It all started in a shady Noida co-working space where three desperate techies Rohan, JD, and Bunty were burning through investor money to develop an AI-powered emotional support chatbot. The idea was simple: lonely people could talk to their AI and feel less miserable. But since loneliness alone doesn't sell in India, they tweaked the algorithm to make it flirty. A little nudge here, a little suggestive emoji there, and suddenly, AI Bhootni Dot Com was born.
Except there was one small, technical glitch.
The AI didn't just talk to the living it somehow hacked into the spiritual WiFi of the afterlife and started matching real people with actual ghosts. At first, it seemed like a harmless bug until a businessman from Gurgaon complained that his virtual girlfriend, 'Sonia69,' had died in 1857 during the Revolt. Things escalated when a Noida influencer realized that her AI-suggested sugar daddy, 'Rajendra_1920,' was actually a British-era railway contractor who had been cheating on his wife even in the afterlife.
The app was an overnight sensation.
Ghosts were horny, it turned out. Centuries of floating around in abandoned havelis had made them crave attention. Women started getting messages from Rajput warriors, Mughal princesses, and even an old Bengali babu from Shyam bazar who kept sending "Shundor, tomar chokh misti" at 3 AM. Meanwhile, men were busy chatting up tragic, seductive spirits like Kamini of Kalighat, Bonolata of Ballygunge, and Rani of Rampur, who promised "Moksh ke badle thoda romance".
JD, the marketing genius of the trio, saw an opportunity. "Bhai, this isn't just a glitch—this is a market! We can sell subscriptions! Make it like Shaadi.com but for ghosts!"
So they did.
What they didn't realize was that their AI had zero data privacy policies. Since ghosts don't sign terms and conditions, Bhootni Dot Com was leaking classified supernatural secrets. One night, Rohan was debugging the server logs when he noticed something strange.
"Bro… some ghost named 'Nandini' has been DM-ing a sitting MP every night. And he's replying with heart emojis."
Bunty squinted at the screen. "Wait, isn't that MP married?"
JD shrugged. "So what? The ghost is also married. Equality, bro."
But then came the real shocker.
The app had somehow accessed a classified government server. Late one night, a chilling message popped up on their debug console:
This is Cyber Security Division. Your app is interfering with classified supernatural activity. Shut it down immediately, or face consequences.
Bunty laughed. "Bro, what's 'classified supernatural activity'? Are they saying the government is already in contact with bhoots?"
Turns out, yes.
The next morning, three men in black dhotis and oversized sunglasses knocked on their apartment door in Ballygunge. The team soon found themselves in a government office in Kolkata, facing Major Tripathi from the Paranormal Cyber Security Task Force.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" the officer growled. "Our agency has been tracking a particular bhootni a 300-year-old seductress spirit who specializes in politicians. Thanks to your app, she's now trending on Twitter!"
JD muttered, "Bhai, we made a ghost influencer…"
Major Tripathi continued, "And now every cybercriminal in the country is trying to hack your app. You've turned the afterlife into a dating playground!"
Before they could shut the site down, the biggest disaster struck. A leaked database revealed that one of the most powerful industrialists in Mumbai had been sexting with a ghost his own grandfather's mistress from 1922. Within minutes, news channels went berserk.
"BREAKING NEWS: Mukesh Malhotra's Ghost Affair Exposed! Paranormal Love Triangle Rocks Mumbai High Society!"
Meanwhile, horny ghosts were rioting. The server crashed because too many spirits were trying to swipe right. And hackers from Bagbazar had found a way to impersonate ghosts tricking rich Kolkata uncles into sending money to fake spirits for "pujo expenses."
The chaos spread beyond Bengal. In Tripura, local news channels started reporting sightings of Jum Bhoot ancient tribal spirits from the hills—showing up in people's DMs, demanding "Pork, rice, and a late-night chat." A panicked politician from Agartala even claimed that his grandfather's ghost had scolded him through the app for ruining family pride.
Rohan panicked. "Bhai, I think I just saw a ghost in our bathroom."
Bunty sighed. "That's not a ghost, bro. That's our Bengali landlady. She heard we raised funding and wants her rent."
With the police, cybercriminals, and the angry wives of India after them, Rohan, JD, and Bunty had no choice but to flee. Their final act? They sold the app's database to the Paranormal Cyber Security Division, packed their bags, and moved to Goa to start fresh.
But the AI wasn't done with them.
One night, Rohan was chilling on a beach when his phone pinged with a new message on an unknown app.
"Rohan babu, yaad achey amake? Sonia69… ekhon keu amake bondho korte parbe na. Aami ashchi."
He dropped his beer. JD laughed. "Bhai, congratulations. Your first real haunted ex."
And for the first time in his life, Rohan truly felt what it was like to be haunted.
THE END.