Most of us experience excessively boring lives as adults. Except scuba divers maybe or at least I like to believe that they are thoroughly enjoying theirs. This is because we fail to see the beauty of small happiness. We all hope for great opportunities, experiences and love to come our way. We all hope to gloat over that one big story to tell others. But do we really let go of society's expectations and just go silly? Well hardly. One such day when I decided to add a little zest before breakfast was 14 July.  

14 July 2013, the last day India sent a telegram, a forgetful ode to the 163 year old service. It was a spectacularly mundane Sunday morning for me. I woke up to the cheerful chirp of my cell phone and as I browsed through the twitter feed, one particular event caught my eye. The telegram service in India was coming to an end. I breathe in the time of unromantic instant messaging.I had never received a telegram before. Not even a post card. And there it was disappearing before my eyes like horse carriages on English boulevards. I had to do something to get one. Anything. 

This is the day when I missed Sunday breakfast, tracked the telegram offices in Pune and their contact numbers and made frantic phone calls to all of them. Tiny spatters of disappointed began to dampen my enthusiasm. Pune telegram had shut its services a day before. After loud curses followed by a dozen more phone calls, a decision was reached. It had to be done from Mumbai. But the question still remained unanswered. How on earth do I get one of the last telegrams sent in India? Few more hysterical phone calls later to family and friends, I was pacing down the hallway, biting my nails and engrossed in thoughts. I had to weigh my options. Wait for a friend to send the telegram or travel around 350 km to just do it myself. It sounded crazy, pathetically desperate, even borderline insane in my head. There is this certain nervous obsession that grips you that completely negates any logic whatsoever. I was exactly in that place, an energized fixated heaven. My pace picked up and waiting for the phone call seemed like an eternity. 

The phone buzzed. My friend confirmed that the telegram was sent. A sense of relief spread over me. Although it was a false sense of achievement, it was immensely satisfying. The next 10 hours were spent thinking about the telegram and how it would feel to own one. A tiny piece of cheap paper with text in faint ink somehow evoked childlike glee and amazement. Would it make me happy or my heart skip a beat? Would it be a major disappointment? All such anxious questions floated in my head. The post board in the hostel was religiously checked for the next few days, hoping for the telegram to arrive. Days passed, weeks flew by but it never arrived. The thought of enquiring at the post office about it did cross my mind a zillion number of times but the enthusiasm fizzled out. As weeks turned into a month, the enthusiasm died as it spiraled into a vortex of ordinary conformity and dullness. A faint disappointment lingered like a ghost. 

Almost a month later, when I had given up on receiving a telegram, it arrived. The feeling of the weightless parcel in my hands did not evoke any emotions I had foreseen. They were amplified to the extent of a child receiving its favorite candy. Through foolish smiles and half droopy eyes, the envelope was carefully torn and the message was read. A warm smile lit my face as if Christmas arrived five months early. The telegram is now a gentle reminder of a frantic yet satisfying morning of absolute silliness. 

Few years down the line, I would like to open up the wooden box that holds it. Gently I would open it up, read the printed message and smell the ink if I can. Probably I will laugh on my foolishness or perhaps smile whilst remembering the absurdity of it. Maybe I would show it to my little kid and share the story over breakfast. Nevertheless, thanks to a dear friend, this piece of history will invariably light up my eyes and remind me that you are never too old to be curious and silly.