Old Balarama Access

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.

No one saw Kuttan move. He just whistled—a low, three-note call, as natural as a bird’s.

“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.” old balarama

He then looked at Suresh. There was no anger in his eyes. Only a deep, patient sorrow, as if to say, I told you so, but I forgive you.

The festival committee met again that night. There were no charts, no graphs. The head priest spoke only three words: “Balarama. Always Balarama.” The golden howdah tilted, priests scattered, and a

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.

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.” No one saw Kuttan move

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