AN ELEPHANT NEVER FORGETS, by Arthur Lane

High up in the hills of “Mother India” one can sleep at night without punkahs and mosquito curtains, because a cool breeze blows from the snowy heights—and there, in the hills of Simla, is located the summer capital of the government.

The burning heat of the cities is forgotten at Simla, where men can work without panting and can breathe without the great fans swaying to stir the air.

On the lowland plains, and in the cities, people go about their business slowly. But even the native population perspires freely and complains about the tropic heat.

And out on the open plains the water-buffaloes, wiser than men, lie neck deep in turgid water to keep cool until the blistering sun goes down.

In teakwood forests, great herds of elephants work patiently carrying great teak logs, balancing them, piling them neatly. These logs are destined to find their way to far lands like America. And it is only possible because of the great strength of the elephant.

But the elephant is more than just a beast of burden. He is a great, thinking animal. He appreciates kindness and resents abuse. He is willing to work as long as he has a companion, a mahout. A mahout is an elephant’s friend, and rides on his head always.

Pudagu Shahi, the son of a mahout, had grown to love his father’s elephant. From the time he was four years old, one day each week, he had ridden with his father on Eelar’s great, bumpy head, down to the water. Then he had stood on the shore, clapping his little hands in glee and dancing up and down as Eelar bathed tor two long hours in the water.

Pudagu had learned that no elephant will work without his daily bath. He had learned that an elephant only works for a friend, and he had learned to be Eelar’s friend. Of these things he was sure, though he knew of little else in the world.

When Pudagu was twelve years old, his father died. Men came and talked about taking Eelar away. When Pudagu protested that Eelar was his elephant now, they laughed.

“Eelar belonged to Ghent, Sahib,” they told him. “Now he will belong to Graham, Sahib.”

Pudagu, despite his sorrow over his father, was angry.

“Not only would you have me lose my father,” he said, with tears rolling down his cheeks, “but would also take my friend away from me, Where is this Graham, Sahib?”

The men laughed again and shook their heads.

“Graham, Sahib is, at this moment, in Simla, forty miles up in the hills, little one. Now stop the foolishness. Tomorrow we will come for your elephant. He has to have a man to handle him.”

The men departed, walking down the trail from the little house with the slow, deliberate manner of men who are the servants of other men.

Pudagu watched them go with tears of anger rolling down his checks. Only this morning had he given Eelar his bath, and the great pachyderm had sprayed water on him playfully, then pushed him into the stream. He had laughed and splashed water back on Eelar. They were friends. They would not part. His fists clenched.

Pudagu Shahi had no mother. He ran into the house where his aunt and uncle were eating.

“I am leaving your house,” he said, “I may come back. I may not. That I cannot tell. Today, I go to Simla with Eelar.”

There was no packing to be done. His aunt handed him a little parcel containing food, a broken comb, and a blue blouse that was clean. Nothing else.

“May peace go with you,” she said, and his uncle nodded. Boys become men young in India.

* * * *

Ten minutes later, the great elephant plodded along the dusty road with twelve-year-old Pudagu on its head, talking to it softly. It attracted no attention, for elephants are common in India.

“You must find the way, Eelar,” Pudagu said, “for I have never gone away before, and you have. Graham, Sahib is his name, and he is at Simla.”

Eelar turned his great trunk upward and touched the boy’s leg with its little finger, caressingly, as though he understood. The animal’s big feet lengthened their stride.

“Which way to Simla?” Pudagu inquired time after time of passing travelers. Always their fingers pointed straight ahead along the road.

Mile after mile, hour after hour, the great beast trudged patiently along as though he understood. There could be no food for him for forty miles! Dusk fell, then darkness, and the elephant trudged on.

Travelers were few and far between along the road, but Pudagu reassured himself each time one passed. Eelar did not once complain of being thirsty or hungry. Once he stopped by a pool and drank, then went on. And Pudagu did not even know he stopped, for the boy was asleep and Eelar was careful not to awaken him.

A dusty, tired elephant with a twelve-year-old boy on his big, wise old head, climbed the sloping road to Simla in the hills next morning. The sun had risen over the rim of hills and children were playing in the yards.

A little girl ran along the street alone. And that is something little white girls never do in India. She danced up and down clapping her hands and laughing happily.

“Elephump! Elephump!” she exclaimed.

Pudagu looked down at her, puzzled. She could not be more than five years old. She must be lost.

“Me wide!” the girl demanded. And although Pudagu did not understood, he spoke to Eelar.

“Lift her up to me,” he told the beast. Eelar obligingly wrapped his trunk gently around the child and lifted her into Pudagu’s lap. She squealed delightedly and showed no sign of fear.

“Where Graham, Sahib?” Pudagu asked a gaping native.

“Come,” the man said and started down the road. Eelar followed, careful not to shake his head even a little.

The man turned into a gate on a shaded yard of the sloping street and ran toward a wide verandah.

“Wait,” he called back.

They waited.

“Nice boy,” the little girl said, wriggling around to look at Pudagu.

There was a commotion in the house. A man came running down the steps. A beautiful woman followed him.

“My baby!” the frightened woman called, “my baby!”

The man came through the gate, then stopped short.

“Are you Graham, Sahib?” Pudagu asked.

“Yes, boy, yes. But hand down my little girl. How did she get up there?”

Pudagu looked surprised. “Why, she was lost, so Eelar lifter her to me. There is no danger. He is my friend.”

“Give her to me,” the lady called, leaning on the man’s arm as though she were about to faint.

“Eelar,” Pudagu said softly, “take her down.”

The great trunk lifted. The little girl squealed in delight as she was set lightly beside the man and woman.

“My elephump!” she yelled, “mine!”

“Graham, Sahib,” Pudagu said. “Eelar is my friend. He was my father’s friend. Now he is mine. They say he belongs to you. They were going to take him away from me, so we came to you. He is my friend, and I want to stay with him.”

Graham smiled. He ran a hand through his hair. He tried to comfort his wife, and she seemed to be relieved. Pudagu watched closely. Then Mrs. Graham smiled and squeezed Mr. Graham’s hand.

Graham smiled again, and nodded.

“All right, my boy. We didn’t expect to keep an elephant here in Simla, but I guess we can manage. You’ll be his mahout. Our daughter seems to have adopted you both.”

Pudagu smiled at last. He had found his home, and his life work. Eelar lifted him to the ground.

“Eelar is hungry, Sahib, and he needs his bath. After that he will be glad to ride your daughter all day. And the Memsahib, too, if she wishes.”

Graham, Sahib, laughed aloud. But the Memsahib smiled at Pudagu and said kindly, “I think that when we can have a saddle fixed, I’ll try.”