumping at sudden noises and questioning information from all sources. Ramkishan continues to keep his smartphone turned off most days, afraid of what digital threats might be lurking in his device.
Razzaq Dar in Kashmir has gradually resumed accepting digital payments, but remains wary. "I still check with my son before accepting any new payment method," he said.
These individual stories reflect a broader societal shift. In today's India, where real-world conflict intersects with viral chaos, the first casualty isn't infrastructure—it's trust. And when trust erodes, it takes a piece of everyone with it, leaving communities more fragmented and individuals more isolated in an increasingly connected world.
The digital fog of war, it turns out, doesn't lift when the military tensions ease. Its effects linger in the minds and hearts of those who lived through it, serving as a stark reminder that in the age of social media, information itself has become a weapon—and everyone is both a potential target and an unwitting soldier.