Pip and the Fern Festival - Part 1

Pip was bobbing up and down. He had waited for this day since the moment he had learnt to count till ten. And here it was - his big day. He was being allowed to join the others as they journeyed to the Fern Festival. Pip had dreamt of this day for so long he could hardly believe that he was not dreaming right now. 

"Pip! Pip! hurry up! or we'll miss the fireworks!" Pip snapped out of his thoughts, skipping after his best friend into the depths of the forest. Firework nights were extra special before the Fern Festival. It was most likely because the Ferntress was involved in making them. The lights were better, brighter, more real and more magical than the common place fireworks of other nights. As they approached the Fountain tree, more fairies joined them bubbling with excitement and speculating endlessly on the possibilities of what the festival would bring.

"Pip! Hurry up or well miss getting a good view," Pip had to hurry, taking off after Bennie and creating a hullabaloo as he bumped into the crowds, apologising quietly when he remembered to. Pip came to a majestic stop where a huge sand dune strategically sprouted providing a fantastic view of the Fountain Tree.

What a gorgeous tree it was. It was Ferntress's Castle too. The tree trunk was so wide that it took over 100 fairies to encircle it, and it was said that the roots went underground for miles and miles. There was even the story of naughty Silas who decided to dig into the ground and follow a root and never made his way back. The bark was brown - as brown as mud that has been soaked in fresh rain - and along its height were beautiful paintings of fairies, wands, birds, animals, and all things natural. Each painting was etched out in silver, gold and bronze. If you didn't pay close attention you could miss out on them as the lines glimmered in and out of the trunk as if they were alive, weaving in and around the bark telling a tale. Sometimes it would take days and days to see all the paintings and the younger ones had to wait till they could fly high before they could reach the top parts of the trunk.

The Fountain tree was said to be taller than Fensha the king of giants. But Pip and Bennie could now see its tip if they flew up into the sky. The most beautiful thing about the Fountain tree was its branches. Bunched in hundreds they formed a dense centre and flew out in magnificent angles, curves, and spheres. And then they dropped down like glistening rain, stopping in mid air with leaves that glimmered like emeralds but looked soft and light. Each branch had twigs of silver or bronze. Flowers big and small graced the branches - some white as the shining star, others yellow like the sun , and some pink like the Ferntress's cheeks. Pip thought red flowers were the prettiest. They were the ones hardest to reach. They were roses only more rose like than any other rose Pip had ever seen.

Bennie was more interested in the fruits. All the fruits on the fountain tree were golden. All golden and in any shape size and taste you wanted. You only had to say the name of the fruit you wanted and ask the tree for it. The fruit would gently fly into your hand and drop the most delicious fruit in your palms. Bennie had many a time asked the Ferntress how the tree never ran out of fruits, but Ferntress had merely smiled at him.

The first star had appeared in the darkening sky and the crowd hushed as they saw a little fairy dressed in a glimmering green gown, surrounded by splendour even grander than the tree, emerge from the trunk above the highest branch of the fountain tree. Ferntress seemed larger than the tree and yet how tiny she was! 

"Arise dear nymphs, your fairy brethren call to you. Dance the dance of ferns. that they may awaken and be filled with our magic. " Her lilting voice sounded into the night enthralling people far, far away with the call of the night. And all the fairy kindred took up the melody and sang the chorus like they did every year.

"The love of fairies, the love of nymphs

to bring ferns alive: Ferns awake, ferns protect"

And as they sung, the firework displays started. Pip and Bennie pointed in delight as a train of firefly designed lights enveloped the fountain tree in myriad of colours and spiralled into the night sky before reaching a crescendo and bursting down into the crowd as coloured candy for everyone. Then, there was the carriage firework that looked like a King's carriage, round and round it went and burst into a flames shaped as the Princess Riana with her Faithful Prince Saul next to her. The crowd cheered as they were entertained by more lights.

Pip and Bennie glided to the base of the fountain tree where a number of young fairy- gentlemen had gathered. Old man Brown was at the centre of the crowd dishing out instructions in his low quiet voice. "On the journey we expect complete obedience, no showing off with fancy tricks and no mischief." He looked pointedly at Bennie and said " No running off to steal fruits from orchards". He continued, "you will all listen to me and obey my instructions. Now go off and say your goodbyes. We will meet here in one hours time." 

