The Rise of Sivagami : Book 1 of Baahubali - Before the Beginning

by Anand Neelakantan

  ‘Oh god,’ she heard Raghava say. Except for the faint light from the stars, it was pitch dark.

  ‘I can’t see my own fingers how will I jump?’

  ‘If you can’t see anything, you will be less scared. It is just seven feet.’

  ‘It is more like seven hundred feet all the way down. There are rocks down there.’

  ‘Jump, you fool,’ she cried. He landed near her a moment later, with a thud that sent shivers through the ramshackle bridge.

  She heard him striking the flint many times. She stood tapping her feet, impatient at the delay. The flint flared up with a hiss and the lamp was lit again. They carefully threaded their way for the rest of the distance. Thankfully, all the planks were in place.

  They got down from the bridge and walked to a huge wall that loomed in front of them. They stepped in front of an iron-spiked wooden gate that had a massive lock on it. It was sealed with lac.

  ‘The maharaja’s seal. We are not supposed to open this,’ Raghava said, weighing the lock in his hand.

  She took a stone and started breaking the lock open.

  ‘What are you doing? Nanna will be held responsible. The fort is under his protection,’ Raghava cried. She ignored him and continued hammering at the lock. Soon Raghava joined her and the lock gave way. They put their shoulders to the doors and, with a loud groan, it swung open.

  She picked up the lamp from the floor and stepped in. A wave of emotions ran through her and she pressed her lips together. Everything was strange, yet familiar. The servant huts on either side had collapsed. The roof of the temple in which her father used to pray had toppled over. The wall around the courtyard well had crumbled. The mango tree where she used to have her swing had grown big and spread over the roof of her mansion. The two granite tigers that stood on either side of the steps to her veranda were still there. A broken toy horse lay half buried in the courtyard. Memories, sweet and bitter. Old Lachmi, running behind her, begging her to drink her milk. The pony her father had gifted her on her fifth birthday. The day they had taken him away in chains.

  She stopped at the front door of her home. No, it was not her home anymore. She did not have a home. She was an orphan. She bit her lips. This time, Raghava did not wait for her. He broke the lock of the mansion and they stepped in. As the lamp illuminated the dusty interior, she sucked in her breath. For a moment, she wished she was still that five-year-old girl. Her father would come out of his chamber any moment with that smile that made him look so handsome. He would pick her up and swirl her in the air. Shower her with kisses. She longed for his smell, his touch, his affectionate way of ruffling her hair. For the past twelve years, every moment of her life she missed him. Uncle Thimma, Raghava’s father, who had adopted her, was kind and affectionate, but no one could take her father’s place.

  ‘Is that you?’ Raghava asked, pointing to a portrait on the opposite wall.

  ‘My mother,’ she whispered, emotion choking her voice. Her mother sat like Goddess Saraswati, a veena on her lap, serene and beautiful. She had never seen her alive. The portrait, and the image of her father looking longingly at it, were the only memories she had of her mother.

  ‘She is as beautiful as you,’ Raghava said.

  She moved to the right towards her father’s chambers, removing cobwebs with her hands. The window from that room faced the valley and the distant Mahishi River, which merged with the sky far away. She had spent countless hours sitting at the window ledge, watching the clouds swirl over the hills while her father sat at his table, immersed in his work.

  Shutting her mind to the surging emotions, she stepped into her father’s chambers. But for the cobwebs and dust, everything looked the same. On the day they had come for him, she was playing in the courtyard with the children of the servants. Only old Lachmi was there in his chambers, serving him his food. She still remembered her father being dragged away in chains through the streets. She had run behind the fast-vanishing chariot, crying her heart out before Lachmi had swooped her into her arms and run back to the mansion. But they were barred from entering by the maharaja’s guards and her home had been sealed before her eyes. The servants were thrown out of their huts and the fort gate was shut. They had sat there until Uncle Thimma had come to take her to his home.

  Old Lachmi had told her that her father was reading the strange book when they came for him. He had hurriedly handed it over to her and pointed out an opening in the floor where he had asked her to hide it. He wanted her to hand it to his daughter when she was old enough. A moment later, the soldiers had burst in. Lachmi had run behind her master as the soldiers dragged him away, and by the time she came back, they had sealed the mansion and thus the manuscript too.

