THREE
Parameswara
Mahapradhana Parameswara was panting by the time he had negotiated the winding steps down to the workshop under the armoury. He stood leaning on the shoulders of his assistant, Roopaka, to catch his breath.
An acrid metallic smell hung in the air. Though it was early morning and the dew had not yet evaporated from the leaves outside, inside the cellar it was hot and dry. Fire from the blazing furnaces and the din of hammer striking anvil made it appear like hell.
‘I would have handled this, swami,’ Roopaka said to the old man. Parameswara wiped the sweat from his forehead with the tail of his turban and smiled. ‘I know you would have, son, but there are certain duties that cannot be left to assistants, however smart they may be.’
As the two stepped into the chamber, the din died away and the blacksmiths scrambled up to bow to the prime minister of Mahishmathi. A wizened old man came forward to bow low to the mahapradhana.
‘How is the job going, Dhamaka?’ Parameswara asked the head blacksmith. He then bent down to scoop a handful of pebbles from a casket on the floor. When he turned them over in his hand, the dull stones caught the light from the fire and sparkled an iridescent blue.
‘We are running short of Gaurikanta. The swords will turn brittle if we do not use Gauridhooli, and the stones to make them are running low,’ Dhamaka said uneasily, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Parameswara dropped the stones back into the casket.
‘What did Senapathi Hiranya say?’ Roopaka asked, reading his superior’s thoughts.
‘He was…he was not pleased. He wanted us to hurry, but we are short of…’ The head blacksmith hesitated.
‘Gaurikanta stones. Yes, I know. Wait till Mahamakam,’ the mahapradhana said while scooping up some of the lustrous powder in his palm and feeling it with his fingers.
‘No, it is not only the stones we are short of…’ Dhamaka did not complete his sentence.
‘All twenty-one of you are comfortable?’ the mahapradhana asked, peering into the head blacksmith’s eyes. Fire crackled in the furnace behind them. The heat was unbearable and the locksmith’s bare body glistened with sweat. He looked at the mahapradhana and his assistant and gave a reluctant nod.
‘Yes…yes, swami.’
‘Sir, there is a leak here and water seeps in often. One day we are going to drown in this hell, but no one seems to care,’ a young voice cried from behind.
Dhamaka cried, ‘Hush, scoundrel, do you realize who you are talking to?’
The young man glared at Dhamaka and looked up at the roof. A drop of water splattered on his forehead. An iron bucket kept on the floor was collecting water that dripped down.
The mahapradhana turned laboriously towards a huge circular iron door in the roof. He stared at the leak, his forehead knitted into a frown.
‘We don’t have enough hands and…’ Dhamaka’s words were cut off by the mahapradhana’s raised palm.
‘See to it that the senapathi’s requirements are met. It is a matter of national security,’ the mahapradhana said and gestured to Roopaka that their visit was over. He started climbing up the stairs.
‘Sir, how about the leak?’ the young blacksmith cried. Parameswara did not reply. As he walked away, he heard hammer striking metal with full force. The young man was taking out his anger and frustration on his work. Soon sounds of two score hammers hitting metal added to the din.
As he was climbing up towards the streaming light from the top of the stairs, he whispered to Roopaka, ‘Tell them to seal the leak before they resume work. We do not want three years’ work washed away in the river.’
Roopaka nodded.
‘Sir, can I ask you something?’ he hurriedly said before the prime minister could stop him. ‘When speaking to Dhamaka, you mentioned twenty-one men, but I counted only twenty.’
The mahapradhana took a deep breath, drinking in the fresh air of the garden. It was a beautiful day.
‘Sir?’
‘Roopaka, that precisely is my worry too. One of the men is missing. Where could someone working on such an important task vanish?’
‘Swami, this is a catastrophe. I hope no stones have gone missing,’ Roopaka said in a horrified voice.
‘Six are missing. The best quality of them,’ Parameswara said quietly.
‘But how? This place has the highest level of security,’ Roopaka cried.
‘He used the escape hatch in the roof.’
‘But that opens into the bottom of the river, sir. And it can be opened only if keys are used simultaneously from outside and inside. After all it was meant to flood the workshop to destroy it in the unlikely event of an enemy taking over Mahishmathi.’