Old man Brown frowned as he turned to Ferntress. This journey would be unlike any other he had been to. Old man Brown had been on so many journeys he couldn't remember the count. This was the first time the wind smelled dangerous though, and Old man Brown had considered cancelling the journey. He had consulted Ferntress over the possibility, and they had pondered over the matter for days before deciding that the journey must be made. Old man Brown sighed, he had hoped that he had fought his last battle but if what Ferntress said was true there was more work to be done.

Larger Than Life

There it was - my camera. Taller than I was, bigger than I was. I approached it dragging along the bulky twig ladder I had just made.

Last night, and the night before - why many nights now - had been filled with strange noises. Sleep had eluded me as strange, high pitched dialogues, originating from my garden, jolted me into wakefulness. I couldn’t make much sense of what was being said, but now a week since they had started, I was determined to investigate. 

I woke up this morning determined to discover mysteries of my garden. I was slightly concerned that there was something sinister taking place in my backyard. Armed with a vague plan and an indifferent mien I walked into my backyard, my cereal and toast, a notebook, pencil, some string for measurements, and a camera in tow. I simply looked like I was going about my routine - taking photos and documenting them. I was hoping my real purpose would be well masked. 

I sat down on the bench, set down my camera, and rummaged through my book as I ate. Something bit my leg. Instinct told me to wait before moving into action. A voice quipped up, “Well, talk about a bad bite.” A shrill bout of giggling followed. I moved my foot a little, slightly perturbed that something that was speaking had taken a bite at my leg. I heard some bickering, a rustle. I stealthily moved my hand towards my leg, and just as it was about to take another bad bite, I nabbed it. 

“You leave me alone, you ol’ goon!” Nip. Nip. 

I thought to myself, I should have brought gloves. 

“What do you mean by capturing me, you ol’ ninny. Just you let me go” Nip. Nip. 

Annoyed at being bitten and equally peeved at being called an old ninny, I held onto the little fellow around his rotund waist. Slightly shaken, I set him down on the tabletop, next to my camera, still gripping him around his waist. A delightful, whimsical figure gazed up at me with big, round, hazel eyes. His pointed ears had flattened out on either side of his heart shaped face pointing to the East and West. His nose resembled a swollen toothpick protruding in between chubby, rosy brown cheeks. His tiny, berry stained mouth was turned up at one end as he smirked at me. It was startling to see such a small being, and I was rather flummoxed. 

After a few moments of silence, I decided to take the initiative and tentatively spoke to the little creature, “Hello… erm Mr?”

“Pixie. The name’s Pixie. And that’s no way to greet a fellow - nabbing him like that unawares!” 

No nip. I thought that was a good sign. 

“I’m sorry ...erm Mr Pixie, but I wasn’t sure what was biting me. And you said I didn’t taste good.”

Giggles, followed by more giggles, and a lifted eyebrow accompanied his response, “Well, a fellow likes a little mud with his foot, you know? All that clean skin does no ‘ne any good. Now, let me go!”

“Erm.. Mr. Pixie. Who are you? Why are you in my backyard, and why are you so noisy?” I suppose in hindsight I could have been less direct with my questions. 

“You let me go, I tell you.” A frustrated struggle between my hands ensued as I firmed my grip around him, hoping that my fingers would be spared deeper bites. A minute later he seized his wriggling and was answering me in an offended voice, “That there fellow, Ragtag, came in here and won’t leave. I got to have my space you see? I’ve been telling him to go find some other garden, you see...but he won’t listen, he won’t!” 

“Is Mr. Ragtag a pixie too?” I was beginning to wonder if I had drugged myself, or was in the midst of a strange dream. Was I really holding a pixie in my hand and speaking to him about garden invasions? 

“A pixie like me?! Nooo sirrreeee, I would ne’er have invaded another’s garden.” Surely, so much offense could hardly be communicated in so few words? I wondered if I should remind the little guy that he had in fact invaded my garden. I decided to keep mum. This little fellow was full of drama. His voice changed again,polite and quizzical, “Why, Oh why, Mr, ol’ ninny, will you help me get rid of Mr. Ragtag?” 

I had eased my hold on the little creature by now, and as I relaxed further, he promptly sat down, cross-legged, on my open palm as I pondered his strange request. Before a minute had passed he burst into tears - it was like watching a sprinkler come to life accompanied by a cacophonous group of violinists. 

