When Life Gives You Laddoos, the Internet Delivers a JCB!
A Sweet Little Request, a Bitter Big Surprise
Diwali is the season of lights, sweets, gifts, and the occasional family argument over who bought the more expensive box of kaju katli. For Madurai-based social media influencer Veeramani, however, the festival brought an entirely new category of celebration: the festival of unsolicited deliveries. All he reportedly wanted was a humble box of sweets from his followers. What he got instead was a logistical nightmare featuring televisions, refrigerators, washing machines, smartphones, food deliveries, and even online claims about a military tank worth ₹70 crore. Somewhere between his sweet tooth and the internet’s shopping spree, a simple festive wish became a full-blown exercise in crisis management. According to The Tribune, Veeramani had shared his residential address in West Anuppanadi, Madurai, hoping a generous follower would send him some Deepavali treats. Little did he know that his address would soon become the hottest destination in the neighbourhood for delivery personnel carrying things he had never ordered. The Tribune
From Mithai to Machinery: The Great Indian Gift Upgrade
In India, generosity traditionally has its limits. An uncle might give you ₹501 in an envelope, a neighbour might send a plate of homemade sweets, and a distant relative might offer unsolicited advice about your career. But the internet, apparently, has decided that conventional gifting is for amateurs. Why send a box of laddoos when you can send someone a refrigerator they never requested?
Veeramani’s festive wish took a spectacular turn when delivery agents from e-commerce platforms reportedly began arriving with expensive household appliances. Refrigerators, washing machines, smartphones, and televisions were among the items associated with the unwanted cash-on-delivery orders. One television order was reportedly valued at ₹1.69 lakh. For a man who had asked for sweets, that was an extraordinarily expensive way to discover that some people take the phrase “treat yourself” far too literally. The Times of India
The catch, of course, was the dreaded three-letter abbreviation: COD, or Cash on Delivery. This arrangement is perfectly convenient when you have actually ordered something. It becomes considerably less delightful when a delivery agent arrives with a television capable of financing an entire family holiday and expects you to pay for it.
Imagine answering your door expecting a friendly courier with a box of kaju katli, only to hear, “Sir, your television has arrived. Please pay ₹1.69 lakh.”
At that point, even the sweets would need emotional support.
COD: Cash on Delivery or Crying on Doorstep?
The beauty of online shopping lies in its convenience. You select an item, click a button, and wait for it to arrive. The less beautiful side emerges when somebody else selects an item, enters your address, and leaves you to explain why you have no intention of purchasing a washing machine large enough to clean the sins of an entire neighbourhood.
For Veeramani, the deliveries reportedly became a recurring ordeal. Since he had not placed the orders, he could not simply accept the goods and pay for them. The delivery personnel, meanwhile, were left making trips to an address where the intended recipient was understandably unwilling to take possession of expensive merchandise.
This is where the prank begins to resemble an economic experiment designed by someone who has never had to pay a delivery fee.
The prankster experiences the thrill of clicking “Place Order.” The influencer experiences the thrill of explaining the situation for the fifteenth time. The delivery worker experiences the thrill of discovering that his next stop is another house where nobody has ordered a refrigerator.
Everybody gets an experience. Nobody gets a peaceful afternoon.
Veeramani reportedly appealed to his followers through a video, asking them to stop the unwanted orders. His plea was not for luxury, fame, or a sponsored holiday. He simply wanted the digital equivalent of folded hands and a little peace.
The internet, however, had apparently mistaken his request for an invitation to participate in a nationwide appliance exhibition.
The JCB Jamboree and the ₹70-Crore Tank Theory
Just when the situation seemed absurd enough to qualify as a comedy special, the online claims escalated. Some pranksters reportedly circulated screenshots claiming that heavy machinery, including JCB excavators, had been ordered in Veeramani’s name. The spectacle reached a new level with claims of a military tank worth ₹70 crore.
To be clear, these were claims circulating online; the available reporting does not establish that the tank or JCB machinery was actually dispatched to his home. But the mere idea of such orders reveals the internet’s extraordinary ability to turn a small prank into a hypothetical infrastructure project.
A man asks for sweets. Someone imagines a JCB. Someone else introduces a military tank. At this rate, the next logical step would be to order a railway station, a state secretariat, and an entire metro line on cash on delivery.
“Sir, your new flyover has arrived. Please provide the OTP.”
“Sir, we have brought the tank. The driver is waiting, and the payment gateway is experiencing technical difficulties.”
“Sir, your 70-crore military vehicle cannot be returned because the return policy does not cover national defence equipment.”
Naturally, the fictional customer-service department would be helpless.
“Dear customer, we understand your concern. Unfortunately, the item has already been dispatched. Please remain available at your registered address.”
For a moment, one can imagine an e-commerce executive staring at a computer screen and wondering whether the company’s delivery fleet needs to be upgraded to accommodate armoured vehicles.
The real joke, however, is not the imaginary tank. It is the fact that a person’s personal details can be turned into an instrument of harassment simply because strangers decide that a prank is more entertaining than respecting someone’s boundaries.
