Rain lashed the town in a wild frenzy. Tinu gazed at the grey sky, hoping to catch a streak of sunlight that would envelop him in an assuring embrace.
“Tinu,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around him, a surge of moments-turned-memories choking me.
He tugged at my saree and flapped his ears vigorously, showing his disagreement.
“We have talked about this, Tinu. I must go,” I said, a part of me crumbling beneath the facade of strength.
Tears coursed down his rugged face. He pointed his trunk at a wooden bench, gesturing for me to sit. The bench creaked as if burdened by the weight of sorrow. I looked at Murali, my husband of a few hours, who waited patiently, flashing an understanding smile. Tinu settled cross-legged on the ground, his trunk caressing my cheek. Tears dribbled down my chin and landed on his rough, dry skin. He flinched and looked away, as if averting his gaze would deflect the inevitable. I leaned against his mighty frame, his tethered breath making my heart pound like a drum. We sat in silence, the sky shrouded in darkness, which only added to our gloom.
Sunlight seeped through the lattices, forming a magnificent mosaic on the floor. An elephant’s trumpet echoed through the mystical hymns, making the devotees shudder. The basket nestled in my hands slipped and fell to the floor, the white and orange flowers strewn all over. The elephant trumpeted again, and I rushed towards it.
He crushed the bananas underfoot, his cold gaze hiding his pain.
“The temple administration has adopted a baby elephant who recently lost his mother. I’ve been told he’s aggressive,” I remembered Appa’s words.
“He needs love and care,” I said, feeling my own pain come back.
Appa ran his hand across my hair, glanced at my mother’s photograph hanging on the wall and left.
“Stop it. We must not upset the devotees.” Appa yelled, more out of despair than anger.
Appa’s voice jolted me to the present.
“Can I try, Appa?” I asked, approaching the elephant.
My dad nodded, saying, ‘Be careful, Suseela.'”
I ran my hand over his trunk and whispered, “I understand how you feel. I lost my Amma, too. Appa said Amma is with God, safe and happy. We can’t bring our moms back, but I’ll be here for you.
He stepped back but then raised his trunk, tenderly touching my head.
“Friends,” I said, extending my hand.
He swayed his head, wrapping his trunk around my hand, forging a silent promise.
“I name you Tinu,” I said, and he swayed his head.
Ever since that moment, I visited him every day after school. He spent his days in a tent near the inner shrine, and at night he slept outside under the stars. I fed him, helped Appa bathe him and draped him in a silk cloth. A tiny bell hung around his neck, making a jingling noise whenever he rocked his head. The rope caused deep wounds on his neck, and he detested the bell. He tried to get rid of it more than once, but to no avail. When I ran my hand over his bruised skin, I noticed his eyes twinkle with tears. The pilgrims who frequented the temple fed him fruits, stroked his trunk and bowed their heads in reverence. During temple festivals, he vigorously shook his head, stomping his feet, the sound mimicking thunder.
“Control him,” the temple chief yelled.
Appa picked up a stick and lashed it in the air, and tears streamed down Tinu’s face. He lay down on the ground, his trunk resting on the floor.
“You’re frightening him.”
“He isn’t well. Let him rest,” I said, not particularly to anyone.
Seated cross-legged beside him, I stroked his head. He closed his eyes, curled his trunk around my hand, and was finally at ease.
Since then, our bond has grown stronger. He would dance, sway his trunk as we tossed the ball around. I read to him. He listened with rapt attention, but on some days, he dozed off. Tinu eased the ache Amma’s death left behind.
Years drifted away like a log floating on water. Appa had begun his search for a suitable groom. I did not resist, yet the thought of leaving Tinu shackled me in fear. Months went by. I met Murali at the temple. We warmed to each other immediately. But I longed for Tinu’s blessing for Murali.
He gradually grew comfortable with Murali. He lifted his trunk, placed it on our heads and blessed us, but the tears floating in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed.
On the day of marriage, Tinu welcomed the guests by sprinkling rose water. Though elation soared, an undercurrent of fear tethered me to the earth.
And now the moment I had long feared arrived. Tinu looked at me, wiped my tears and stood up. I envelop him in an embrace, afraid to let him go. But he freed himself of my grasp and nodded, as if he came to terms with reality.
“Tinu can come with us. My uncle is a mahout. He will take care of Tinu, and you can visit him,” spoke Murali.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
He smiled, his eyes flickering with quiet assurance.
The clouds parted, and a thin streak of golden light wrapped us in its embrace. Tinu found a home beyond home, so did I.