“Okay, Okay, Mr. Pixie, stop bawling. How can I help?” I spoke in a loud whisper 

The silence and consequent smile was so immediate, I was quietly inclined to believe the whole crying show was exaggerated. But I couldn’t help liking the fellow as he impulsively gave my little finger a tight hug. 

“Oh, thank you, Mr ol’ ninny. I really do love my garden, you see...and Ragtag has no business being here. You need to meet him and tell him so, you see? He can’t go against your wishes, you see?” 

I didn’t see of course, and said so. I was also a bit offended at being called an ol’ ninny. Actually, I was starting to get curious about Ragtag and why Mr. Pixie was disinclined to share his space with him - I had a fairly large garden. It also occurred to me that it was certainly rare, even a bit exciting, to have two seemingly real pixies living in my garden. Maybe I had to go get my head checked, but for now, I was sure the little fellow in my hand was real. 

“Erm.. Mr. Pixie, my name is…”

“Awww, come on sirrreeee we must be quicks about getting Ragtag away. How wills you find him?” 

“Don’t you know where he is?” I asked tauntingly.

“'Course not, Mr Ol’ ninny. I don’t know where he is now. If I’d have known, I would’ve fought him out already, innit?” 

“I think you need to call me by my name, if you want my help.” I made to leave. After all some ground rules were necessary, and everyone knows pixies would wiggle their way out of anything. I felt that I must stamp my authority. 

“Awww now, don’t you go away Mr. Ol’... okay, okay, What is your name Mr. Ol’ Nin..”

“Matt. My name is Matt,” I was beginning to enjoy our dialogue. “Now, tell me, how do we find Ragtag?” 

“Why?! Don’ts you knows? We walk through the grass blades, of course! Come on Mr Ol… Mr. Matt” He zealously jumped onto my lap, and then paused, made his way back to my palm, and navigated my hand to my ear and in a shrill whisper, “We’ve got to shrink you, you knows!” 

I blinked. 

“We gots to Mr. Matt, otherwise you’ll not be able to runs through the grass.” He must have seen my dumbstruck look

“Shrink me?” I wasn’t having any of that, “Oh no we aren’t Mr. Pixie. I can wait here. Once you find Ragtag, I will find a way to meet him.” 

“Now, look yous here, Mr. Matt. By 3 O’clock, my pixie magic will reverse itself and you will be all big again. No needs to be scared.” A snicker that he tried to unsuccessfully cover up accompanied this statement.

Scared? Was I scared? What if this was all a trick? Yet, wouldn’t it be fun to have a bit of an adventure - almost exciting? “I still don’t know if it’s a good idea...but tell me, Mr Pixie, do you not like Ragtag?” I decided then and there that I should know more about the person I was going to confront

“Likes him? Oooh, I liked him well enough, I did. Ragtag’s my best friend. How we trampled the grass on Ol’ Mr Cranky’s garden. Ah” Giggles. “Then, when I said it was time to move - seeing that Mr. Cranky heard us, and had began to cut his grass too short, Ragtag said he likes to do what he wants and didn’t want to come here. You see’s Mr Ol’... Mr. Matt, I saw your garden, and knews you was a nice man who wouldn’t cut his grass. But Ragtag was a *&^%& pixie and told me he wasn’t moving, no sirreee! And I begs him, I does.” 

I ignored the expletives as I listened to his tale. A sudden burst of waterworks ensued. I patted him in empathy as gently as I could and waited for the abrupt silence. It took longer than expected.

“Then, I left without Ragtag and moved in here.” Sniffles as he continued, “I’ve been on my own 14 days, and I don’t need Ragtag with me. He came here last week, he did, and he says no sorrys to me, he doesn’t. He came and wanted to carry on as if he never left. Well, Mr. Ol’ ...Mr. Matt. No sirrrreeee. This is my garden and I’m not sharing with him” 

Another sprinkler attack was forming a pool in my hand. I was sure of one thing - this little pixie wanted his best friend with him, but was hurt and angry. I decided to help. Carefully, I placed him on the table top and sat next to him. 

He looked up at me, hope replacing the tears in his spherical eyes, “Will yous help, me?” 

A sudden desire awakened in me - it was time for an adventure. I smiled at Mr. Pixie and struck a deal, not entirely convinced I would shrink. 

