But a shadow had fallen on the temple. The annual Pooram —the great festival of a hundred caparisoned elephants—was a month away. And the head priest, a young man named Suresh who believed in efficiency over tradition, had a problem.
No one saw Kuttan move. He just whistled—a low, three-note call, as natural as a bird’s. 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. But a shadow had fallen on the temple