‘It used to open to the bottom of the river when the place was built three hundred years ago, Roopaka. The river has changed its course. Now this place gets flooded only when there is high tide. It’s clear that someone opened the door from outside for him, and he had keys made to open the door from the inside.’
‘Such breach of security, swami. I should have taken sufficient care to prevent this catastrophe,’ Roopaka said with his head bowed.
‘We are a race that gains wisdom only after disaster strikes us. For us, security is an inconvenience. I am as much to blame as you. To think that this happened at the fag end of my career. But for Maharaja’s request, I would have retired long ago and have been enjoying life playing with my grandchildren,’ Mahapradhana Parameswara sighed.
‘Does Maharaja know?’ Roopaka asked.
‘Not yet. If we find the missing blacksmith and the stones, then we can report to him. I do not want him to panic,’ Parameswara said.
‘Half a dozen Gaurikanta stones are missing, and one of the twenty-one blacksmiths who knows just what to do with them is gone. Sir, I am getting scared.’
‘So am I, son. But my people are working on it,’ the mahapradhana said, but his voice lacked confidence.
He turned to Gauriparvat and folded his hands in obeisance. ‘Ma Gauri, preserve Mahishmathi,’ he mumbled in prayer.
FOUR
Pattaraya
Bhoomipathi Pattaraya was irritated. He was getting late for the durbar and would not have stopped at the temple but for the frantic message from Rajaguru Rudra Bhatta. Dandanayaka Pratapa, the head of the dandakaras, who policed the city of Mahishmathi, was already waiting for him in the antechamber of the chief priest when he reached.
Pattaraya fished out Rudra Bhatta’s message from the folds of his waist-band and read it aloud, ‘Please come fast. The slave is being unreasonable. We are not able to handle him. He has attempted to escape twice. I cannot hide him here anymore. There are spies all around.’ He slammed the palm leaf on the table and glared at Rudra Bhatta.
‘Swami, you are a learned man, a scholar who knows the Puranas by heart, and is an expert in the Vedas. Why the hell do you lack common sense? How can you write such an explicit letter? ‘I cannot hide him anymore, spies everywhere, blah, blah.’ Do you want to get all of us hanged?’ Pattaraya hissed.
‘Pattaraya, swami was scared,’ Dandanayaka Pratapa tried to placate the angry Bhoomipathi. ‘The slave Nagayya has been throwing tantrums. He is saying he wants safe passage to Kadarimandalam for his wife and son too. He won’t go alone.’
‘Can’t you make him understand that Jeemotha’s ships are not able to enter the port? Can’t you tell the fool that none other than Upapradhana Skandadasa is supervising the operation against pirate ships? He will have to be patient. And it is impossible to take his family. We are paying him handsomely. Let him get a new wife in Kadarimandalam with the money.’
‘Try telling him that,’ Rudra Bhatta said. ‘He spat on my face when I suggested it to him.’ The Brahmin shuddered at the thought of a slave spitting on his face. He wiped the imaginary spittle from his cheeks with the back of his hands.
Pattaraya pushed away the table and walked to the far corner of the chamber where a slave was sitting on his haunches. Beside him, a bundle o
f blacksmith’s tools lay on the floor.
‘Son,’ Pattaraya said as he leaned towards him and lifted his chin with his index finger. ‘What bothers you, son? Have we not promised you a new life? Freedom?’
‘Have we not allowed you, an untouchable slave, inside the temple?’ Rudra Bhatta said, but when he saw Pattaraya gritting his teeth, he withdrew.
Pattaraya turned back to Nagayya. He observed that the slave lacked his left ear. Not an easy person to smuggle out of the country. People would easily remember him. Could not their spy have found a better person for the job than this scum, wondered Pattaraya. He subtly covered his nose to keep away the stink emanating from the slave.
‘I want my wife and son to come with me,’ Nagayya said without looking up.
‘Let us think about it. If we are pleased with your work, maybe we will agree to your terms. Won’t we?’ Pattaraya asked his companions.
‘But how can we—’ Rudra Bhatta was not allowed to complete his sentence as Pratapa prodded him.
‘Of course we will,’ Pratapa said.