“1.2.3”

With no warning, and no hint of any pixie dust, I had shrunk and found myself dangling off the table. I nervously swung myself and latched onto the camera belt.Trying to quickly adjust to my new circumstances, I hauled myself up onto the bench and took in the view. Mechanically, I picked a few twigs that had fallen on the table top, tucked them masterfully with some of the string I had left near my notebook and constructed a little ladder. I wanted to have a look through my lens: I climbed the ladder precariously and took a peek. The world looked big and full of colour. The grass had never looked this green or inviting. I wondered if I could click a photo. That’s when I caught sight of him - a little creature that looked like Mr. Pixie - darker and taller, but with the same rosy cheeks and round eyes.

“Mr. Matt… Mr. Matt, We gots to go.. There’s no time…” Mr Pixie was pulling on my trousers which I was grateful to note had also shrunk with me. 

I turned around and gestured to the little fellow, wending my way towards Ragtag. I was sure that I would soon have two pixie friends living in my backyard. Let the adventures begin.

On Higher Ground - Memories Of A Bike Ride Through Ladakh

Bike hard, Bike far

I could hear it,
the sound was guttural - deep.

It was growing louder still,
The nuances of the biker's movements
Clear from the sounds

Again, I heard the throttle,
There was a distinct sound,
The rider would have carved
The bend in the road.

Then, there was a sudden pull,
I could see the beacons of yellow light
Illuminating the road ahead

And then, I could see it,
Rider and bike,
Twisting the wick,
Approaching at full throttle

A beatific beast
Powerful and sure.
Triumph - the name suited
both rider and bike.

It slowed down, next to me,
Eager to journey on,
I waved it off,
Watched as they rode into the sun,
Ready to move the soul

Little Red.... And Goodbye

Little Red is (I suppose I should say, was) not your typical fairytale girl dressed in a red riding hood, off to meet her grandmother. Little Red, believe it or not, has never met a wolf (at least, not as long as I have known her)

Over the last two years, Little Red has been a big part of my life. In fact, we went almost everywhere together. It all began with my growing frustration and quotidian weariness with commuting using matatus (for those who are unfamiliar with the term matatu: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matatu) and buses. This together with a darling family resulted in my hook-up, so to speak, with Little Red.

When I first saw Little Red, I was still awed and unsure about our meeting. She did look just about right, though. Fate bound us and I took my first, little steps into a whole new lifestyle. Little Red - my new red colour Toyota Raum, took me to work and back, as never before. I would cautiously and nervously drive down Mombasa Road and avoid all the scary highway turns, matatu infested roads and traffic-frenzied roundabouts. The quieter, albeit pot-hole prone roads were better for us.

Slowly, Little Red and I got to know each other better (And yes, Little Red was definitely a she. Her love to get ripping, her absolute dislike and reaction to stupid drivers and her taste of destinations made it pretty obvious!) With every journey we grew more confident with each other. And soon, I was no longer dreading the roads, but enjoying my time driving around, cursing in traffic and singing my favourite songs out loud.

Little Red was many a time, my refuge. I would laugh with her and cry tears with her. Some days, it would be time spent with her that inspired me with brain waves, ideas and beautiful thoughts. I shared my heart breaks with Little Red, and my happy thoughts too. Best of all, I shared cheeky, fun moments with her. Like the time she purposefully followed a car, just because it looked good! Or, the first time I drove myself to a dinner party - how much fun!

Little Red did pull some crazy stunts: there was the time she decided that she was sick of her front wheel and went ahead and burst! Poor appa (dad, in Tamil) was in the car and had to dictatorially tell Little Red to get a grip! I think she did learn her lesson. She was off in ICU for nearly a month and that seemed to have curbed her temper and when she was back on the road, you could tell that she had been injured. Soon, she was back to her wily, old self and was busy taking me and friends out on memorable errands, parties and even farewells.

Little Red had a personality. With appa she was super dainty and well-behaved. With Shalini, my sister, she was a regular speedy Gonzales and with me she was just her usual, crazy self.

Once, on a trip to the airport, some crazy dude decided to mess with her and gave her a good knock out! Out cold again, Little Red recovered relatively fast from her injuries, but was definitely starting to show signs of ageing! That certainly didn't knock the fun out of her and Little Red and I have continued being best of pals, driving new, scenic routes together and daring just a little more every day!

