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

by Anand Neelakantan

  Raghava, I will miss you, I am sorry, she said to herself. She should not have hit him, but then, he should not have done what he did that night. All through her life, she had considered him her brother and it still riled her that he had hidden such a passion for her.

  The chariot had turned onto a narrow road, barely wide enough for it to pass, with overflowing drains that oozed dark, stinking water. At the corner of the road, there was a temple that fed the poor, and a line of emaciated men and women stood patiently waiting for the food. The smell of boiled rice and steaming rasam mixed with the stink of the drains wafted around. The chariot went past the crowd.

  ‘Eat, amma.’ It was Aunt Bhama’s voice. Sivagami started and looked around. She shook her head, trying to shake away the memory. She pressed her lips together, trying to suppress a sob that threatened to overwhelm her. She had probably eaten her last meal cooked by Aunt Bhama today. The reality sank in slowly, but that did not make it less painful. They did not want her. She was an outsider and did not belong to this family. She had no one.

  ‘But…why?’ Words choked in her throat. Why were they getting rid of her?

  The chariot moved at a rapid speed and, as they progressed, the streets became narrower. Sivagami wondered where her uncle was taking her. When she thought the streets could not get any worse, the chariot took a sharp left turn and started rumbling down a dirty road, swaying as it ran over puddles and uneven surfaces. A few naked urchins standing in front of their thatched homes watched as the chariot creaked past them. Hens clucked and scattered away from its path. The stench of fish being fried mixed with that of overflowing drains assaulted their noses. ‘It is a shortcut,’ Thimma said as the chariot grazed a lamp post leaning from the pavement.

  When a patch of sky was visible once in a while, she could see the roof of the arena rising at a distance. With a growing fear she realized that their chariot would be passing by that cursed place. The vision of her father swaying from the cage as sparrows and crows ate him alive came back to her as it did every night. She gripped the seat tight and squeezed her eyes shut. The chariot took another turn to the right and dilapidated buildings leaned from either side of the narrow street. She understood why Thimma was taking this route. He was trying to avoid taking her by the arena where her father had been hanged. Yet, there was no escaping the hurtful memories.

  The chariot stopped abruptly and she opened her eyes. A couple of cows were sitting in the middle of the road, blocking their way. Thimma cursed and jumped down to shove them away. The street ahead wound uphill through an array of closely built houses.

  This was her chance. Sivagami slipped down from the chariot and bolted. It took a moment for Thimma to realize that the girl had run away. Cursing his arthritis-affected legs and calling out Sivagami’s name, the old man left the chariot and started hobbling after her.

  Sivagami could hear Akhila running behind her. The street was littered and slippery with cow dung that had been run over by the wheels of passing carts. She heard Akhila slipping and falling down. For a moment, she wanted to turn back and lift the child up, but saw that Akhila had managed to stand up and was following her again. Sivagami continued running.

  Akhila pursued Sivagami as she turned at the end of the street and entered a dark alley. The ground was slushy from the overflowing drain, the walls had stains of urine and the smell around was pungent. Suddenly from a side alley, a dark figure burst out and collided with Akhila. The little girl was knocked down and the other person slipped and fell on her. Hearing the collision, Sivagami stopped and turned. She let out a scream and ran towards Akhila. As she approached, Sivagami saw that Akhila’s pouch had burst open and her pebbles were strewn all around. The man was fighting with the child for the pebbles.

  Sivagami pushed him away from the girl. He was a thin man with hollow eyes and bad teeth dressed only in a loincloth. He cursed and tried to get up, slipped and fell again.

  The man lunged at the little girl with an animal cry, but Akhila held the stones behind her and said, ‘No, mine, these are mine. I am not going to give them away.’

  Was this man insane to fight with an eight-year-old girl for pebbles? Sivagami was about to give him a piece of her mind when she saw the man’s eyes grow big in terror. He seemed to be staring at something behind her. As she looked back to see what had so frightened the man, he took off.

