The River’s Keeping: A Tale of Srirangam, 1902
The dawn over Srirangam did not arrive slowly; it burst forth, a sudden bloom of gold over the massive, sculpted gopurams of the Ranganathaswamy Temple. For Babu, seven, and his sister Rani, six, the morning began not with the sun, but with the sound. It was the synchronized, rhythmic chink-thud, chink-thud of heavy brass bells, a melody that cut through the low chanting of Vedic hymns and the sharp, clarifying scent of fresh tulsi leaves and wet earth.
They stood at the edge of the agraharam street, the fine, red dust cool beneath their bare feet. Their mother, Rajamma, was inside, likely grinding rice for idlis, but the children had stolen away. This was not a morning for chores. This was a morning for the giants.
Emerging from the shadow of the colossal southern gate, a procession began. First came Devi, the matriarch. She was magnificent, her tusks modestly tipped with brass, her broad forehead adorned with the white and red namam of Lord Vishnu. Following her was Siva, a slightly younger, powerful bull, and behind them, three other temple elephants, forming a moving wall of grey slate.
Babu adjusted the waistcloth of his modest veshti, his eyes wide with an ambition that only a seven-year-old can hold. He wanted to walk at the head. Rani, clutching the frayed edge of her small pavadai, held her breath. She didn't want to rule them; she wanted to know them.
At the side of Devi walked a man who seemed part of the elephant himself. He was tall, his chest bare and muscular, covered in a light film of oil and dust. This was Rajendran, their Thai Mama—their mother’s elder brother—and the Chief Mahout of Srirangam.
Rajendran spotted the two small figures huddled by the wall. He did not stop the procession, but with a slight twist of his wrist, the heavy cane he held tapped rhythmically against Devi’s thick foreleg. The great beast slowed, her rhythm unchanging, but her pace softening.
"You two are early," Rajendran Mama called out, his voice a surprising rasp that could carry over a trumpet’s blast. "Does Rajamma know you are out chasing ghosts before breakfast?"
"Amma is grinding rice, Mama," Babu shouted back, jogging to catch up with the procession’s flank. "We are not chasing ghosts. We are chasing you."
"And Devi," Rani added softly, managing to keep pace with Siva’s long, swinging stride.
Rajendran chuckled, a dry sound that matched the dusty street. "Well, if you're coming, you must work. No idle onlookers. The Cauvery does not wash lazy bones." He looked back at his assistants—the kavadis and helper mahouts—and signaled. A younger man, Govindan, smiled and beckoned the children closer.
"Babu, you come here by Siva," Rajendran ordered. "He needs to learn to respect the small feet as well as the large. Rani, you stay near Govindan behind Devi. But do not get underfoot."
They joined the line, a chaotic yet orderly caravan. Babu felt an intoxicating surge of pride. He was part of the temple retinue. He mimicked Govindan’s walk, attempting a swagger he hadn't quite earned.
The journey to the Cauvery River was a sensory overload of early 20th-century Srirangam. They passed vendors setting out woven baskets of marigolds and jasmine, the scent sweet enough to taste. Water-carriers with leather bags sprinkled the dust to keep it down. A group of Vaishnava scholars, their foreheads heavily painted, stopped their discussion on Vedanta to bow as Devi passed. The elephants were not just animals; they were the living, breathing extensions of the deity within the walls.
As they left the paved streets of the town and hit the soft, sandy path leading to the riverbank, the atmosphere shifted. The scent of tulsi and incense gave way to the smell of wet sand, slow-moving water, and the pungent, comforting odor of elephant sweat.
The Cauvery River spread before them, a wide, shimmering expanse of gray-green water, its banks lined with ancient banyan trees whose roots dipped into the flow. In early 1900, the river was not just a body of water; it was the lifeblood, the giver of harvest, and the cleanser of sins.
The mahouts led the elephants into a shallow, secluded curve of the river.
"Alright! Submerge!" Rajendran bellowed, a command that seemed to reverberate in Babu’s chest.
Devi was the first. With a grace that belied her tons of weight, she knelt, then slowly lowered herself onto her side in the shallow water. One by one, the other four followed suit. The water, displaced, rose in soft swells against the sandy bank.
"Now, the real work!" Rajendran announced, grabbing a large, rough piece of volcanic pumice stone and a bundle of dried coconut husks.
Babu was handed a husk. He looked at Siva, whose massive side now formed a gray island rising from the water.
"Don't just stare at him like he's a painting, Babu Kanna," Rajendran scolded gently, though his eyes twinkled. "Siva’s skin is thick, but it collects dust in the creases. He likes it when you scrub hard. Start near the shoulder. Use the husk first, then the stone."
Babu plunged into the river. The water was surprisingly cool against the heat of the day. He waded over to Siva, who let out a low, vibrating huff—a sound of satisfaction. Babu began to scrub. He put his entire seven-year-old weight into it, his small hands working the coconut husk in circular motions. He watched in fascination as the dry, gray skin turned into a deep, glossy, obsidian black under his efforts. He was so focused he didn't realize he was humming, a dissonant but sincere tune.
While Babu worked with the focused intensity of a builder, Rani approached Devi with the sanctity of a priestess.
Devi lay with her head resting on a slight sandbar, her trunk curled peacefully. Rajendran was scrubbing near her ear, using the smooth pumice stone with a practiced, rhythmic motion.
