It was already past midnight when Kattappa went to his little brother. By that time, the bards had got too drunk to continue their praises about the illustrious ancestors of the Mahishmathi royal clan and their brave deeds. The dancing girls had gone with their suitors, and from the bushes around the tents, Kattappa could hear their hushed laughter. The king had retired to his royal tent and so had the other important dignitaries. His father, in all probability, was tending to the king. Kattappa was burning with guilt for how he had been forced to treat his brother.
Shivappa lay under a tree with gnarled roots and crooked branches. Kattappa walked carefully, trying not to break even a dry twig on his way. The smell of herb paste that the physician had applied on his brother’s body intensified as he neared the tree. Shivappa was whimpering. A dull moon hung from the sky. As Kattappa neared his brother, something scampered away into the bushes.
‘I am sorry,’ Kattappa’s voice choked up. ‘Does it hurt?’
Shivappa did not respond. His eyes were closed. Kattappa’s hand trembled as he reached out to touch the gashes the whip had made on his brother’s skin. He withdrew at the last moment, and his eyes misted up.
‘Kamakshi,’ Shivappa was mumbling in a daze, ‘you are right. I am just a slave.’
Kattappa recoiled. His brother was still seeing that girl. Despite his father’s warning, despite his best advice. Who would drive sense into his thick head?
‘Shivappa,’ Kattappa shook him and his brother opened his eyes. ‘You have no right to see her again. You want her to get killed?’
‘Why are we slaves?’ Shivappa asked, stunning Kattappa by the abruptness of his question.
Kattappa did not have an answer. This was something he often asked himself. He was vaguely aware of some vow taken by his ancestors many generations ago. His mother, when she was alive, would smile whenever he asked her that question, ruffle his curly hair, and say that it was their destiny. It was written. Some unknown god, sitting in some place had willed that some people should be masters and others slaves.
Kattappa could see the light from the dying embers near the king’s tent. His father crouched in front of it. He could see part of his father’s face, lit up by the golden hue of the fire. His father might be the closest aide of the maharaja of Mahishmathi, but it still left a bad taste to think that he was merely a slave. Kattappa knew that he, too, would live, serve and die for his master, unacknowledged and unlamented, just like any other slave.
Thankfully, his brother had closed his eyes, the question forgotten for the moment. He was moaning in pain.
‘Are you feverish? Your skin is burning,’ Kattappa asked, as he touched his forehead. But Shivappa only coiled into a foetal position and mumbled his lover’s name. Kattappa stood watching him helplessly. Mist weaved itself through the tree leaves. The only sound was the drone of the crickets and the laboured breathing of his brother. There was a sudden rustle of dry leaves and Kattappa turned.
‘Oh, so this is what the slaves do when the masters are not looking.’
Kattappa had never expected Prince Bijjala to come where the slaves slept. He bowed with alacrity, unsure of what to do next. From the corner of his eye, he saw Prince Mahadeva running towards them from the camp, calling his brother.
‘You dared to throw a stone at your prince and you think you can get away with some casual whipping by your elder brother?’ Prince Bijjala stood with a whip in his hand, glaring at them. He cracked the whip in the air and then wound it around his forearm. ‘Clever, wasn’t he, your blasted father! He thought quickly for a slave and my naive father fell for it.’
Kattappa fell at Prince Bijjala’s feet, and clasped them as if his very life depended on it. ‘Swami, mercy, mercy.’
Prince Mahadeva, who had arrived on the scene, tried to drag his brother away, but Bijjala shoved him. The older prince waved his index finger at his brother and said, ‘Stay away, you coward. I will teach you how to treat slaves. This bastard thinks he can get away so easily after hurting the crown prince of Mahishmathi?’
Mahadeva cried, ‘Shivappa, run, run to His Majesty and seek protection. Or else my brother will kill you.’
Shivappa hesitated a moment. Bijjala lunged towards him, snapping the whip. Shivappa moved to the side to avoid the blow and then began running towards the camp. Bijjala kicked Kattappa away and, screaming abuse, chased Shivappa, ordering him to stop.
Kattappa ran behind Bijjala, pleading for mercy. He saw Shivappa falling down as Bijjala closed in on him. His brother rolled away as Bijjala lashed the whip at him. Shivappa got up and continued to run towards the camp. He swerved to the left, where the king’s elephant was standing.