  A moment later, he collided with a lamp post and collapsed from the impact. Sivagami ran towards him, but before she could reach him, the street echoed with the sound of horse hooves. The man gave a frightened yelp and, clutching his head, got up and ran. Sivagami saw a man in a black turban galloping towards them on a horse, a spear pointed at them. She dove and caught Akhila by her wrist, rolling away from the path of the pounding horse hooves with the child in her arms. When the horse had thundered past them, she stood up, panting in relief. Akhila was trembling with fear, but she clutched her torn pouch as if her life depended on it. When she turned to look, Sivagami saw that the spear had pierced the fleeing man through his chest. The man continued to run for a few feet before falling down on his face.

  The pursuer dismounted from his horse and walked towards the dead man. He pulled the spear out of the man’s body and wiped away the blood on it with his thumb. He turned the dead man on his back and started searching him.

  Sivagami, thinking it was best to slip away unnoticed, tugged at Akhila. The pebbles fell from the little girl’s hands and she started to cry and fight Sivagami. She wanted her pebbles back. Sivagami tried to hush her, but the girl managed to wriggle away from her grip. She bent down and started picking up the pebbles.

  The man stopped what he was doing and stood up. He clucked his tongue and started walking towards them. He tapped the blunt edge of the spear on the street with every alternate step. Sivagami could hear her heart pounding within her ribcage. She tried to prod Akhila, but the girl would not budge until she had retrieved all her precious collectables.

  By the time the man reached them, Akhila had collected the pebbles and put them in her torn pouch. The man snapped his fingers and extended his palm. He gestured to the little girl that she hand over her pouch. Akhila shook her head and ran to hide behind Sivagami. The man moved to grab her, but Sivagami extended her leg, tripping him. He fell on his face. Sivagami grabbed Akhila’s hand and ran. She could hear him getting up and knew he would soon give them chase.

  ‘Child, where have you gone? Sivagami, child!’ Thimma’s voice came from the other side of the alley.

  ‘Nanna,’ Akhila cried. Thimma appeared at the far end of the street and froze. Akhila ran to Thimma and clutched his legs. Sivagami turned around, shielding Thimma, prepared to fight her opponent. The turbaned man was walking towards them. Though his face was covered, Sivagami felt that the man was laughing at her and her attempt to protect a frail-looking old man leaning on his cane and a little girl. Sivagami was not sure whether she could take on such a huge man alone. She wished she had her sword. But there was no time to think.

  The turbaned man shifted his spear from one hand to the other, licked his dry lips, and stood a few feet away. She thought the best plan would be to attack him before he could make a move, but Thimma’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. He stepped in front and signalled for her to move away. Reluctantly she stepped a few feet to the right with Akhila.

  The man stood with his legs apart, ready to strike. He gestured at Akhila’s pouch, but Thimma shook his head and said, tapping his walking stick on the road, ‘Sir, surrender. You have broken the law. And you are facing Bhoomipathi Thimma.’

  In answer the man threw his spear at Thimma. It whooshed towards the old man, but Thimma did not bat an eyelid. It missed him by a whisker and got buried into the wall behind him. Everything had happened so fast that Sivagami was not sure whether the assailant had missed him or Thimma had moved out of the way of harm.

  Cursing, the man took out his sword from his scabbard and rushed towards Thimma. Both the girls screamed in terror. S
ivagami saw Thimma twisting his body to reach the spear lodged in the wall. She knew it was futile. Old Thimma stood no chance against such a savage warrior.

  The next thing Sivagami saw was the assaulter being lifted and slammed against the side wall. Pinned upside down to the wall, his head dangled six feet from ground. The blunt end of the spear protruded from his belly. He was speared to the brick wall and hung like a pig on a stake. His sword fell down with a clang as he flailed his limbs, coughed up and spat blood, and died.

