The Maestro Who Moved Elephants

An unforgettable bond woven in music and trust — inspired by a true story

This is my third short story inspired by music, following Meri Awaz Suno and The Final Symphony—each a quiet tribute to the unseen ties between sound, memory, and love.

Every year, during the peak of summer when Chennai bakes under the scorching sun, musical legend and genius composer Varadarajah retreats to his summer bungalow. It sits on the verdant foothills of the Western Ghats—a lush, tranquil patch of land at the edge of the Periyar forest.

His imposing ivy-covered mansion stands under the shade of giant jackfruit and mango trees in a sprawling compound bordering the thick forest. Beyond a fragile thicket fence at the edge, elephants and other animals roam in the wild, searching for food and water in their increasingly parched territories, their movements growing more frenetic as the summer grows harsher.

Each evening, after the heat softens, the maestro settles on his veranda with his violin. He unpacks it—and then patiently wakes it from samadhi. He begins by caressing it and tuning it with his practiced fingers. And then the cradled instrument, in quiet surrender to its master’s artistry, lets out a tapestry of notes—evening ragas and melodic compositions that continue to move millions around the globe.

After a few minutes of this evening ritual, Rajah gets ready for the pièce de résistance —the old Tamil hit that goes, “Darling, not seeing you, my heart flutters like a kite.” As he begins to play the introductory notes, he waits with bated breath for a wonderful phenomenon that never fails to amaze him each time— even after witnessing it evening after evening, year after year. (Play Audio Below)

The hushed forest stirs. The leaves rustle, and the ground trembles. As if on cue in a circus, the elephants cautiously emerge from the innards of the bamboo groves and wild bushes. They saunter towards the mansion, sure-footed—one step at a time—gathering silently at the edge of the compound; the calves press against their mothers’ legs for comfort and the protective bulls stand still. They neither sway nor trumpet but stand in rapt attention to a rhythm more haunting than the whistling winds.

Encouraged by this attentive, regal audience, the legend continues to weave his magic—his fingers creating wizardry across the gut strings. The notes grow fuller and the improvisations more intricate and divine. The music softens, blooms, and soars, gliding through the night like a blissfully happy seagull. The pregnant females stay longer, drawing comfort from the tunes, while the young ones—otherwise restless and boisterous—flap their ears playfully, in perfect synchrony with the notes.

One particular year, the drought was the worst in memory. The streams dried and the watering holes had disappeared. In the surrounding villages, even the strongest trees had shed their leaves in surrender. Then, one evening, as the sky burned red and the earth smelt of sorrow, the herd appeared at the fence —as they always did when the virtuoso played his familiar lilting melody. But this time, a young elephant cow stepped forward, breaking away from the rest. She hesitated for a moment at the boundary, then cautiously ambled through the makeshift gate into the compound.

Rajah continued playing, eyes transfixed on her. His hands were steady, the bow gliding without the slightest tremor despite the unexpected intrusion. The elephant stopped just a few feet away from where he sat and lifted her trunk as if to convey something—or maybe in enquiry. She stood there, eyes thoughtful and bright, while the violin spun its slow, aching tune with quiet precision. When the last note faded, she slowly moved back, as if her mission had been accomplished. She rejoined the waiting herd and perhaps passed on relevant information—as the events of the next day would suggest.

The locals spoke of this incident with awe as word spread around that evening, thanks to the mansion’s staff and keepers. They proclaimed with pride that the elephants had accepted Rajah as one of their own—someone who could echo their joys and griefs in a language they could understand.

Little did they know that the next evening would be even more extraordinary. The herd gathered at the same melodic moment, as always. But instead of settling down to listen, the mothers gently nudged their young calves; small blinking creatures thin from thirst—forward into the compound with their trunks. Then, sure-footed, they slipped back into the withering forest, leaving their little ones behind under the care of someone they trusted.

Rajah sat frozen, hugging his violin—it took him some time to soak in what had just happened.

The calves—five of them, no older than a few months—huddled by the fence, whimpering softly in confusion. They had been left behind, entrusted to their new guardian.

Rajah then rose and summoned his staff. Together they filled buckets from his sparse well—and laid out water, bananas, plantains, and jaggery. The little creatures fed on them hungrily, pausing in between and looking up for reassurance.

Days passed. Every morning and evening, this routine continued – Rajah doing everything he could to keep the little ones well fed and robust.

And in the evenings, the master played the violin from under the stars, the calves asleep in the shed by his porch. But the adult herd never turned up despite his efforts at summoning them back with his music all night. He wanted to feed them too.

After a month, the monsoon clouds finally broke across the valley—the ground soaking in the first precious drops. The wells filled up, the paddy fields looked all set to be ploughed and the forests were reinvigorated and green.

And then, one evening, the herd returned.

The mothers trooped in, one after the other, touching their calves gently with their trunks, checking, reassuring. The calves shook with delight, rushing forward, nuzzling against their mothers in a flurry of tiny trunks.

Rajah sat under a neem tree watching, too overwhelmed to continue playing, smiling through tears.

That evening, they lingered longer than before, a low rumble of gratitude passing among them. And then, they vanished into the forest—their little ones under their care—setting off on a journey to guide them through the uncertainties of the jungle.

Rajah continues his annual sojourns to the bungalow, offering his music to the forest. And, like devoted concertgoers, his fans emerge from the bushes year after year—for their long-awaited music fest.

Village lore says the elephants remember the notes. Others believe it's the vibrations and variations they respond to—just as circus elephants sway to rhythmic patterns.

But for Rajah, it was never about being remembered. It was about returning—to the quiet, the waiting trees, the shared breath of the wild—and playing his part in a divine symphony.

Notes:

1. Inspired by a real-life episode https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/entertainment/tamil/music/when-ilaiyaraajas-song-attracted-elephants-to-a-theatre/articleshow/76153802.cms

2. Embedded audio:
   “Rasathi Unna Kanatha Nenju” – Violin Cover
   Performed by Binesh Babu
   Original composition by Ilaiyaraaja for Vaidehi Kaathirunthal (1984)
   This cover is embedded for non-commercial and illustrative purposes. All rights remain with the original composer and performer.