A chill passed down Kattappa’s spine. In a flash, he understood what his brother was trying to do. Shivappa fed the elephant, Gireesha, and the beast was quite attached to his brother. There could be no gentler creature on earth than Gireesha, and it was one reason why the maharaja had chosen to ride on this moving mountain. But Kattappa knew the elephant obeyed his brother’s command and Shivappa was leading the prince to the beast.
‘No, Shivappa, no,’ Kattappa cried, but his voice was drowned out in the screams of Bijjala. Men who were dancing and singing around the campfire stopped to watch the unfolding scene.
Shivappa reached the elephant and stood panting near the legs of the beast. The elephant stood still, munching palm leaves. The mahout was asleep on the ground, near the beast, perhaps drunk. Bijjala swung his whip. It was as if Shivappa was expecting the move. He ducked and the whip caught the elephant under its eyes. It trumpeted in pain. The mahout woke up with alacrity, but when he saw the angry prince, he moved away. Bijjala was too furious to notice. He cracked his whip again at Shivappa. This time it cut Shivappa’s face. He fell down, crying, begging for mercy. Kattappa knew it was a ruse. He saw his brother unchaining the elephant in a swift move. The next lash of the whip caught the elephant’s legs. Shivappa rolled away to the other side of the beast and started pleading for mercy. Cursing, Bijjala walked around the beast to reach the slave.
Kattappa was a few feet away when he tripped on a stone and fell on his face. When he had steadied himself and stood up, his blood froze. He yelled, ‘Move away, Your Highness—’
Before he could complete his sentence, the elephant had caught Bijjala with its trunk and lifted him up. The whip fell from Bijjala’s hand as he flailed his limbs, screaming in abject terror. A moment later, the beast slammed Bijjala to the ground. The prince twitched for a moment and went still. The beast lifted its leg to crush Bijjala’s head.
Time stood still. Kattappa shouted at the beast, ‘Gireesha, no!’ The elephant hesitated, holding its leg in mid-air for a moment. Kattappa dove and yanked Bijjala away as the heavy foot of the beast came down. It missed Bijjala’s head by a whisker. Kattappa lifted Bijjala on his shoulder and started running. He could hear the beast trumpeting behind him. He ran for his life, but he knew it was difficult to outrun a charging elephant. With Bijjala on his shoulder, it was impossible. Then he saw Prince Mahadeva, who had been running towards them, stop in his tracks, stunned.
‘Run, Prince, move out of the way,’ Kattappa screamed, but Mahadeva stood transfixed by terror. Kattappa knew everything was lost. One, perhaps both, the princes were going to die. He would die with them, but his death would be in vain. He placed the unconscious Bijjala on the ground and turned towards the approaching beast. Behind him, Prince Mahadeva cowered with fear.
The elephant charged down at them with thundering speed. Kattappa tried to remember what his father had told him about marma vidya, the ancient martial art of stunning an opponent by striking at the nerve centre in the head. But he was not sure whether it applied to elephants.
The elephant charged at him and caught his midriff with its trunk. It lifted Kattappa up in the air. As it brought its trunk down to slam him to the ground, he pounded both his fists on the elephant’s head with all the power he could muster. It was of no use. He was thrown violently to the gro
und. He had a glimpse of the gigantic leg of the beast coming down and he closed his eyes shut. A moment later, the earth shook as the elephant collapsed on its knees, trumpeting wildly. Everything went blank for Kattappa.
He woke up when cold water pricked his eyes. His head was throbbing and his surroundings still seemed hazy. The only sensation was the sharp smell of burning oils from the torches and the coldness of the rain. He blinked and slowly his father’s face came into focus. Near him stood Maharaja Somadeva. Kattappa tried to get up, but the king gently pushed him back. The agitated cries of the birds in the forest canopy had died down, but the cold fear in Kattappa’s heart was yet to thaw. His mind raced with different possibilities. Had Bijjala died? Had he failed to protect him?