The Delivery Boys: Unpaid Actors in an Unwanted Reality Show
Every successful prank needs an audience. This one came with delivery personnel who never auditioned for the role.
Imagine the scene: a delivery worker spends hours navigating traffic, finding addresses, and completing his assigned deliveries. He finally reaches a house carrying an appliance, only to be told that the recipient has never ordered it.
He checks the details. The address is correct. The name appears to match. The customer, however, looks as though someone has just asked him to purchase an entire electronics showroom.
The delivery worker has a job to finish, the influencer has a problem to solve, and the prankster is probably somewhere enjoying the spectacle from behind a smartphone screen.
It is a perfect triangle of inconvenience, with the person responsible for the trouble conveniently absent from the doorstep.
Food delivery workers reportedly joined the procession, with orders from platforms such as Swiggy and Zomato also arriving at the residence. Suddenly, the address was no longer merely a home. It was a revolving door for parcels, meals, confusion, and people asking questions nobody could answer. India Today
The situation deserves its own reality show: Bigg Boss: Cash-on-Delivery Edition.
The contestants would include an influencer, several bewildered delivery agents, an absent prankster, and a television that nobody wanted to pay for.
The show’s central rule would be simple: every time somebody says, “I didn’t order this,” another delivery van appears.
The grand prize? A lifetime supply of sweets, delivered to the winner’s correct address and paid for in advance.
When Going Viral Means Going Missing
For social media creators, visibility is usually the prize. More views can mean more followers, better engagement, and opportunities to earn money. But Veeramani’s experience illustrates the less glamorous side of becoming visible online: attention can turn uncomfortable when people misuse personal information.
A home address shared in the hope of receiving a festive gift reportedly became the destination for repeated unwanted deliveries. The situation became sufficiently distressing that Veeramani publicly pleaded with people to stop. Neighbours later told reporters that he had left his residence after delivery personnel continued arriving. In subsequent social media posts, he indicated that he was travelling and that people would no longer be able to locate his address. The Tribune
And so began the great reverse-influencer campaign.
Most influencers spend their time trying to attract an audience. Veeramani suddenly had a very different marketing objective: persuade the audience to stop finding him.
His next content strategy might feature a revolutionary new lifestyle concept called Offline Living.
Step one: stop sharing your address.
Step two: stop answering suspicious delivery calls.
Step three: travel somewhere peaceful.
Step four: resist the temptation to announce where you have gone.
Step five: if somebody asks what you want for Diwali, say, “Good wishes are enough. Please do not attach a tracking number.”
One can imagine him sitting on a bus, looking out of the window, enjoying the rare luxury of travelling without wondering whether the next passenger is carrying a washing machine invoice.
In the modern attention economy, perhaps disappearing is the ultimate premium subscription.
The Internet’s Unofficial Gift-Wrapping Department
There is a broader lesson hidden beneath this absurdity. Social media can encourage generosity, bring strangers together, and make small acts of kindness surprisingly powerful. A follower sending a box of sweets to a creator they enjoy watching is a harmless and heartwarming gesture.
But a prank stops being harmless when it repeatedly disrupts someone’s life, misuses personal information, and wastes the time of workers who have nothing to do with it.
The internet sometimes behaves like an enthusiastic wedding guest who has mistaken the host’s hospitality for unlimited permission. You offer tea, and they invite the entire neighbourhood. You ask for a sweet, and they start planning the construction of a shopping mall in your front garden.
The difference is that an actual wedding guest might eventually leave after being offered a second plate of food. The internet can continue the joke long after the person at its centre has asked for it to stop.
Perhaps online platforms should introduce a new festive feature: Prank Prevention Mode.
Before placing an order in another person’s name, users would receive a notification:
“Are you sure you want to send a refrigerator to someone who asked for a box of sweets?”
A second warning could read:
“This action may inconvenience delivery workers, upset the recipient, and make you look like someone who needs a hobby.”
A third warning, reserved for particularly ambitious pranksters, might say:
“Your proposed order for a ₹70-crore tank requires a little more thought than your usual late-night scrolling.”
Of course, no software can replace basic consideration for other people. But it might at least force a few people to pause before turning somebody else’s doorstep into an involuntary warehouse.
Punchline: A Sweet Ending Without the Delivery Charge
Veeramani’s Diwali ordeal began with a simple wish: a box of sweets from a generous follower. Instead, the episode reportedly brought unwanted COD orders, expensive appliances, food deliveries, and online claims involving machinery that would make even a construction contractor nervous.
The story is a reminder that the internet can make generosity easy, but it can also make harassment frighteningly convenient. A few taps on a screen may seem trivial to the person placing an order, yet the consequences can be very real for the person receiving it.
As for the ideal Diwali gift, perhaps the answer is now obvious. Send sweets if someone asks for sweets. Send good wishes if you cannot afford sweets. And if you feel compelled to send someone a ₹70-crore tank, consider seeking professional advice about your shopping habits.
After all, the sweetest gift you can give someone is peace of mind—and, unlike a JCB, it doesn’t require a parking permit.
Indian Editor – News With a Wink
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