Old Balarama ((install)) May 2026

“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.”

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. old balarama

The festival committee met again that night. There were no charts, no graphs. The head priest spoke only three words: “Balarama. Always Balarama.” “He is too slow,” Suresh said, gesturing at

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. The new elephant, Gajendra, is young, fast, and tall

The day of the trial run came. The temple courtyard was packed. Gajendra, resplendent in new bells and a vermillion-marked forehead, pranced nervously. The massive golden howdah was hoisted onto his back. He took three steps, then another. But the weight was unfamiliar. The clashing of the cymbals startled him. The smoke from the camphor stung his eyes. He trumpeted—a sharp, panicked sound—reared, and bolted.