Then he saw soldiers carry away a limp Bijjala. He saw Prince Mahadeva was tending to the fallen elephant. He was relieved that the elephant had not died. The effect of the stunning blow would fade away in one or two yamams. ‘Your boy has grown up, Malayappa,’ Maharaja Somadeva said. ‘He saved my sons. No reward could be sufficient other than to give him the highest honour possible. I know he is young, but his deeds show him to be braver than any of the slaves or soldiers. Let him be the sevaka of Prince Bijjala.’
The soldiers around cheered and applauded and Malayappa was in tears. He fell at the king’s feet. ‘Prabhu, a great honour, a very great honour for a humble slave. I do not know how to thank your generosity.’ He beckoned to Kattappa, and the slave boy slowly stood up. His knees were stiff and his back still hurt, but he fell at the king’s feet alongside his father.
‘Arise,’ Maharaja Somadeva commanded, and father and son stood up, hurriedly covering their mouth with their palms and going as low as possible.
‘For many generations, Kattappa, your family has lived and died for the sake of Mahishmathi, and I hope your sons too shall follow the glorious tradition of your ancestors,’ the king said.
Mahadeva, who was tending to the fallen elephant along with the rajavaidya, stood up and walked to them. He took Kattappa’s hands in his and said with a smile, ‘I have no words to thank you, Kattappa. As long as I am alive I will be indebted to you for saving my life and my brother’s.’
Kattappa bowed, his face flushing with embarrassment. He touched Mahadeva’s feet and, unable to control the happiness and emotion sweeping over him, he started weeping. Mahadeva picked him up and hugged the slave briefly. Then he was gone with the king’s entourage.
No slave had the privilege to be touched by a royal unless it was during a war or in the line of duty. Unless it was to save his life, a slave was allowed to touch only the feet of his master. A prince touching him, thanking for merely doing his duty—such things were unheard of. Even the king had touched him. Words choked in Kattappa’s throat and he stood dazzled by his fortune.
The bards had already started making songs about how the brave Prince Bijjala and Mahadeva had fought hand-in-hand with a slave to tame a charging elephant. Kattappa felt proud. For generations they would sing of the bravery of the prince of Mahishmathi, but a small part of the glory would be his. His name may not be taken, but it did not matter. He had made his father proud. He felt grateful to the king and the princes. He was fortunate to be born in Mahishmathi. For a slave, it was a great honour to be elevated to the post of sevaka of the eldest prince. His father had achieved that honour at the age of twenty-five, when he became a member of the personal guard of Maharaja Somadeva. Kattappa was barely twenty-two.
The king was no doubt a great man, but a thought kept nagging Kattappa. Why had the king not uttered a single word when he was forced to punish his brother at the whim of the prince? Perhaps he was too small to understand the wisdom of the king. His lot was not to think, but to serve. And he had served well.
He snapped out of his thoughts as he heard his father asking him to carry his brother. Shivappa was sitting near the tree where the elephant was tied earlier. He appeared too tired to lift himself up. For a moment, a wave of anger swept through Kattappa as he eyed his younger brother. No one else might have noticed it, but he had clearly seen what his brother did. It was unpardonable.
Shivappa’s dark eyes burned like embers when Kattappa stooped to lift him up on his shoulders. It was drizzling again and the frogs started abusing each other from the bushes. A dark cloud had drawn a veil over the moon.
They were almost at the camp. There was a fire crackling in the middle and soldiers were preparing to sleep. Some were passing around pots of palm toddy. The singers were humming a ditty and raucous laughter broke through the night from one of the whores’ tents. Dancing girls were practising their steps. Someone poured oil in the fire and it flared up, sending glowing fire ash into air. A soldier started barbecuing a piglet and the breeze carried the woody smell of charred meat mixed with the sweet smell of toddy. A bawdy joke was followed by howls of laughter.
‘What you did was ignoble. You are trying to bite the hands that feed us,’ Kattappa said as he placed his brother down.
‘Would you have preferred that I died at his hands?’ Shivappa’s eyes flared.
There was no use talking to him now. His brother was hot-tempered and reckless. He would have to make him understand later. He had to teach him the virtue of duty and dharma. But this was not the time.
‘Sleep well,’ Kattappa said, gently. The sky was clear now, and silver-grey moonlight lit the tips of the grass, making them shine like diamonds.
