Old Balarama [portable] ✨

On the day of the Pooram, the sun blazed, the drums thundered, and a hundred elephants lined the avenue. But at the very center, carrying the golden howdah with the swaying grace of a ship on a calm sea, walked Old Balarama. Kuttan walked beside him, not with a prod, but with a hand on his old friend’s flank.

But a shadow had fallen on the temple. The annual Pooram —the great festival of a hundred caparisoned elephants—was a month away. And the head priest, a young man named Suresh who believed in efficiency over tradition, had a problem.

Kuttan, seated on a stone, whittling a piece of sandalwood, did not look up. “Gajendra has no soul in his step,” he said quietly. “He carries the golden howdah as a load. Balarama carries it as a feather.” old balarama

The head priest fell to his knees. Not in prayer to the idol, but to the elephant.

“He is too slow,” Suresh said, gesturing at Balarama as the elephant stood under a jackfruit tree. “Last year, during the procession, he stopped for ten minutes to drink water. He upsets the schedule. The new elephant, Gajendra, is young, fast, and tall.” On the day of the Pooram, the sun

The temple committee debated for three nights. They made charts and graphs of speed and endurance. Balarama’s name was crossed out. The duty of carrying the sacred idol of Lord Shiva—a role Balarama had performed for forty-two years—was given to Gajendra.

From the shadows of the jackfruit tree, a granite mountain rose. Balarama did not charge. He simply walked —a slow, inevitable, unstoppable walk. He placed his massive body between the fleeing Gajendra and the child. He lowered his head. The younger elephant, recognizing the patriarch, skidded to a halt, trembling. But a shadow had fallen on the temple

Old Balarama was not a man, but an elephant. A tusker of immense size and gentle disposition, he had been the pride of the Suryanar Temple for over fifty years. His skin was the color of weathered granite, crisscrossed with scars and wrinkles that told tales of a thousand festivals. One tusk was shorter than the other, broken in a long-forgotten skirmish, and his eyes, though clouded with age, held a deep, knowing calm.