  She wished Lachmi were alive and with her to guide her to the place where the maid had hidden the book. It was only after some time that she was able to locate the secret opening in the floor and, with the help of Raghava, she broke it open. Inside was a manuscript.

  ‘Paisachi,’ Raghava exclaimed. ‘That is the language of the first men of this country.’

  ‘You know how to read it?’ she asked.

  Raghava was a scholar who spent most of his time reading. He shook his head. ‘Not many are alive who could read this dead language. I wonder why your father chose to write in this strange tongue.’

  ‘He did not write it. He got the book from someone,’ she said, recollecting what Lachmi had said to her.

  She ran her fingers down the spine of the manuscript and a thrill passed down her back. This had been held by her father.

  ‘We have to hurry,’ Raghava said. He was worried his father Thimma would have come back home and seen that they were missing.

  She stood up, clutching the manuscript close to her heart. She looked around the chamber longingly. The image of her father stooped over his books flashed for a moment in her mind. She shook her head and, holding back her tears, walked out. Raghava quietly followed.

  She paused in front of the dilapidated temple and closed her eyes in prayer. A wave of anger swept through her. They had destroyed her family. They had killed her father. She had seen him die, inch by inch. Chitravadha, they called it. The poetic name did not mask the cruelty of the punishment. She still remembered how they had locked him in an iron cage and hung it from a banyan tree in front of the arena. They had hung a wooden board from the cage, and it read: TRAITOR.

  Devaraya, once a powerful bhoomipathi, later declared traitor, died the most painful death possible. She had heard it took about three weeks for him to die, eaten alive by sparrows and crows while jeering crowds from Mahishmathi picnicked under the tree and watched him die.

  How she hated the king and the evil kingdom of Mahishmathi. Clutching the manuscript close to her heart, she whispered, ‘Amma Gauri, I swear I will destroy this evil kingdom of Mahishmathi.’

  When she turned, Raghava embraced her. The lamp fell from her hands and went off with a hiss. She was too shocked to react. Raghava kissed her passionately. ‘Sivagami, Sivagami, together we will destroy them. Don’t go away. Be with me…’

  Sivagami pushed him away and slapped him across his face. ‘How…how dare you, Raghava.’

  She stood panting with anger and sadness. This was not what she had expected from her childhood companion, her friend. The passion with which he had kissed her left her with no doubt what was on his mind.

  ‘I am sorry, Sivagami, I am sorry,’ Raghava said, crying in anguish.

  ‘I trusted you, Raghava. I always treated you as my elder brother,’ Sivagami said, sadly.

  He fell on his knees, covering his face. ‘You can still trust me, Sivagami. There is no man who loves you more. But don’t tell me I am your brother. I have loved you as no man can love a woman. But you are no sister to me.’

  ‘No, Raghava, no, you are nothing more than a brother to me. I have considered Uncle Thimma as my own father. And his son cannot be anything more than a brother. Besides, I have only one aim in life,’ she said, feeling pity for her
childhood friend.

  ‘No, don’t speak such harsh words. Don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear it. I will help you, Sivagami. I will help you seek your revenge. No—don’t speak…please…let me finish… Maharaja Somadeva is very powerful, but there are more powerful kings in the world. I will seek them out and bring them here. I will do it for you, Sivagami. I will travel to the ends of the world for you and beyond if required. I will leave before you are gone from our home. I don’t know why Nanna is sending you away, but by tomorrow’s dawn, I will leave Mahishmathi.’

  ‘Raghava, please…’

  ‘No, Sivagami, please don’t speak. Just promise me that the day you destroy Mahishmathi, you will be mine. Promise me that you will be—’

  ‘I do not want your help, Raghava. I want no one’s help. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I will destroy Mahishmathi and its evil royals. I give no promise—’

  Raghava closed her mouth with his palm, ‘Sivagami, I will not speak about this anymore. But be kind to me for some more time. I am going away tomorrow. Please…if you do not want to make the promise, I will still go way with the hope that one day you will change your heart once I help you.’

