Old Balarama · Certified

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.

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.

Every morning at dawn, his mahout, a wiry old man named Kuttan, would lead him from the shed. “Balarama, ezhunnallu,” Kuttan would whisper. Arise. And the elephant would, with a sigh that sounded like the wind through a casuarina grove. old balarama

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.

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

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

The day of the trial run came. The temple courtyard was packed. Gajendra, resplendent in new bells and a vermillion-marked forehead, pranced nervously. The massive golden howdah was hoisted onto his back. He took three steps, then another. But the weight was unfamiliar. The clashing of the cymbals startled him. The smoke from the camphor stung his eyes. He trumpeted—a sharp, panicked sound—reared, and bolted. The temple committee debated for three nights

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.”