For over a month now, Karnataka has simmered under the weight of an explosive rumour: a whistleblower alleged that hundreds of women and girls were sexually assaulted and murdered, their bodies secretly buried around the sacred Manjunath temple in Dharmasthala. The accusation electrified the state. Overnight, a revered shrine became the alleged backdrop of unspeakable crimes.

What followed was a feverish media spectacle. TV channels blared heated debates. Political parties hurled accusations across the aisle—demands mounted for high-tech forensic probes. Excavators rumbled into action—17 sites nearby were dug up. Results? Nothing. Not a single grave, no bodies, no credible witnesses. The only ‘evidence’—a skull—was revealed to be male. Weeks went by as Karnataka’s politics reeled under the ‘Dharmasthala mass grave’ allegations. Was this political theatre or a misguided panic? Only time may tell.

Read in Hindi: धर्मस्थल से उन्नाव तक झूठी ख़बरों का जुनून

But such episodes are not isolated. They reveal a dangerous modern pattern: how sensational stories—true or not—spread like wildfire, igniting passions, yet collapse into ashes as facts come to light. Not just India, but the entire world has endured this epidemic of fake news. Stories of phantom gold, fabricated crimes, and claims of election rigging have sown seeds of distrust and left societies fractured.

Consider India’s enduring gold fever. In 2013, Unnao became nationally notorious when a Hindu seer claimed to have had a dream in which a thousand tonnes of gold lay buried beneath an ancient fort. Incredibly, the Archaeological Survey, nudged by sketchy geological data and media frenzy, broke ground in search of treasure. Politicians descended, reporters jostled—it became a ‘national spectacle’. The dig uncovered rusted iron and broken glass, not gold. But in that farce lay a deeper truth: superstition and rumour can outmuscle evidence and intellect with alarming ease.

The fever struck again in Sonbhadra in 2020, when news broke of a supposed 3,000-tonne gold discovery—worth more than ₹1.2 trillion, five times India’s known reserves. Social media exploded, politicians made rousing speeches, and the national mood soared, until scientists clarified the actual estimate: a mere 160 kilograms, as reported back in 1999. The ‘gold rush’ fizzled out almost overnight.

Nor are such stories confined to gold. In Bijnor in 2016, villagers mistook copper vessels for ‘Harappan gold’ and dug with manic fervour. In 2022, in Jharkhand, a tantrik convinced villagers to dig for ‘magical treasure’. Even the famed Padmanabhaswamy Temple in Kerala, in 2021, was drawn into this vortex—rumours of secret, treasure-filled vaults swept through, leading only to official denials.

Though many treasure tales end in laughter, others cut far deeper. The Dharmasthala case illustrates the explosive dangers of manufacturing outrage, particularly over sensitive issues like sexual abuse or violence against women. Falsehoods here don’t just fuel confusion—they stoke communal anger, defame institutions, and endanger innocent lives.

Globally, the playbook is familiar. In Germany’s notorious Lisa F case in 2016, media outlets amplified a false story of a 13-year-old girl allegedly kidnapped and raped by ‘Middle Eastern refugees’. Meticulous investigations found no abduction, no assault—yet by then, the rumours had already left a toxic stain on the nation’s social climate.

Closer to home, in West Bengal, in 2019, rumours and doctored footage of ‘booth capturing’ during elections led to mass suspicion and calls for re-polling—later debunked by the Election Commission as old or manipulated clips. Whether pushing stories of hidden gold or weaponising oppression and sexual violence, unchecked rumours corrode faith in facts—and one another.

In today’s world, where media indulgence, social media virality, and opportunistic politics collide, the wildfire of fake news grows ever more dangerous. It's only antidote? Public vigilance, responsible journalism, and rigorous fact-checking.

The Dharmasthala case may fade from the headlines, just as Unnao and Sonbhadra did. But the lessons are lasting: fake news is not just a harmless lie—it is a social poison, stealthily eating away at the foundation of communal trust.