Rani waded deeper, until the water reached her chest. She stood near Devi’s head. The elephant's eye, massive and ancient, capped with long lashes, turned to look at the little girl.
Rajendran noticed her. "Rani, you want to help Devi?"
Rani nodded, looking up at her uncle. "Can I... can I do her face, Mama?"
Rajendran hesitated, then smiled. "The face requires a gentle touch. Here." He handed her a softer, refined piece of smooth sandstone, worn flat by years of use. "Only this. Around the eyes, be very careful. And behind the ear, where the skin is thin."
Rani took the stone. She approached Devi. "Devi Akka," she said, her voice barely a whisper, using the respectful term for an older sister. She reached out and placed her small, smooth palm against the rough, wet trunk. Devi did not flinch; she simply took a long, slow breath that Rani felt vibrating through her hand.
Rani began to scrub. She didn't press hard like Babu. She massaged. She worked the stone around the great eye, careful to remove the dust from the delicate folds of skin. Then she moved to the back of the ear. She noticed small flies irritating the sensitive area. She carefully shooed them away before scrubbing.
"Do you like the water, Devi Akka?" Rani chatted, her voice melding with the river's sound. "Mama says the Cauvery is a goddess, just like you. Does the river tell you secrets? Is the temple cold at night? Amma is making idlis, but I think you would prefer sugarcane, wouldn't you?"
Devi responded not with a trumpet, but with a soft, bubbling exhalation through her trunk, creating tiny ripples in the water. Rajendran, watching from the elephant’s shoulder, realized the little girl wasn't just cleaning the beast; she was communing with her.
For an hour, this eclectic team worked. The bank of the river became a place of chatter, laughter, and serious effort. The kavadis swapped jokes, Govindan sang a folk song about a mischievous cowherd, and Babu bragged about how "clean" Siva was getting, ignoring the fact that he was currently covered in mud himself.
The seredipity of the moment struck Rajendran. He looked at his niece and nephew, two tiny specks of humanity working upon these colossal creatures, the temple gopurams rising in the distance, the timeless river flowing around them. It was a tableau that had occurred for hundreds of years and, he hoped, would occur for hundreds more.
Finally, Rajendran stood up on Devi’s side and gave a loud whistle.
"Bathing is done!" he shouted. "But the ritual is not complete without joy."
He looked down at Babu, who was currently splashing water near Siva's tail. "Babu! If you want to be a mahout, you must know how to take a command!"
Babu looked up, wiping wet sand from his forehead. "Yes, Mama?"
"Climb up. Siva, uthoni!" (Stand up).
Siva began to rise. Babu scrambling, grabbed the thick rope harness and was hauled up by Govindan onto the bull’s massive back.
"Now!" Rajendran shouted to his own mount.
Rani, seeing Babu on Siva, stepped back, sensing what was coming.
Devi stood up with a rumble. She took a deep, long suck of water through her trunk, filling the entire seven-foot canal. Then, with a playful flip, she raised her trunk and loosed a powerful, magnificent spray of water directly backward, drenching Rajendran, who was laughing, and showering Babu on Siva's back.
Babu let out a scream of delight. Not to be outdone, Siva followed suit, his own spray catching Govindan and drenching the other mahouts.
It was the signal for chaos. The river became a battlefield of water. The elephants, catching the playful mood, began to joyfully spray each other and their keepers. Babu, from his high perch, felt like a king, though a very wet one.
Rani didn't climb up. Instead, she waited. As Devi was spraying the others, the matriarch dipped her trunk again, turned it toward Rani, and loosed a gentle, soft mist, rather than a powerful blast. It was like a playful blessing. Rani giggled, wiping the cool water from her face.
After the water fight, the work resumed for a final fifteen minutes. The elephants were guided out of the deep water onto the shallower sandbar. The mahouts used broad, flat, brass-edged scrapers to quickly wick away the excess water from the elephants' backs and sides.
When they were done, the elephants did not look gray anymore. They were a magnificent, glistening charcoal black, their skin smooth and clean, their eyes bright.
"Alright, enough play," Rajendran said, his voice returning to its authoritative tone, though his eyes remained soft. "We must dry and return before the sun is too high. If Amma finds out I let you stay this long..."
Babu slid down from Siva, his body aching slightly from the exertion, but his spirit high. He walked over to Rajendran Mama. "Did I do well, Mama?"
Rajendran looked at his nephew, covered in mud, river water, and the scent of elephant. He clapped a heavy hand on Babu’s wet shoulder. "You didn't get stepped on, and Siva seems slightly less dusty. For a seven-year-old on his first day, that is a victory."
Babu beamed.
Rani approached Devi one last time. She placed her hand on the trunk. "Thank you, Devi Akka."
Devi lowered her trunk and gently, so gently it was barely a touch, breathed against Rani’s cheek. It was a benediction.
As they walked back toward the gopurams, the dust on the path was now hot. Babu and Rani walked behind the glistening procession. They were no longer just observers; they were participants. They didn't feel the heat, nor did they worry about the scolding from Rajamma that was surely waiting for them.
They had been to the river. They had touched the giants. And they carried the scent of the Cauvery and the keeping of the elephants with them, a memory that would last far longer than the dust on their feet.
(c) Bharat Bhushan, 24 March 2026
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