I’ve done some pretty weird things for money. Jumped over railway crossings. Downed eight vodka shots in one night, partly for the thrill, mostly because the prize was 2,000 bucks, and the alcohol was free. But nothing beats the week I worked in a scam call centre. 

Picture this: Its past midnight in Pune. A two-bedroom “office” that smells of sweat, biryani and menthol cigarettes. The ceiling fan, trying to spread the stench of a ‘busy night’ equally to all parts of the room, rattles like it’s about to file a complaint with HR. Twenty-year-olds in oversized hoodies have their ears glued to cheap headsets. Somewhere, someone’s microwaving cold Maggi. I’m,20-years-old, sitting there, sleep-deprived, broke, high on instant coffee. 

Phones start ringing. The cacophony in fake accents fade in and snaps me out of my visual dystopia: “Hello sir, this is John from Microsoft Tech Support…” 

“Wait, I work for Microsoft?” I startle myself with this sudden exposition. Maybe we were vendors or something... I try to convince myself. Just then someone announces they’re calling from the FBI, in the thickest Marathi-English accent imaginable, with the confidence of a man who’s never met an American in his life. That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t a job. This was an organised scam. Every desk was a crime scene. Every monitor, a weapon. 

It had started innocently enough. A bunch of broke college friends hunting for beer money. Back then, there was no gig economy. People still called restaurants; they didn’t scroll and pay. For English-speaking kids, options were limited: call centres, support jobs, night shifts. This one seemed perfect. Work nights, skip a few morning lectures, maybe even afford slightly more expensive alcohol. 

But there was a catch. Call centres came in tiers. The A-tier ones were legit, with cubicles, taxis and health insurance, but they only hired graduates who sounded like Siri. The C-tier ones paid peanuts and handled local calls during the day. That left the B-tier. The shady ones. Cramped apartments filled with second-hand computers. Scam call centres. Back then, they were a niche underground thing, like Ozempic before its influencer era. 

After bombing every A-tier interview and refusing to join the C-tier, I got a lead for one of the B-tier jobs. The catch was a week of unpaid work to “prove myself.” Normally, I’d have walked away at the mention of free labour. But they offered free dinner, which technically meant lunch, and I was told it was excellent. That might actually have been the only reason I said yes. 

On day one, I learned the script. “Hackers” had supposedly gained access to the victim’s data, and the only way “Microsoft” or the “FBI” could help was if they bought special software, conveniently sold by us. Prices ranged from $50 to $1,000, depending on how convincing the lie was and how gullible the target seemed. 

I spent the week shadowing an agent who smelled like a perfume counter exploded on him, but he was a sweet talker. Someone who’d do well in PR today, minus the fragrance choice. He’d chat about the weather, about grandkids, about pets, before casually stealing their money. Relationship building, he said, was key. The victims needed to feel safe enough to get scammed twice. 

Since credit cards had chargebacks and PayPal was being monitored, they used “money slips” — prepaid cards or voucher codes you could buy from Walmart or Target. The victim would read the 16-digit code over the phone, and poof, the money vanished. Simple, irreversible and morally bankrupt. 

At first, I’ll admit I liked the thrill. On some days, the agents would walk away with enough commission that’d be considered a fresher’s salary. There was a very Wolf of Wall Street feeling to it. That feeling didn’t last. One call changed everything. A father, voice trembling, paid whatever he could to “save” his computer. It belonged to his son, who’d taken his own life. He wanted to preserve everything just as it was. His voice cracked with every word. 

Some agents retold that story later, laughing. I felt sick. I didn’t know what gave me the right to feel superior. Some of my colleagues did it for drugs, alcohol or weekend cash. Others were sending money home. I just didn’t want to be there anymore. 

By the end of my unpaid training week, it was time for my first live call. The room went quiet. My boss stood at the back, watching like a coach who already knew I’d miss the penalty. My friend whispered prompts in my ear like a discount guardian angel. 

The senior agent, a man who called himself “Kevin” but was clearly Karan, handed me the script. 

“Say, ‘Hello, this is Jack from Microsoft,’ confidently.” 

Yes, we used white names. It helped people trust us more than our actual ones. 

I hit dial on the keyboard. It rang. Someone picked up. My brain immediately bluescreened. 

I croaked, “Hello.” Thick Indian accent. Zero confidence. Full panic. 

The room sighed collectively, like they’d just watched a toddler walk into traffic. Kevin ripped the headset off me mid-sentence. The dream was over. 

Everyone knew I wasn’t cut out for it. And honestly, thank God. I didn’t want to steal money from someone’s grandmother just to afford better biryani. 

A few weeks later, the place shut down. Rumour was, someone tipped off the cops. Or maybe the landlord finally realised his tenants weren’t running “IT services.” 

Either way, that week still lives rent-free in my head. A crash course in how fast ethics evaporate when you’re hungry and broke. When right and wrong stop feeling like opposites and start sounding like a single, badly pronounced Marathi-American accent.