Sadly, I had to let her go! Little Red was ready. She wanted some R&R. She was sad to go, but happy to get her goodbye's done quick and easy! I said bye to Little Red today - my first car! I can't help loving my first car, my Little Red - here's wishing her a lovely journey ahead!

This one is for the ellis!

Tumaini – My Hope for Earth

It is a round world after all! And you can't walk to the ends of the earth and fall over – rather difficult to believe, as you look at eternity from the edge of a hill, into an abyss of green and brown; trees and hard rock. You skid, stumble and grip air to halt your fall, watching as the tiny rocks at your feet, disappear down into oblivion.

“Bump!”, you land on your behind. The vacant expression on your face is gradually replaced by a concoction of confusion, realisation, panic and relief, as you turn away from the edge. There is a flash of a camera and you know your comical look will soon be plastered and viewed across the world on too many social media sites. 

Cautiously, you attempt to stand and move further away from what could have been the world's infamous edge (which no longer lives to its treacherous reputation) and meet the concerned but laughing faces of fellow adventurers.

You sit down and slowly, as you sip on some water and make sure your precious camera is not damaged, a certain normalcy returns: your fingers stop trembling, your feet come alive from their dead-log stupor, you believe in science again and manage to put aside questions about the gravity of the situation.

I look at the craggy drop, barely an inch away from me, and nestle closer to the rock I am hiding behind. How different things look now, from back then. In-fact, the drop below is almost comforting. The people after me will kill me and worse still, the death they offer me will be more painful than what awaits me at the bottom – if there is one – of this fall. I make up my mind: if they find me I will jump.

My one hope is that I have learnt how to cover my tracks – I still have a chance of staying undiscovered. But, even if I stay hidden from them now, would I make it through the night? This isn't exactly a safe haven. I stubbornly contain my anxiety and hopelessly check my phone for connectivity - Murphy's Law is a bitch - my phone battery is dead. I crouch deeper into the earth wishing it would swallow me up, continually grateful for the cloud cover that prevents me from creating enemy shadows.

I stay dead-still as I hear their voices and sense the threat in their foreign words. I have good reason to be terrified. I have seen these men kill. I have seen them slaughter innocent creatures: commit murder more than once. These men are dangerous and they are cowardly. They attack unfairly and kill an unarmed, innocent enemy. I am ashamed to know they are human and therefore kin. I am proud that I have captured their crimes on my camera. I am petrified that I may not be able to expose them - aggrieved that I was helpless to stop them. 

Over the last year, I have spent alternate weekends in this beautiful landscape. My camera (nothing fancy – just a small digital friend), backpack and food are my only companions. There is a consummate sense of peace amidst these lush hills and listening to the river flowing, unmoved by my presence or lack of it, is surprisingly comforting. Who would believe that such muddy waters could look so beautiful? It is beautiful and is made even more breath-taking as I catch a glimpse of big swaying ears, gliding to and fro; smaller, giant feet come into view and graceful trunks playfully dip, pick and spray water everywhere. Every herd I see as precious as the previous one; I can watch these elephants forever. 

How grand! How magical! How tranquil - I remember that feeling now and watch as the killers pass me. I dare not breathe and send silent thank you messages to a God I have never prayed to. I watch as dark clouds turn ominous, and one by one, heavy rain drops cover the earth around me. I tuck in my knees and hug my backpack, protecting it best as I can, as I cower in the downpour. 

Camouflaged behind the shrubs, I see the ripple of grass ahead and it attracts my attention simply because it seems out of place. I doubt a human eye could spot me and I feel proud as I dwell on that. It's the impossible shriek that stirs me out of my self appreciative thoughts. I look ahead to see the herd in chaotic movement and there is another nightmarish cry as one of the bigger elephants falls lifeless to the ground. I am stunned. A pride must have attacked the herd - As horrific and rare as this is, it is the first possibility to strike me. I snatch my camera and rapidly capture photos. I cannot stop as the scene ahead of me unfolds. I am numb and feel the tears roll down my face. I hear a scream coming down from somewhere in the pit of my stomach; I do not understand how I have contained it. 

The rain has finally stopped and I stand up. The rain was a blessing in disguise but I know I must leave here immediately. I turn eastwards; I will make my way to the lodge and from there, to Nairobi. I am not naive and know the chances of escape are low. I do not know where these men or their spies lurk, but this plan is my only hope! I look up and see the first star appear, as I take my first step towards help and away from the destruction I had witnessed.

