The festival committee met again that night. There were no charts, no graphs. The head priest spoke only three words: “Balarama. Always Balarama.”
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. 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. The festival committee met again that night
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. Always Balarama
“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.”