  Sivagami watched, her mouth agape. Never in her dreams had she imagined her old Uncle Thimma to possess such agility and strength. Akhila was jumping up and down in joy and ran to her father. Thimma hugged her and came up to Sivagami. His limp and slow gait was back. Sivagami stood before him awkwardly. She had a hundred questions, but she was too overwhelmed to ask them.

  ‘Child, even an old father like me will find strength to do anything if he has to save his children,’ he said with a smile. Sivagami’s eyes filled with tears. She rushed into his arms and buried her head in his chest. He ran his fingers through her hair and said, ‘These are bad streets, child. And these are bad times. Let what you saw here remain with you.’

  Together they walked to the chariot. As they were climbing in, old Thimma squeezed Sivagami’s shoulders and said, ‘You are as much my daughter as you are Devaraya’s. Sivagami, never, ever, run away from what you need to face. Always remember that, whatever I do, I keep your good in mind.’

  Sivagami nodded and he kissed her forehead. The chariot started on its way. Akhila prattled on beside her, jingling her stones. Sivagami did not hear what the little girl was saying. Thimma was driving the chariot. So far, he had held the reins of her life. She was grown up now. She wished she could have remained a little girl like Akhila. A feeling of immense sadness for what she was leaving behind, and immeasurable love for Thimma, made her blurry-eyed with tears. She hugged Akhila close and shut her eyes tight, struggling to keep the tears from running down her cheeks, savouring the pain of memories, every moment of it.

  A new life was about to begin for Sivagami.

  SIX

  Kattappa

  ‘The next time you think of doing something stupid, remember this,’ Malayappa said as he slapped Shivappa across his face. Kattappa stood motionless, staring at the shadow around his toes. The sun was a blazing hot ball over their heads.

  ‘But he challenged me.’ Kattappa winced at the shrillness of his brother’s voice. Shivappa was right, but he was wrong too. He was more wrong than right. Father knew better.

  ‘You forgot your position,’ Malayappa said.

  ‘He should not have challenged a slave boy to fence with the prince,’ Shivappa said, angry tears streaming from his eyes.

  ‘You are supposed to lose, idiot.’ His father slapped him again.

  ‘General Hiranya thought I would lose, but I didn’t.’

  Another stinging slap.

  ‘You cannot hit me for winning,’ Shivappa cried with indignation. There was a moment of tense silence. When Kattappa raised his head, he was horrified by what he saw. His younger brother had caught hold of his father’s hand and they stood like a tableau, father and son, glaring at each other. When Shivappa’s eyes met those of Kattappa, he let go of his grip. Their father stormed away with heavy steps, looking ahead. Kattappa saw his eyes were smoking with rage.

  ‘Nanna,’ Kattappa called, but his father passed him by without bothering to look at him.

  ‘Anna, I…’ Shivappa’s voice cracked. Kattappa raised his hand to stop his brother. He stood with his eyes closed. The tension between his father and brother was increasing every day and he was often caught in the middle. It worried Kattappa that his brother denied having purposely let loose the elephant on the princes that day. His brother’s increasingly strange behaviour was making him nervous.

  ‘Anna, it was General Hiranya who asked me to duel with Prince Mahadeva. Is it my fault that I won?’

  Kattappa turned towards his brother and took a deep breath. ‘That does not mean you have to play so hard. You know about Prince Mahadeva, that he—’

  ‘Is a coward,’ Shivappa laughed. ‘They all are. They are cowards who act brave because we allow them to. They act important because we, in our minds, think we are inferior. Just because the colour of our skin is black and they are a shade fairer.‘

  ‘Shut up,’ Kattappa said. He knew where this was leading. He was scared that if he listened to Shivappa, he would soon start thinking like him. Maybe his father was afraid of the same thing too. He heaved the bundle of short-swords and whip-swords onto his shoulders and started downhill. Shivappa ran to keep up with him.