  Sivagami did not bother to answer. There was no point talking to Raghava now. Her emotional friend would come back to his senses soon, she hoped. They rode back home in silence.

  Sivagami was so overwhelmed by old memories and her renewed anger about what the king had done to her father that she did not even think about Raghava or what he had said about Thimma sending her away.

  TWO

  Kattappa

  The hunting party was speeding through the forest. A lean, dark young man ran alongside the elephant that carried the king of Mahishmathi. Ahead of him, his father rode a white horse that had a plume on its head. Behind him, amid the soldiers, rode the princes of Mahishmathi on their chestnut mares. A train of soldiers straggled behind them, weighed down by the carcasses of hunted deer and wild boars on their shoulders. Shadows of trees had started crawling towards the east. Mist was creeping up from the bushes. They had been hunting since morning, but for a party of three score people, the catch was pitiful. The drizzle that had started the previous night had made the forest damp and the earth squishy.

  ‘Kattappa, run ahead and make arrangements for camping,’ the man on the white horse turned and addressed his son. Kattappa selected a few slaves who could help him and left the procession. A group of bards was already waiting under the trees, busy twanging their tampuras and tuning their mrudangas when Kattappa reached the camping site. They stood up reluctantly. The black steel ring around his neck marked him a slave, but the way he carried himself made them show grudging respect.

  Kattappa asked them to make space and they moved away, huddling together, whispering amongst each other as he got busy giving instructions to erect tents and lay down carpets. His thoughts turned to his younger brother, Shivappa. At seventeen, Shivappa was yet to graduate from the position of a palace slave, the one who did menial jobs for his masters, but he never saw the world outside the palace. He was not old enough to accompany the maharaja’s hunting party, but had been adamant about joining them that morning. Only their father’s scolding had made him retreat in sullen silence. But Shivappa was not one to give up so easily. Later, Kattappa had had to smuggle in his brother, who was now working at the rear end of the hunting party, helping soldiers carry their baskets and water pots. Their father, of course, was unaware. Kattappa worried that his impulsive brother may pick up a quarrel with some servant or the other and blow his own cover. There would be a price to pay if their father came to know.

  Kattappa shouted for everyone to work faster as he watched the first of the king’s horses turn towards the camp. Servants were arranging bales of hay for the horses and filling huge copper vessels with water for the elephants to drink. Soon the air was filled with the sounds of whinnying and the tread of shoes as the hunting party approached. Kattappa ran his gaze all over the camp to ensure that it had been set up as per order. This was the first hunt where he had been given such a big responsibility and he did not want to botch it up. When he looked back at the contingent, the elephant carrying the king was already kneeling for his majesty to alight. Kattappa saw his father jumping down from his horse and hurrying towards the king. His father kneeled before the king and Maharaja Somadeva climbed down, stepping on Malayappa’s shoulders.

  ‘Hey, you, slave boy.’

  Kattappa tensed. He knew there was nothing wrong with being called a slave boy; after all, that was what he was, but every time he heard it, it riled him. More than the word ‘slave’, it was being called a boy at the age of twenty-two by Bijjala, who was younger to him by a few months, that upset him more.

  Hiding his distaste and putting on an expression of extreme servitude, he turned towards the voice. Prince Bijjala gestured for him to come near his horse. Kattappa walked over. He bowed, and the prince indicated that he should kneel down. People were watching him.

  ‘Brother, stop. He is elder to you,’ Prince Mahadeva said in a shrill voice. Bijjala snickered, ‘Slaves don’t have any age, or names, for that matter. They are bound to obey what we say.’

  ‘But…’

  Bijjala’s arm shot out and slammed into Kattappa above his left ear. The world spun around the slave. He had not seen it coming.

  ‘When I ask you to kneel, you have to kneel immediately,’ Bijjala punctuated his order with another slap on Kattappa’s cheek. Kattappa hurriedly knelt down. Bijjala stepped on his lean shoulders and got down from his horse. Kattappa swayed under the weight of Bijjala, lost his balance, and fell flat on the ground with the prince. There was silence and everyone looked at them. Prince Mahadeva laughed.

