Uncle never had a knack for collecting things, except for money.
He thought money was such a thing that if collected in the right amount, it would naturally attract other valuables like planets gravitating to a star. And that’s where the real collection begins.
One day, one of his friends told him,"Look, every rich person has a hobby of collecting something. If not, how would you even tell a rich person apart from another? It's not just about money, you know. That’s the real difference, that’s the special trait of the truly wealthy. And if there’s no distinguishing trait, what’s the point of being rich? Even our Emperor George V had a collection 'habit'."
Uncle looked up in astonishment towards the planets, “George V too?”
“Of course! Why, wasn’t he rich? Not just an emperor, he was super rich! He could have bought several landlords together if he wanted.”
“Oh! So his hobby was collecting landlords?” Uncle was even more bewildered.
“Good heavens, no! What would he do with landlords? Where would he even keep them? You can’t just store them in a showcase! No, he collected stamps.”
“Stamps? Like the ones you get at the post office? Or... from brokers?”
“Not from brokers! These were rare stamps—letters from different countries, some from a hundred years ago, some even older or newer, in all sorts of shapes, sizes, and colors!”
Uncle got all excited, "Why should I miss out on that too?"
"Miss out? No way. Some old stamps can fetch quite a price. From a few rupees to tens of thousands, even up to a few lakhs!"
"Ah, really?" Uncle was startled, “Well, be that as it may, I must start collecting too. What harm can a little expense do? A little money never hurt anyone, right?”
"Of course not! Without it, how could you even be called rich?" concluded his friend, with a philosophical air, as if he'd cracked the code of the universe. Uncle, however, almost cracked under the pressure.
Soon, word spread like wildfire: Uncle’s collecting stamps! By the time he had filled fifty albums, one fine morning he woke up to find five hundred kids standing outside his house. What on earth was going on? Upon inquiry, he discovered that they were all there to either exchange or sell stamps to Uncle, each holding their own stamp album.
Uncle immediately called for his friend, “What is this nonsense? Are they all stamp collectors now?”
“Why, yes,” replied the friend sheepishly, growing increasingly nervous at Uncle’s bewildered expression, “They’ve been at it for quite some time, long before you started... it’s kind of a trend.”
“And what have I gotten from it?” Uncle burst out, enraged, “What, just because everyone does something, I had to do it too? What next, should I start collecting marbles with the neighborhood kids?”
“But they’re not exactly rich either,” I chimed in, stirring the pot, “Just a bunch of little kids, after all.”
Uncle sulked, “You’ve drowned my ten-thousand-rupee investment in stamps. Down the drain, thanks to you!”
What could his friend say? He had already turned into a stone statue, not a trace of emotion left on his face. In a fit of rage, Uncle threw open his precious albums and let the swarm of children loot his entire stamp collection.
But though he parted with his stamps, the collecting bug wouldn’t part with him! You see, a hobby is like arthritis—once it grips you, it never lets go! So Uncle announced, "This time, I want to collect something that no one else has or can ever have. You all better come up with ideas for me!"
And so, his nine friends put their heads together, brainstorming for the next great one-of-a-kind collection...
About ninety proposals were thrown around for a new "hobby."
From the skies: rare bird feathers, from the seas: colorful fish, from the earth: antique furniture, old shields and swords, Chinese fans, cowbells, multi-colored pebbles, toys from every kingdom imaginable.
But Uncle rejected them all. "Anyone can collect those! Someone or the other has already done it."
Then, the idea of numismatics was floated. Coins, currency, medals from different countries and eras—people even mentioned fountain pens and matchbox labels as part of the collection.
But Uncle wouldn’t budge. "Someone must already have hoarded all those long ago!"
Some, in desperation, suggested collecting kerosene cans, screwdrivers, even hookah pipes from the old days. They scoured every nook and cranny of the universe for ideas. Yet Uncle shook his head.
Different kinds of foods were proposed next: chop, cutlets, sweets, biscuits, toffees, chocolates, lemon drops—basically every edible and non-edible item in every imaginable color. But Uncle still wasn’t impressed!
Finally, in exasperation, someone blurted out, "Then why don’t you collect white elephants?"
But Uncle couldn’t take that as a serious suggestion. He shook his head repeatedly, "White elephants! White elephants! I've heard about that... a tale like the golden stones—something about a temple in Burma or Siam, right? Yes, if I must collect, it should be that! I doubt even the grand stables of the rich have one, let alone the zoos in England! Yes, it has to be a white elephant for me!"
Uncle made his final proclamation: He needed white elephants. Whether they came from Siam or Ramrajya, from Elephantonia or Handipotamus, Karachi or Ranchi—he didn’t care. He wanted white elephants, and he wanted at least a dozen. "Anything less, and what kind of collection would that be?"
After this declaration, he immediately called the local contractor and ordered a grand stable to be built for the impending arrival of his white-elephant collection!
Astonishingly, amidst the darkness, a white elephant appeared! It seemed as though it had been gathered from the celestial planets.
Kaka was ecstatic — "Really? Really? This white elephant? This one, wow! What a fair complexion! Wow, wow!"
