When Elephants Roamed the Streets

I wrote this entry a few weeks ago and never published it. Jenna and I are on holiday for the next three days for the Muslim celebration of Eid-al-Adha, which commemorates Abraham's willingness to sacrifice Ishmael (Isaac to Christians). The holidy coincides with the annual pilgrimage to Mecca.

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“Kyle, some guys are riding an elephant down the street!” Jenna said breathlessly, running in from our front atrium, which overlooks Thangal’s Road. I was inside reading.

Now, let me say that a comment like this made in America would hardly raise an eyebrow. After all, if someone tells you some guys are riding an elephant down Noland Rd. in Independence you laugh and say, “Yeah, right. And I bet the flying monkeys are following right behind.”

But in India, this comment is cause for excitement because when someone tells you some guys are riding an elephant down the street in India, you know it very well is probably true. After all, Jenna and I pass a meandering herd of Brahmin cattle clip-clopping their way down the street each morning on our way to work. And Jenna and I were nearly mauled by a family of territorial monkeys in Darjeeling. Not at the Darjeeling Zoo, just in the city Darjeeling.

As it turns out, on this night in Tirur, Jenna was right on the money: three guys were, in fact, riding an elephant down the street right in front of our apartment. It was nearly eight o’clock at night. The trio was balanced precariously on top of a large male pachyderm, which looked as if he was on loan from the Periyar Wildlife Refuge in eastern Kerala. He was the size of our kitchen, taller than a basketball goal and had swooping white tusks that could spear a Volvo.

The men sat splay-legged on top with no saddle or reins, just a clinking strand of heavy iron chains wrapped through the elephant’s mouth. Another set of chains clinked around the beast’s four legs, limiting its range of motion to a few feet forward and backward. I imagine these were in place to guard against death and dismemberment if the large fellow got the idea to escape.

The elephant trundled at the back of a noisy procession of men beating drums, waving flaming torches and chanting. A few political banners bobbed above the heads of the marchers, all of whom were men and boys. Every once and a while, the procession was punctuated by the cacophonic blast of a firecracker.

At Jenna’s entreaty, I quickly put on my sandals and ran out of the apartment after the march. Unfortunately, in my haste, I forgot to grab our camera. On the street, a parade atmosphere pervaded. Children jumped excitedly on the curb. A tiny voice yelled, “Elephant!” repeatedly, as if she could not believe it either. The march had slowed a few paces down from our driveway so I caught up with the elephant quickly, sidled up to it within a few feet. It reeked of offal and grass, just like the elephants I have smelled from a distance at the zoo. I paid attention to the darkened street, mistaking piles of asphalt and broken stone for elephant dung. Other young boys and middle-aged men jogged from down the street towards the group, having heard the same rumor that I had about an elephant walking down the street.

Political rallies are common in Tirur, at least they have been since we have gotten here. The municipal elections just occurred less than a week ago and the party that had long been in power summarily lost. The victorious party has been holding victory rallies every since. I recognized the colors—green and yellow—of the winning party, in the banners up ahead of the elephant. I wondered if the elephant was just another campaign tool meant to attract attention. If it was, it was certainly working. Other political rallies we had seen in the previous week had been met with disinterest and annoyance from pedestrians. However, this rally was garnering attention and genuine enthusiasm, most of it centered on the elephant.

Yet, by the looks of the heavy chains and the forlorn fluffing of his big ears, I don’t know if the elephant approved of this message.

As with all campaign gimmicks, after a few moments, I lost interest. The march had slowed to a crawl and the sound of bleating horns and incessant drumming was getting old. I turned back towards our apartment. As I turned a corner, I spotted a 9th standard student from JM Higher Secondary. I had taught him the previous day.

“Hello,” I said, in the labored self-conscious way I greet all my students, sure to enunciate every syllable.

“Hello,” he replied with a smile. “Home?” he gestured along the street.

I nodded. “My flat,” I pointed towards our complex. He nodded and grinned again. He was carrying a bag of groceries.

“Elephant. Down there,” I pointed excitedly, grinning widely. “There is an elephant.”

He looked down, confused at first. “Elephant? Here?” he asked.

I nodded emphatically, sure he would start running as I had earlier. But he simply shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “Okay,” he said. “Goodbye. See you tomorrow.” And he began walking casually down the street, towards the noise of horns and drums.

I guess there are more interesting things to do in Tirur than watch an elephant walk down the street.