Chains and memories

I was born in a jungle. Trees whispered to the sky, rivers carried secrets, and silence spoke louder than drums.

That was before I became a god.

Before they wrapped me in chains. Before the uncle with a potbelly in a floral print shirt took a selfie in front of me and captioned it, “With the legend himself. #Blessed #GodsOwnCountry”

I don’t remember much about the day they stole me, except for the sound of my mother roaring until her voice cracked.

That’s the thing about humans. They love breaking things.

They took me away, tied my legs, hit me when I didn’t move, and starved me when I didn’t listen. When I finally stopped trying to run, they patted my head and said, “He’s so obedient now.”

That’s what they call obedience. Forgetting what freedom tastes like.

They gave me a new name, something grand, something fit for an elephant who carried their gods through the streets.

I had a better name once, but it belonged to the wind. And the wind does not speak here.
Now I belong to them.

Humans love gods. But more than that, they love proving they were near one.

Every festival, thousands of them come to see me. They see the gold on my forehead. They see the silk draped over my back. They see an Instagram story opportunity.

“Bro, move a little, let me get the elephant in the frame,” one man says to another, adjusting his galaxy phone.

Another uncle, chewing paan, nudges my leg and grins. “turn this side a little, da.”

Ah yes, of course. Let me adjust my pose while my legs are shackled, my skin burns under the sun, and a man stands on my back holding a fire torch for ambience.

Then there’s the classic couple photo. The wife smiles. The husband points at me.

Once, a kid stared at me for a long time. I thought maybe he understood. Then he turned to his mother and said, “amma, can we take an elephant ride?” Of course. A moving god is more fun than a standing one.

The man they call my pappan smells like old sweat and regret.
And on festival nights, he smells like arrack too.

“Obey me,” he slurs, the iron hook in his hand digging into my skin. “You are divine, understand?”

Ah yes, divinity. That’s why I sleep in chains.

He sways, trying to climb onto my back. It takes three men to push him up. He settles himself, clears his throat, and raises his arms.

The crowd roars.

I try not to roll my eyes.

It was bound to happen.

Maybe it was the firecrackers too close to my ears.
Maybe it was the weight of another god on my back.
Maybe it was the uncle in the floral print shirt trying to take one more selfie with his hand awkwardly on my trunk.
Maybe it was the pappan’s breath too close, whispering, “Move, or I’ll teach you.”

I had moved my whole life.

So I stopped.

The drums hesitated. The uncle’s phone froze mid-selfie.

The pappan cursed and raised the iron hook.

I raised my trunk.

A small gesture, really. A shake of the head. A step back.

But it was enough.

The pappan slipped. The hook fell. Chaos followed.

Humans scatter beautifully when they’re afraid.

One minute they call you divine.
The next, you’re a rogue elephant.

“Mad elephant on a rampage,” someone yells.

The uncle in the floral shirt doesn’t forget his priorities. He takes one last blurry video before running.