The village awoke with a sense of excitement as the sun cast its golden glow over the lively streets. Decorations of vibrant flowers and colorful banners fluttered in the gentle breeze, setting the stage for the annual festival. Villagers scurried about, preparing their homes and streets with care. In the center of the village, a beautifully adorned bullock cart stood ready, awaiting the start of the grand procession.
A group of villagers gathered in the main square, their eyes fixed on the majestic bull, Rama. His coat shone like polished bronze, gleaming under the rays of the morning sun, thanks to the silk cloth that enveloped his sturdy frame. Rama, selected for his strength and grace, stood with an air of confidence. "This year, it is I who shall lead the procession," he thought with pride, his horns raised high.
The atmosphere buzzed with energy as the procession began. Villagers played drums and flutes, their music resonating through the streets. Rama moved with a regal stride, each step in rhythm with the joyous music. "Look how they adore me!" he mused, mistaking the reverence for the idol he carried as adoration for himself. Children ran alongside, waving and cheering, while elders bowed in respect.
As the day wore on, the sky transformed into a tapestry of oranges and purples, signaling the return of the procession to the temple. Rama, still basking in his perceived glory, carried the idol with pride. The villagers gathered around, singing hymns and offering prayers. When the idol was gently lifted off the cart and carried into the temple, Rama stood waiting for continued admiration.
With the idol safely inside, the villagers turned their attention to the temple rituals, leaving Rama standing alone. The once lively streets grew quiet as the crowd dispersed, their focus shifted entirely away from the bull. The silk cloth was removed, and the decorations were taken down, leaving Rama feeling exposed and forgotten. "Why have they abandoned me?" he pondered, a sinking feeling settling in his heart.
In the stillness of the night, beneath a sky glittering with stars, Rama came to a poignant realization. The reverence and attention had not been for him, but for the sacred task he performed. "It is not I they celebrate, but what I carry," he understood, humbled by the truth. His pride gave way to a newfound sense of purpose, understanding that his value lay not in admiration, but in his contribution to the village's cherished tradition.