Time has stopped. I am unable to take more photos. I can see and smell the vomit next to me and make a futile attempt to move away. A more powerful and permanent smell starts to fill my nostrils - blood. I watch the men, their faces imprinted in my mind, carry the ivory they have hacked off my jumbos to the Land Rover. I see their guns, their machetes. They are unfazed by the horrific sights they have created. I yearn to look away, I cannot. None of the herd has escaped. The big tuskers had no chance and the others have been slaughtered, as they bravely tried to protect each other. I have never seen such devastation. I must help – and yet I am unable to move. I do not know what to do: ahead of me are endless beheaded figures, around me bandits who will kill me. I see them picking the last of their stash now and uncaring, they begin their exit. 

I knew it was a mistake to move. It was that slight movement, yonder, that decided me. I wasn’t sure if my eyes had been playing tricks on me. Then it was there again, a plaintive movement: It was a baby, alive and wailing next to its decapitated mother. I crawled out from behind the shrub and as the Land Rover began to drive away, I pressed onward. I must help – it was the only thought I had. I got closer and saw tears run down its normally smiling face. I had watched this herd for days and knew this baby calf. I had seen her come to life. She is patchy with her mother's blood now and distressed. I am almost next to her. I hear the car and turn around; I am not sure why they are back. All I know is that I have to get away. There is a great deal of shouting as they see me. I push the little calf down as hard as I can, crying, hoping she would understand that she should not move. The massacre around me is what saves me. The car cannot pass through and by the time these heartless men are on their feet I have retreated into the thicket. I run hard and pay no heed to the scratches on my body. I frantically try and keep a sense of direction. I know I must try and reach people. These cowards would not harm me in front of others and risk exposure – would they? I keep going. I hear them sometimes, as the tears continue streaming down my face – It is the sickness of it all. Seeing this carnage has left me broken - fast and completely. I stumble on and reach the edge of a hill and see the rock. It is my time to hide. It is my time to do anything I can to show the world that these men deserve punishment – that they deserve death.

It is barely eight hours later. I am being followed. I do not slow down,and maintain my course, close to the main path. The presence behind me doesn't feel harmful – It is in harmony with the sounds of insects and birds surrounding me. There is no moonlight and my progress is slow, but I am hopeful and happy not to have met any lions or leopards (I am unprepared for more adventure). I curse my stupid thoughts of hope as I spy two amber eyes and then four and then too many to count. They are right here - I have walked into a pride. I am tired and scared– what was I to do? I crumple, gracelessly to the ground

There is a movement. I see the silhouette of a lioness stand and walk towards me, pausing and analyzing me – am I a threat? Am I a meal? I catch the swish of her tail. I wish she would understand that I am in trouble and that I must take my photos away from here. I am here to help. I watch her approach and try to maintain eye contact. I can feel her move towards me – the pride behind her are alert. Then, I feel it on my shoulder and I struggle to keep my composure. I am pushed aside, albeit gently, as the lioness steps back and turns away, shrugging off her interest in me with supine haughtiness.

I know we don't have much time before the pride realises that the calf is alone. And in a beautiful moment I realise she isn't alone: she has me and I have her. Perhaps, she does know, in her own sense, that I want to help. I gather myself together and move to the open road with renewed belief. I walk quickly with Tumaini (Hope, as I have named her) by my side. Her sorrow is obvious from the tears still running down her face, her head is drooping and that ever present hint of a smile – so part of an elephant - is missing. But her walk is steady and determined, and we press on.

It has been three months from that day now and I am at the lodge again. I still have trouble sleeping. I will never be the same. There are camera men and journalists around me. My pictures and story have been published on a special edition of National Geographic. I have exposed the murderers: four of them are now in prison. The park has more patrols, and elephant herds here are now protected by rangers, day and night. It is a very small victory considering the massive problem. I am not proud; I am barely moved. But I am humbled, and I am glad I have a small victory to help me do more. Mostly, I am privileged to have a new friend – I look up and see Tumaini, lingering at the edge of the lodge. Her new family begins to walk majestically away but she is looking at me and raises her trunk. I look into her eyes. It is a promise we have made together– a promise to help in any small way!