Old Balarama -

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

The head priest fell to his knees. Not in prayer to the idol, but to the elephant. 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. No one saw Kuttan move

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. Not in prayer to the idol, but to the elephant

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.