‘Nagayya, son,’ Pattaraya kept his hand on the slave’s shoulders, ‘you have your tools. Why don’t you get to work?’
The slave did not reply. His face remained in the shadows.
‘Until my family is here with me, I will not start work,’ he finally said in a determined voice.
Pattaraya stood up with a sigh and signalled to Pratapa. The police chief rushed towards the slave and kicked him squarely on his face. Nagayya was thrown back by the impact and his head hit the wall. He collapsed like a ragdoll.
‘Ayyo, you have killed him,’ Rudra Bhatta cried in anguish.
‘Hush, brahmin,’ Pattaraya said. ‘Get me the lamp.’
Pattaraya looked at Nagayya’s face in the light of the lamp. He saw that his nose had been crushed and blood was oozing out of the hole where his left ear should have been. He put his fingers near the slave’s nostrils and frowned.
‘Dead?’ Rudra Bhatta’s voice betrayed fear.
‘Where are the stones?’ Pattaraya asked, ignoring the rajaguru. Pratapa started scavenging the slave’s bundle. When he could not find anything, he emptied the bundle on the floor. Hammers, chisels and files tumbled down, but no stones emerged.
‘Oh, no. Did the idiot come without stones? Ayyo, ayyayyo,’ the rajaguru cried.
‘Shhh,’ Pattaraya hissed. He fumbled around the folds of Nagayya’s dhoti, and with a tug he removed it. He found what he was looking for in a cloth bag tied to the string that held the slave’s loincloth in place. He untied the cords of the bag and emptied the stones in his palm. When the light fell on them, they sparkled blue, drenching the room in an eerie light. He looked at the ghoulishly blue faces of his friends and smiled.
‘A fortune,’ Pratapa said, sucking in a quick breath.
‘Only if we can get someone to convert them into Gauridhooli,’ said Pattaraya, stretching his blue lips to a grin.
When the hammer struck hard on his foot, it was so unexpected that Pratapa screamed at the top of his voice. Startled, Pattaraya dropped the lamp. It rolled on the floor and extinguished with a hiss. In one swoop, Nagayya snatched the stones from Pattaraya’s hands.
Pattaraya and Rudra Bhatta jumped back as the slave swung the hammer like a man possessed. The hammer missed Rudra Bhatta’s head by a whisker and cracked open the wall, showering them with mortar. Pratapa was still howling in pain. Pattaraya kept himself pressed to the wall, careful to stay away from Nagayya. The priest was not so lucky. The hammer connected to his ample stomach and the priest fell down, howling in pain. Nagayya jumped over the priest and ran out before Pattaraya could react.
Pratapa yelled for his men, but Pattaraya stopped him. He lit the lamp with a flint. A stone sparkling from a crack in the floor caught his eye. Before anyone could notice, he picked it up with alacrity and tucked it into his waist-band. His friends were still busy howling in pain. With the stone safe in his custody Pattaraya feigned concern and sent for a vaidya to tend to their injuries.
‘I will murder that bastard. I will send the entire dandakara force under my disposal to hunt him down. I will flay him alive,’ Pratapa said through gritted teeth.
Pattaraya said, ‘Never send dandakaras. Not in their uniforms at least. Give instructions to your men to cut him down wherever they find him. If he spills any of what we have been doing,’ Pattaraya moved his index finger across his neck.
Pratapa clapped his hands and two policemen came and bowed low. He gave them some instructions and they hurried away. Soon six men with the tails of their turbans partially covering their faces galloped out of the temple premises.
‘What should we do now?’ asked Rudra Bhatta.
‘Pray that the bastard is eliminated soon,’ Pattaraya said as he climbed into his chariot. ‘And once the vaidya has finished applying medicines to bring down your swelling, and you two have stopped whining like children, try coming to the durbar. We do not want to attract anyone’s attention because of our absence.’
Pattaraya whipped the horses and the chariot rumbled towards the palace.
FIVE
Sivagami
‘Child.’ Sivagami heard Thimma’s broken voice from the seat ahead of her. They were in his chariot. She crossed her arms and sat looking out, facing away from him. A few days ago, her only friend, Raghava, had gone away. She still missed him, but it did not matter anymore. She was going to miss them all. She was leaving Thimma’s house forever. Ever since Thimma had taken her there in his chariot, it had been her home. His wife, Bhama, had been the mother she never had. Akhila, Thimma’s youngest daughter, had been her sister. Not anymore. They did not want her.
