Balarama: Old

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.

The golden howdah tilted, priests scattered, and a wave of terrified chaos swept through the crowd. The idol of Shiva, wrapped in silk, slid to the edge. A child stood directly in the path of the panicked elephant’s retreat. old balarama

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. On the day of the Pooram, the sun