  Bijjala stood up. His fine silk dhoti was smeared with mud. Kattappa was scared. He had made a big mistake. He saw Bijjala’s anger growing on his face. He took a step back as Bijjala snarled and drew out his whip. Kattappa’s throat went dry. Bijjala took a step forward and cracked the whip. It did not connect with Kattappa, but he was terrified. He closed his eyes, waiting for the lash to bite.

  ‘No, Anna…’ Kattappa could hear Mahadeva crying out. Oh no, please, that will only anger him further, Kattappa thought. Bijjala wound the lash around his arm and cracked it again. Kattapa took a step back in fear, stumbled and fell down on his back. Bijjala towered over him, his curly head blocking the sun. Kattappa could feel the dampness of the grass, and was acutely aware of the sharpness of the grass tips. He crawled on his back, pushing with his hands and legs to slide as far away from Bijjala as possible.

  ‘Mercy, Your Highness, mercy,’ he cried, as the lash arced above his head and cracked across his face. He gritted his teeth and tried unsuccessfully to stop the tears.

  A tongue of fire burned across his cheeks, his shoulders, nose, stomach, thighs, as Kattappa pressed his lips tight, determined not to cry aloud. The lash cracked again and again.

  This was his fate, the fate of his ancestors. He was nothing but a slave, a slave who was supposed to give his life to protect the royal family of Mahishmathi. Yet, somewhere deep inside his heart, it hurt. He was no better than a horse, or perhaps that was an overestimation. Horses had better food and had non-leaking roofs over their heads.

  ‘Anna…’ he heard Shivappa’s voice at a distance. His eyes, blurred with tears and blood, could make out Shivappa running towards him. No! Oh Ma Gauri, no, no, he wanted to scream.

  He saw Shivappa’s wrathful face and closed his eyes. He opened them only when he heard Bijjala’s agonized cry. The prince had covered his nose with his palm, but blood spurted through the gaps between his fingers. Kattappa saw a bloodied stone rolling away from his feet and Shivappa taking aim with another stone. Kattappa screamed at him to stop and run. Everything was happening so fast. Kattappa’s heart sank as he saw their father rushing towards them with a whip in his hand.

  The second stone that Shivappa hurled whizzed past them without hitting anything and bounced off the gr
ound, splashing bobs of mud in its wake. Before he could pick up a third one, Malayappa’s whip cracked and hit Shivappa across his face. The boy fell down screaming, and started rolling on the ground as his father continued to hit him mercilessly.

  ‘You dare hurt the prince you are supposed to protect. You thankless dog!’ Malayappa screamed as he cracked the whip. Kattappa tried to intervene but faced his father’s wrath.

  ‘Stay away! This is all your fault. How dare you disobey me?’

  ‘Please stop. It was not Kattappa’s fault,’ Prince Mahadeva cried. Malayappa bowed deep when he heard the prince speak.

  ‘I want him to die. He broke my nose. Kill him, kill him, kill him,’ Prince Bijjala roared. The royal physician was applying medicines to his bleeding nose. Malayappa resumed beating his son.

  Prince Mahadeva ran to Maharaja Somadeva. ‘Father, do something. Please ask him to stop please, father, please.’

  Kattappa saw his father stop, for a moment and await the king’s response. Maharaja Somadeva’s face was cast in stone and he was deaf to the cries of Prince Mahadeva.

  Malayappa gave the whip to Kattappa and said, ‘You will punish him now.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘You brought him where he did not belong and he did what he was not supposed to do. It is your punishment too. Now, do it.’

  Kattappa took the whip with trembling hands. Shivappa was already bleeding from wherever the whip had licked him. Kattappa looked at his brother’s face, expecting the boy to plead for mercy, but Shivappa had a calm expression. He wished that his brother would at least cry out. But the twenty-one lashes that Kattappa dealt out could not even extract a whimper from him, though each shredded Kattappa’s heart. Shivappa just stared into his brother’s eyes as the whip arced around him before ripping his skin. It was at that moment that Kattappa started hating his life.