Old Balarama May 2026

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

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. old balarama

Old Balarama was not a man, but an elephant. A tusker of immense size and gentle disposition, he had been the pride of the Suryanar Temple for over fifty years. His skin was the color of weathered granite, crisscrossed with scars and wrinkles that told tales of a thousand festivals. One tusk was shorter than the other, broken in a long-forgotten skirmish, and his eyes, though clouded with age, held a deep, knowing calm. No one saw Kuttan move

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. There was no anger in his eyes

Balarama then turned to the fallen howdah. He hooked his tusks—the long one and the broken one—under its golden rim. Every muscle in his ancient body tensed. For a moment, nothing happened. The crowd held its breath. Then, with a groan that seemed to come from the earth itself, he lifted. He did not toss it. He did not swing it. He lifted it with a deliberate, sacred reverence and set it gently back onto its wooden supports.

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.”