Avast, ye scurvy landlubbers and sky-faring dogs! Pull up a keg of grog and lend an ear to a tale of terror that would make the Kraken himself retreat into the briny deep. On a day that promised smooth sailing from the northern harbor of Delhi to the eastern outposts of Bagdogra, the great iron-bird of the IndiGo fleet—a vessel known to the authorities as 6E 2115—found itself plagued by a curse more foul than a month-old ration of hardtack. A whisper of a 'thunder-keg'—or what the modern powdered-wigs call a bomb threat—was found scribbled like a ghost’s warning, forcing the Captain to swing the helm toward the port of Lucknow in a desperate bid for survival.

Shiver me timbers, the panic was real! As the sky-galleon banked hard toward the Lucknow landing strip, the passengers, a motley crew of merchants and travelers, clutched their doubloons and prayed to Neptune for mercy. No sooner had the wheels kissed the earth than the red-coated sentries and the bomb-sniffing hounds swarmed the deck. 'By the scorched beard of Blackbeard himself,' shouted Quartermaster Gupta, a seasoned veteran of the overhead bin wars, 'we thought the hold was rigged to blow us to the locker of Davy Jones! We searched every trunk, every satchel, and even the captain’s own boots for a trace of the black powder, yet found naught but stale biscuits and overpriced water!'

The consequences of this phantom threat ripple across the seven skies like a rogue wave. Lord Indigo of the Sky-Corporate Isles issued a proclamation from his mahogany fortress, stating, 'The safety of our souls is worth more than all the spice in the East, yet these false alarms be a pox upon our trade routes!' Indeed, the delay has thrown the entire celestial navy into disarray. Traders waiting in Bagdogra for their shipments of silk and tea were left parched and fuming on the docks, while the cost of insuring a voyage through the clouds has risen by three gold pieces a head. If every bored cabin boy can spark a mutiny with a scrap of paper, the commerce of the Empire shall surely sink into the abyss.

'It be a tragedy of the highest order,' lamented Old Man Jenkins, a frequent flyer who has survived three bird-strikes and a mid-air shortage of gin. 'To be diverted to Lucknow is like being marooned on a sandbar when the treasure is just over the horizon. The rum was low, the air was stale, and the security dogs sniffed me crotch with more enthusiasm than a hungry shark.' His words echo the sentiment of many a weary traveler who found themselves stranded on the tarmac while the authorities played hide-and-seek with a ghost. The 'thunder-keg' turned out to be nothing more than a foul-spirited jest, a hoax meant to rattle the sabers of the aviation lords.

As we look to the horizon, Captain Iron Ink warns ye: these invisible threats are the new pirates of the age. They steal time, they steal peace, and they force a man to spend six hours in a Lucknow terminal without so much as a cutlass for protection. While the sky-galleon eventually caught the trade winds back to its destination, the stain of the scare remains. Let this be a warning to any scoundrel thinking of penning a false threat: the gallows of public opinion are high, and the wait for the next flight is even longer. Keep your powder dry and your wits about ye, for the skies are as treacherous as the Caribbean in hurricane season!