The Telegram That Wasn’t

 

Once upon a time in my village, when telephones were yet to find a place in most households, messages travelled long distances through the post. The roads were poor, transport was limited, and communication was dreadfully slow. The days of kings, sultans, and messenger pigeons had long passed; hence, birds no longer arrived bearing encrypted messages tied to their necks or feet. One could only rely on the humble telegram as the fastest means of urgent communication. A trunk call could be made, but it was expensive and not always easy to arrange. So, whenever a telegram arrived, people gathered around with curiosity and concern, for it usually carried news that could not wait.

It was a time when India was at war. Soldiers were either deployed at the front or stationed at various military bases on standby. My grandfather, who was serving in the Indian Army, had also been recalled to duty with immediate effect, along with several of his colleagues who had been enjoying leave at home.

About a month into the war, a postman arrived at our ancestral house carrying a telegram. My aunt, who had been glued to the radio for days listening to war updates, spotted him first. The sight of a telegram in those days was enough to make hearts skip a beat. After all, no news was considered good news, and telegrams rarely brought happy ones.

The postman stood at the gate looking serious. Before the telegram was even accepted, panic spread through the household. My aunt rushed inside. My grandmother came out trembling. Neighbours began gathering. Within moments, the house fell into chaos, confusion, and tears. The telegram indeed carried news of the death of a soldier in action.

The postman, with great grief and regret, delivered the message and offered his condolences. As the family mourned what they believed to be the loss of my grandfather, he casually glanced at the telegram once more. Suddenly, his expression changed. He frowned, looked at the paper again, and then at the name written on the house.

A dreadful mistake had been made! The unfortunate soldier who had lost his life was not my grandfather at all. He happened to be our immediate neighbour, a fellow serviceman who shared the same name. The only difference was in the initials - an important detail the postman had somehow missed.

With a face that revealed both embarrassment and relief, he cleared his throat and announced, holding up the telegram, “I am terribly sorry, folks, but this message is not meant for you.”

The wailing stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The family stared at one another in stunned silence. For a few seconds, nobody spoke. The sudden journey from grief to relief had left everyone frozen in disbelief. The mourners were not sure whether to continue crying or start celebrating.

My grandmother snatched the yellow telegram from his hands, examined every word on both sides, and then thrust it back at him. The poor postman accepted it meekly and retreated as quickly as he could. Considering the emotional turmoil he had accidentally unleashed, he was fortunate to escape with nothing more than an embarrassing moment.

© Anjana Premkumar 2026