Telegram

Republic day, 1984.

A dispassionate voice screams “telegram”, disturbing our afternoon reverie. Outside there is this guy clad in khaki complete with the Gandhi topi that post and telegraph employees still don throughout the country. He dismounts from his bicycle and through his thick square black frame spectacles his eyes dilate as he fixes his gaze upon me. From the back carrier of the bike, he pulls out a bundle of envelopes tied loosely with a jute string and dangles a small strip of paper. “There is a telegram, beta. Send an elder to collect.” My little heart flutters as I inform dad. He comes out and with a worried look. The messenger takes my dad’s signature on a separate sheet of paper and hands over the evil little note to him. I read the note along with my dad :

“Father died. Cremation and burial over.”

My maternal grandfather has expired. Mom weeps inconsolably.

I run back to the door just in time to see the rickety old bicycle clank past. The death messenger is on his way to the next house. He would return seven years later, this time to announce granny’s death.

Two decades hence, communication has seen a paradigm shift. Now all news whether good or bad travels almost instantaneously by means of mobile and landlines. Often a fancy, racy ringtone of the mobile may be the harbinger of devastating news; mobiles are not yet smart enough to ascertain the seriousness of the call and switch the ring to a melancholic tune in case the news is bad. One moment you may be pressing the talk button while still singing along with the tone and the next moment, your world could come crashing down. Sometimes I wonder whether the good old days were much better when the unpleasant sound of “Telegram” at least prepared you for the bad news.