The younger elephants in the temple shed were restless, swaying, chafing at their shackles. But not Balarama. He stood like a living statue, his breath the only sign of life. Children who came to the temple were afraid of his size until he would gently lift his trunk and, with the delicacy of a surgeon, pluck a single jasmine flower from a girl’s hair, then offer it back, dripping with a moist, perfumed blessing.
The festival committee met again that night. There were no charts, no graphs. The head priest spoke only three words: “Balarama. Always Balarama.” old balarama
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. The younger elephants in the temple shed were
“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.” Children who came to the temple were afraid
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.