For a long time, nothing could be heard from his mouth except for praises. The elephant, too, waved its white trunk in agreement with his words!
Looking at me, he said, "Do you know, Bama — no, no, in the kingdom of Shyamarajya, if a king acquires such an elephant, they treat it with the utmost honor. The elephant is given more respect than the king; it is adorned with a special harness and sacred offerings are made — the conch shells and bells are rung, and the king himself worships it. This is called Rajpuja, you know that?"
At this moment, the elephant let out a trumpet, as if in approval of Kaka's research.
The elephant’s call? What kind of sound is that? Not like a horse’s neigh or a cow’s bellow. The elephant's sound is twenty times louder than a horse's, at least fifty times that of a cow. It’s neither the meow of a cat nor the howl of a jackal that can be easily imitated. The sound cannot be described simply.
It is difficult to express the elephant’s trumpet in words.
The moment we heard the trumpet, we jumped back several feet. Kaka retreated five yards.
"My goodness! It was like thunder rumbling in the clouds," Kaka said. "Have you ever heard a lion's roar? A tiger’s roar is nothing compared to this! Wow, this is no ordinary trumpet."
"Can this be called an elephant’s war cry?" Kaka asked, to which I replied, "Perhaps. The satellite, which had accompanied the elephant, now finally had the opportunity to speak: 'You will hear it frequently. It will trumpet often, and you’ll get used to hearing it.'"
"Will it trumpet often? Even at night? Then how will we sleep?" Kaka seemed a bit worried.
"No, no, it doesn't trumpet at night. The elephant sleeps too. It only trumpets during the day."
"Let it trumpet. But just look at its color," Kaka cast his eyes back towards me, "It's dazzling white. Are all elephants like this? No! Compared to this, others are just animals. Just as the British gentleman sees the Santals as mere tribesmen, this elephant is like royalty among them. To maintain its fairness, we will have to bathe it twice a day — using the finest soaps, and without worrying about the cost."
“Otherwise, my precious golden elephant will turn black,” Uncle said, worried.
The assistant nervously replied, “No, no! That won’t happen. Just don’t let any water touch it! If you do, it’ll get a horrible goiter and die.”
“Goiter? On an elephant’s neck?” I asked. “That would make quite the mess!”
“What? What are you saying?” Uncle was alarmed. “So, then what? What do we do?”
“This isn’t like a regular elephant that can bathe in the pond all day. In the kingdom of Siam, they sit it on a golden throne inside a temple! It’s constantly showered with incense and offerings. Only when they make charnamrit (holy water) do they let a few drops of water touch its feet. That’s it!” the assistant explained.
Before he could finish, Uncle interrupted, “How can that happen here? Who’s going to build a temple overnight? Where will I find a golden throne? Sure, priests for the rituals won’t be hard to find—there’s no shortage of Brahmins in the neighborhood—but do they even know the elephant mantras?”
Uncle looked at me, expecting an answer. I replied, “Well, I can tell you one thing, Uncle—I’m not drinking elephant charnamrit! That’s for sure.”
“Oh, come on now! Why not? Are you calling this some local Gujarati elephant? This is a descendant of Airavata, Lord Indra’s elephant! You’ll have to drink it. Otherwise, how will you ever pass your exams?”
Thinking that drinking it might help me pass my exams, I softened a bit. I was about to suggest a compromise when the assistant quickly interjected, “No need for any puja. In Siam, they don't do all that either. Just tie it up in the stable, keep it dry, and watch over it carefully. No need for water or rituals.”
“Watch over it? What, does the elephant need Jockey now? Or are you talking about the mahout?” Uncle asked, curious.
“No, no! Not Jockey like that,” the assistant explained. “I mean someone who will take care of it, feed it, and keep an eye on it. Someone trustworthy, like a brave soul who’ll take on the responsibility of this majestic creature.”
The assistant explained, all while scratching his head—perhaps in confusion or in respect to the elephant, who knows?
“So, the bathing issue is sorted, no water at all. But now, what about its food?” Uncle was eager to know. “This isn’t an ordinary elephant that will eat regular food,” he paused, thinking aloud, “and it’s not going to go on a diet, right?”
We were puzzled by Uncle’s concern. One of us chimed in, “Of course it will eat! How do you think such a massive body survives without food? That’s why they say ‘an elephant’s appetite.’”
Uncle pondered, “Well, if it’s not bathing, who knows if it’ll have the energy to eat? Anyway, what does it actually eat?”
The assistant replied, “Oh, it eats everything! The elephant isn’t picky. If it finds a man, it’ll eat a man. If it finds the Mahabharata, it’ll eat the Mahabharata. Basically, anything between humans and ancient epics is fair game.”
I quipped, “So, it’s got a pretty strong digestion too, I guess?”
“Excellent digestion!” Uncle nodded approvingly. “If it finds a man, how many will it eat? Fresh ones, of course.”
“As many as come near it,” the assistant replied. “It won’t fuss much over fresh or stale. I told you, it has a very open-minded palate.”