‘Where are you going, Anna?’
After a moment’s silence, Kattappa said, ‘From tonight onwards, I have to sleep outside Prince Bijjala’s chamber.’
Shivappa did not reply. It would be the first time they would be sleeping separately since he could remember. A bat flapped its webbed wings over their heads and settled, upside down, on a branch above them.
‘Anna,’ Shivappa asked in a soft voice. ‘Are you happy?’
Kattappa wished he knew the answer. He hugged his brother and said, ‘It is my duty to be near him and protect him.’ Kattappa could feel Shivappa tense up. Then his brother smiled. Kattappa looked into his eyes. The reflection of the campfire in them made them appear to be aflame. ‘I am proud of you, Anna,’ Shivappa said. Was there a trace of mockery in his brother’s compliment? Kattappa tried to push the thought away.
Kattappa pointed to the extension of the silk carpet that jutted out of Bijjala’s tent like the tongue of a monster. ‘I will be sleeping there but I will have my eyes on you.’
‘On the carpet?’ Shivappa asked. Kattappa did not reply. Behind them, the singer’s rustic voice rose high and there was a smattering of applause. Two nautch girls came running, their anklets tinkling, and started whirling around the fire. Catcalls, whistles and raunchy comments filled the air. A song started about the princess of Kampilya who lived a thousand years ago and who wanted to bed a hundred kings in as many days. The beats of thakil drums picked up in frenzy and a nadasawara started following the singer tune to tune.
‘Good place it is,’ Shivappa said, struggling to be heard against the din of music and whistles. Kattappa felt guilty that he would be sleeping on a carpet while his brother slept on the ground. Dew had started forming on the grass, and he could feel its soft cold between his fingers. For the first time in his life he would be sleeping not on the naked floor but on a carpet. He had earned it. His first achievement in life. He felt sorry that he could not take his brother along and make him feel the softness of the carpet.
Kattappa’s thoughts drifted to the carpet. He was eager to find out how soft it would be. The one with intricate designs on it, woven from the wool of the unborn kid, extracted from the womb of sheep. That had to be soft. He had heard about it a hundred times from his father. Though he had never felt it, he knew how one’s feet would sink into its softness. It would have a fragrance, as the feet of the royals had treaded on it many times. Just like how he could sometimes smell the silk dresses of the princes when they came near. He tucked his coarse lungi tight across his waist. Maybe, one day, he would
even be able to touch the silk dresses of the princes. Perhaps that was too ambitious. He was an untouchable. No one would allow him to touch those dresses. But what was the harm in dreaming? The music had paused and the singers were readying for the next song.
‘Good place for a dog,’ Shivappa said.
It took a moment for the comment to register. Kattappa felt anger rising from his toes. Shivappa had already turned to the other side.
Kattappa did not bother to comment. He walked briskly past the soldiers’ campfire and reached Bijjala’s tent. Two sentries stood with crossed spears. As he approached, they moved their spears without asking any questions. That felt good. Kattappa peered in and saw Prince Bijjala snoring. There was a little space on the carpet. He patted it a few times and curled up on it. He was a privileged slave and he closed his eyes to thank the all-merciful god before sleeping, just like his mother had taught him. Good place for a dog. Shivappa’s comment kept coming up like undigested food. He tried to push it away, trying to think about his mother’s words about being contented with his blessings. There were so many who did not have even this in the world—who did not have anything to eat, who had nothing to sleep on. He was blessed. He was a lucky man. It would be a long time before sleep sneaked into his eyes. Until then, he could watch the million stars in the sky.
The words that Shivappa had said a few weeks back came rushing to his mind, unbidden and unwished for. On a dark, clear night like this, sometime back, they had been lying side by side. The sky was a diamond-studded blanket over their heads. Breaking Kattappa’s blissful reverie, his brother had asked, ‘Anna, I wonder whether a cruel god is boiling the stars in a black broth for fun, just like he does to the lives of thousands like us.’
Kattappa turned to the other side. Except for the smell of grass and the faint smell of footwear, the carpet was as good as he had imagined. He sighed and his brother’s voice whispered in his mind:
‘A good place for a dog.’
The Rise of Sivagami : Book 1 of Baahubali - Before the Beginning Page 3