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Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Let us start with a simple question.
Have you ever seen a message that says, “Earn ₹5,000 a week from home. No skills required.”
Or a call where someone politely asks, “Can we use your bank account for company transactions? You’ll get a small commission.”

Most people don’t see danger in these words. They sound harmless. Helpful, even. And that is exactly how cybercrime quietly walks into ordinary lives—without force, without fear, just persuasion. Behind many online scams in India today lies something called a mule account. It doesn’t look criminal. It looks like a normal savings account. It belongs to a student, a homemaker, a delivery worker, or someone going through financial stress. But this account becomes the bridge between stolen money and invisible criminals. Without mule accounts, most cyber frauds would simply fail.

A mule account is a bank account used to receive and move money earned through illegal means. The person whose name is on the account is called a money mule. Sometimes, they know exactly what they are doing. Other times, they are completely unaware of the scale of the crime they have been pulled into. But the outcome is often the same—frozen accounts, police complaints, and a future clouded by one wrong decision.

What makes this system so powerful is that it runs on human vulnerability. Cyber fraud syndicates don’t randomly choose people. They look for those who are trusting, desperate, uninformed, or simply trying to survive. A college student wants pocket money. A migrant worker is unfamiliar with banking laws. A young woman working from home. They are promised quick cash in exchange for “temporary use” of their account.

Once access is given—ATM card, PIN, OTP—the control is gone. The account holder becomes a puppet, while the real operators sit safely behind screens, often in different states or even countries.

Cybercrime today works like a business model. One group scams victims using fake customer care numbers, phishing links, or investment apps. Another group handles the tech. And a separate network recruits mule accounts to move money. When money is stolen, it is immediately sent to mule accounts, then rapidly transferred to other accounts, withdrawn as cash, or converted into cryptocurrency. This quick movement makes tracing difficult and delays law enforcement.

A real and alarming example of this came from Ahmedabad, where the crime branch cracked down on a network of mule account operators. Thirty-four individuals were arrested, all linked to multiple cyber fraud cases across India. Investigations showed that these accounts were opened specifically to route stolen money. Some account holders earned a few thousand rupees. But crores of rupees passed through their names. When the arrests happened, reality hit hard. Bank accounts were frozen. Police cases were registered. Careers were damaged before they even began. Many claimed they “didn’t know.” But the law does not easily separate ignorance from involvement.

What is worrying is how normal mule accounts have become. They are openly discussed in Telegram groups. People casually ask if someone can “arrange an account.” This normalisation shows how financial crime has quietly blended into everyday digital life.

Banks and authorities are trying to fight back. The Reserve Bank of India has strengthened KYC rules. Banks now monitor suspicious transactions more closely. Accounts showing unusual activity are frozen faster. But cybercriminals adapt quickly. They find new people, new locations, and new methods.

The emotional and lifestyle cost of becoming a mule is rarely talked about. Imagine being 19 and unable to open a bank account again. Imagine explaining to your family why the police are calling. Imagine knowing that money used for cheating an elderly person passed through your name. This guilt stays long after the case ends. There is also a moral question we cannot ignore. Every mule account enables harm. That money could be someone’s hospital bill, retirement savings, or a child’s school fees. When we treat mule accounts as “easy income,” we forget the human loss behind each transaction.

The Ahmedabad case is not just news—it is a warning. Cybercrime may look invisible, but digital trails last forever. And when the system collapses, the weakest link—the mule—often pays the highest price.

In the end, mule accounts remind us of a hard truth:
Cybercrime does not survive only because of technology.

It survives because humans allow it to pass through their hands. Awareness, financial education, and ethical responsibility are the only ways forward. Because sometimes, the difference between a victim and an accused is just one careless “yes.”

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