Appu knew his place in the world. As the temple's largest elephant, his days followed a familiar rhythm: hauling timber at dawn, bathing in the river at noon, standing patiently as children offered him sugarcane through the stable bars at dusk.
But once a year, everything changed.
On festival morning, Appu woke to different sounds. Not the usual commands, but the gentle murmur of priests and the splash of ceremonial water. Hands he didn't recognize scrubbed his skin until it gleamed. They painted sacred symbols on his forehead: vermillion streaks that caught the early sunlight. Heavy silk cascaded down his sides, cool and unfamiliar against his rough hide. Golden bells, each one the weight of a coconut, were fastened around his neck.
Then came the howdah, an ornate platform of carved wood and beaten gold, secured carefully to his back. And atop it, wrapped in silk and flowers, sat the temple's most sacred idol.
When the procession began, Appu felt the change immediately.
The narrow streets he'd walked a thousand times had transformed. Flower petals carpeted the road, soft beneath his feet. Incense smoke curled through the air. The music wasn't just sound; it was thunder and prayer and celebration all woven together.
But what struck Appu most was the people.
They saw him now.
Families pressed themselves against walls as he approached, heads bowed low. An old woman with a bent back knelt as he passed. Children threw roses that caught in his silk and bells. Young men, who usually shouted and laughed in the streets, stood silent and reverent.
They're bowing to me, Appu realized, and the thought filled him with warmth.
His step became slower, more deliberate. His trunk lifted higher. When a group of merchants prostrated themselves at a corner, Appu paused, just for a moment, to let them admire him properly.
This is what I was meant for, he thought. Not hauling logs. Not standing in a stable. This.
By the time they reached the main square, where the largest crowds waited, Appu had forgotten everything else. He stopped in the center, lifted his trunk high, and trumpeted: a long, proud blast that echoed off the surrounding buildings.
The music stumbled. Drums fell silent. The procession ground to an awkward halt.
Confusion rippled through the crowd. People exchanged glances. The priests on either side of Appu shifted uncomfortably.
The old mahout, who had been walking alongside the procession, strode forward with stern purpose. With a sharp command and a firm strike of his guiding stick, he brought Appu's head down. "Appu! Down!"
Appu resisted for a moment, but the mahout's authority was absolute. He had trained Appu since he was a calf. Appu knew that tone.
"Look at me," the mahout commanded, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. He positioned himself directly in front of Appu's eyes, blocking his view of the bowing crowds.
"You've walked these streets since you were small enough to stumble. Why do you think they bow today?" His words weren't gentle. They were a reprimand.
"Look at what you carry," the mahout ordered, using his stick to tap the side of the howdah. "The honor is not yours. It belongs to the sacred presence on your back. You are here to serve, not to be served. Now, walk. Properly."
Appu felt the sharp sting of truth and discipline. This was the voice that had taught him every command, every movement, every duty. He lowered his trunk immediately.
"Straight. Head level. Move," the mahout commanded, taking his position at Appu's shoulder to guide him forward.
And Appu obeyed.
The music resumed. The procession flowed forward again, this time with the elephant walking as he should: steady, humble, purposeful. The mahout walked beside him, staff in hand, ensuring every step was measured and correct.
When they reached the temple steps, priests lifted the idol from Appu's back with reverent hands. The crowds surged forward, following the sacred presence into the inner sanctum. Within moments, the square had emptied.
Appu stood alone in his silk and bells, suddenly just an elephant again.
The mahout began removing the decorations. First the howdah, then the silk, then the heavy golden bells. Each item returned to storage until next year. When the last of the sacred symbols had been washed away, he led Appu back through quiet streets to his stable.
Nothing there had changed. The same water trough. The same pile of hay. The same evening sounds of the temple settling into rest.
But Appu had changed.
That night, as moonlight slanted through the stable bars, a younger elephant in the next stall whispered, "What was it like, Appu? Having everyone bow before you?"
Appu was quiet for a long moment, remembering the music, the flowers, the reverence in people's eyes.
"They didn't bow to me," he said finally. "I was honored to carry something worth bowing to. That's not the same thing."
The young elephant looked confused. "But you were the one they saw."
"No," Appu said, settling into his hay with something that felt like peace. "I was simply the one strong enough to be unseen."
Moral: True honor lies not in receiving glory, but in serving something greater than ourselves with humility.
I love the way you explained this!
ReplyDelete