Near her, little Akhila sat sniffling. Akhila had made many unsuccessful attempts to start a conversation with Sivagami, but she had not even bothered to look at her. The eight-year-old sat sulking near her, playing with sea shells. Akhila had insisted she would come with Sivagami to see her off. The chariot swayed as it hit a crack on the paved road. Thimma cracked his whip.
‘Child, you have every right to hate us, but one day you will understand that we are doing this for your own good. Devaraya was more like a brother than a close friend. I would not do anything that could harm his daughter. I am trying to put you in the royal orphanage because…’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, looking away. A teardrop had sprung up in her eyes and she hated herself for it. She would not let him see it.
‘You will have lots of friends there,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ she said, wishing the teardrop away. She did not want to wipe it and let him know that she was crying. She was Devaraya’s daughter.
‘Child, I have taught you whatever I know. Now you can use arms well, you can defend yourself, and you can read and write well too. I am no scholar, but I have done my best. All that I could possibly do, I have done for you. Believe me, I have your interests at heart. One day, you will thank this old man for what I am doing now,’ Thimma went on.
‘Thank you for all that you have done,’ she said.
He did not reply but she knew her words had hurt him. She felt bad, but steeled her heart. He deserved it. If he did not want her, why had he brought her to his home? Why did he act—yes, ‘act’ was the right word—like he was her father? She was the daughter of Bhoomipathi Devaraya. This was god’s punishment for forgetting her father and his words. An uneasy silence descended between her and Thimma. The clop of horse hooves on the cobbled streets only served to accentuate the silence.
She clutched the small bundle tight. It had all her worldly possessions in it. She ran her fingers over the cloth bundle and stopped when she touched the spine of an old manuscript. It brought back memories of her father and, annoyingly, the embarrassing behaviour of Raghava on that night.
She debated whether she should tell Thimma about the book. It belongs to my father and, by right, it is mine, a voice in her head insisted. She had no obligation to tell anyone else about it. She sat clutching that ex
cuse while the chariot rumbled past the rest house for travellers.
‘Akka, can I come and stay with you?’ Akhila asked. Sivagami did not reply.
‘It will be fun to have lots of friends. Even Raghava Anna has gone away for studies to some faraway land. Please, please, can I stay with you?’ Akhila shook Sivagami’s shoulders. She shrugged the child away and sat gazing at the passing scenery. The city streets were hazy and blurred. She realized her eyes had welled up despite her best efforts.
‘I hate Nanna. Why should he send you away?’ Akhila pouted.
Sivagami wished she knew the answer. She also wished Akhila would keep quiet.
‘Akka, Akka, look at these three green stones I found yesterday. Now I have one thousand three hundred and eighty-four stones and four hundred shells. See this, see this, Akka.’ The eight-year-old-girl waved the small cloth pouch in which she kept her myriad-coloured collection. She loved to collect colourful pebbles, shells and beads, and always carried a cloth pouch in which she deposited any fascinating thing she found. Once the pouch filled up, she transferred them to a wooden box kept under her cot.
‘Would you please keep quiet,’ Sivagami snapped. She was in no mood to indulge the girl and her prattle. Akhila moved to the other end of the seat and sat pouting. She started counting the pebbles and arranging them according to their colour.
The streets of Mahishmathi bustled with activity. Traders from all parts of the world could be seen in their exotic garments. Craftsmen from villages mongered their wares at the top of their voices. Cloth merchants with bundles of clothes in front of them haggled with their customers. A few men and women of the Kurava tribe passed Sivagami’s chariot with their children dragging their dancing bears and monkeys behind them. Men were leading their horses and weaving their paths through the milling crowds. A few elephants, carrying haughty noblemen, ambled by like large ships struggling in a crowded harbour. Carts laden with pumpkins, mangoes, jackfruits and watermelons created knots in traffic which magically loosened after a few hot words were exchanged in various tongues and slangs. But none of this could distract Sivagami, who carried with her a sinking feeling.
The Rise of Sivagami : Book 1 of Baahubali - Before the Beginning Page 4