“Make sure you don’t go near it!” Uncle warned me sternly. “Who knows if it’ll even consider you human?”
“Why wouldn’t it? If it doesn’t consider me human, then who’s going to consider it an elephant?” I muttered under my breath. “No matter how great its appetite, I’m not about to start praising its intelligence. From now on, I’ll categorize it alongside Uncle.”
But Uncle, still not fully convinced, asked, “So what kind of humans does it prefer?”
He shot me a glance, as if thinking about my safety again.
“It tends to favor familiar faces, the ones it knows,” the assistant explained. “But it won’t hesitate to eat strangers if it finds them too.”
“Well, well, that’s good to know. And how many Mahabharatas can it eat in one go?” Uncle inquired.
“Oh, it can devour an entire edition in one sitting,” the assistant added confidently.
“At this rate, we’ll need to find a publishing house just to feed it!” Uncle exclaimed, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.
“ Mahabharat with illustration ? Do they get it” … somehow uncle struggles to complete the sentence.
“They don’t get it!” I added.
Uncle wrapped up the sentence, “Exactly! Not everyone can be an art connoisseur,” Uncle remarked. “Now, let’s leave that aside. Besides humans and Mahabharata, what else would it eat? It’s best to know these things.”
“Well, if it gets its hands on an East India port, it won’t touch the Mahabharata; if it gets silk, it won’t look at bricks. It’ll prefer ghosts over shawls. But if it finds rasgullas, it’ll drop the ghosts and eat that instead. After finishing the sweets, it might even munch on a banana tree. Basically, it’ll eat everything except Aligarh butter.”
“But why not butter? Isn’t butter edible?”
“Well, it might not be able to handle butter properly. It’ll just stick to it, making it hard for the poor thing to get it down.”
“Ah, I see,” Uncle nodded in understanding. “Yes, wrangling butter isn’t easy. Only a strongman can manage that.”
“Alright, we’ve covered food. Now, what about drinks?” Uncle asked.
“Anything liquid! Milk, water, buttermilk, castor oil, mentholated spirits—you name it! It might even gulp down a couple of bottles of carbolic acid without flinching. The only thing it won’t drink is tea.”
“Well, that’s a good habit. A sign of a well-mannered creature,” Uncle said, slightly pleased. “It’s not smoking, is it? We’ve covered everything, but you haven’t told me how much it can gulp in one go.”
“Oh, it’ll knock back an entire sea! One gulp and half a ton of food disappears.”
“Ah, that’s not too bad. But let’s hope it doesn’t swallow any humans, or worse, me! This is British rule, after all. They might hang me or the elephant for such behavior! Anyway, I’m placing an order for every Mahabharata in the market. And I’ll tell the sweet shop to line up trays of rasgullas. As for my banana grove, I’m putting it in my will. Let it enjoy it all! And as for the brick and silk? Let it munch away next to the stable—it can eat whatever it wants. I’ve got no complaints!”
The mighty elephant was taken to the stable with royal festivity. We followed at a safe distance, watching the whole process. Its four legs were chained to iron posts. I asked, “Are they going to tie up its trunk too?
”
“No, it will be free,” they said. “It eats using its trunk, you know. And although it eats both solid and liquid food, it still needs hay—just like breathing air.”
When I heard the price of feeding the elephant, my eyes nearly popped out! Fifty thousand rupees wasn’t a small amount. The person who sold it lived 200 miles away, and his relative worked in the jungle department of Siam. They caught the elephant from there and brought it over. The assistant explained that he had bargained hard to get it for this price; otherwise, it would have cost a full lakh. “This white elephant is priceless!” he said with pride.
The man who walked the elephant all the way here certainly didn’t have it easy, but Uncle had ordered only the best. Who else would risk their life to handle such a world-devouring white elephant?
Of course, Uncle, in his usual grand manner, immediately wrote a check for fifty thousand rupees.
The assistant, trying to sweeten the deal, added, “There are more like this! You can have ten, twenty, fifty—however many you want, all for a special price!”
“More?” Uncle thought for a moment. “Fine, arrange for more! If need be, I’ll buy twenty-five lakhs worth of white elephants! No problem!”
“Big dreams for big men!” the assistant chuckled. “Otherwise, what makes a person truly rich?”
Two days passed. Then five. The elephant was settling in quite well. We visited it twice a day, observing it with scientific curiosity. Uncle and I took note of its every move. Kaki, on the other hand, had made several vows—she promised to offer a pair of goats and perform a grand puja in front of the elephant if it blessed them with children.
The elephant showed great enthusiasm for eating banana trees. As for the bricks and stones lying around, it hadn’t touched them. Even a few cats had passed by, and though they eyed the elephant carefully, it didn’t give them a second glance!
One day, I tried giving it a copy of the Mahabharata from the pile Uncle had collected. I expected it to gulp it down, but much to my surprise, it just stared at me, disinterested!
Forget eating it, the elephant didn’t even bother giving the book a glance! Instead, it picked it up with its trunk and hurled it at me with such force that I almost met my maker!"
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