  ‘How long will we be slaves? There are free men in other countries. You pay a share of the produce and the king leaves you to lead your life. Or there are free men and women in the forest who bow to no king.’

  ‘But die young in the gallows or get trampled under the king’s elephant,’ Kattappa said between breaths.

  ‘As if no one has been killed on the maharaja’s orders here. Every bhoomipathi is a law unto himself. Like weeds after the rains, noble men are sprouting in every village. Anyone with a horse and a kitchen knife is calling himself “Mahavira”. The king is selling posts for some money and a song. And among small folk, no maiden is safe and no man is free. Dogs lead a better life.’

  ‘Keep talking like this and soon you will find yourself headless. No wonder Nanna is worried about you.’

  ‘He should be worried about his own head. How many of our forefathers have died in their own beds,’ Shivappa spat.

  Kattappa had no answer. He had grown up on tales of his forefathers dying for the kings of Mahishmathi. The tales were as old as those of the first king, three hundred years ago. He had heard tales that when his people, eighteen generations before him, were free men, they called themselves the sons of Gauriparvat.

  ‘Why don’t you help me with this load?’ Kattappa asked.

  ‘Anna, for you, I will do it. I do not relish carrying other people’s burdens,’ Shivappa said as he lifted a bundle onto his head.

  As they walked on, Shivappa asked yet again, ‘Anna, why are we slaves?’

  ‘That is our fate,’ Kattappa mumbled.

  ‘Why can’t we change our fate?’

  ‘Shivappa, I am getting scared of these thoughts. You will break Nanna’s heart. He thinks you have a bright future.’ Kattappa eyed his brother. He did not like the derisive smile on his brother’s lips.

  ‘Future? Do slaves have a future, Anna? Carrying some prince’s chamber pot is called future? Standing mute when they rape some farmer’s daughter and handing over a towel to wipe their seed is called future? Burying their sins is called future? Dying a cattle’s death is called future? No, thank you. I will create my own future.’

  Kattappa was afraid. A few other slaves had been whispering that his brother had strange companions. Shivappa was too young to talk like this. When Kattappa had been his age, he had never even dared to think beyond what his father told him. A slave is not supposed to think, his father used to say. A slave is supposed to serve. And die for his master, if need be.

  They had reached the back door of the armoury. Kattappa had to hurry to Bijjala’s chamber after they had deposited the cache of weapons.

  ‘Anna, just hold this,’ Shivappa said, and without waiting for Kattappa to take the bundle, dropped it. The swords clanged loudly as the bundle hit the ground and the sound woke up the sleeping clerk who accounted the armoury inventory. He yawned and gave the slave boys a bored look.

  ‘I will take your leave now,’ said Shivappa.

  Before Kattappa could react, he had vanished.

  Kattappa looked around frantically. At some distance, he could see a young girl sweeping the floor. Blood rushed to his face. Their father had warned Shivappa many times not to talk to that girl. The next time his father whipped his brother, Kattappa vowed to himself, he would remain quiet. No one deserved whipping more than his devi
lish brother.

  ‘Heard your brother punched the younger prince’s nose?’ the clerk asked as he counted the swords and made an entry on a palm leaf.

  ‘It…it was an accident,’ Kattappa stuttered. He was distracted by what was transpiring in the courtyard between his brother and that girl. The clerk’s gaze followed Kattappa’s and he chuckled.

  ‘That brother of yours is a smart one. In fact, too smart for his own good,’ said the old clerk, poking his ear with his little finger.

  ‘Does he come here often, swami?’ Kattappa asked, clenching his fist. He was itching to go and drag his brother home.

  ‘They are often seen together. Everyone is gossiping—a slave boy and a girl of noble blood.’ The clerk opened the bundle on the floor and started taking out the swords to hang them on the wall.

  ‘She is a bastard child, swami,’ Kattappa said, covering his mouth with his palm lest his breath pollute the clerk.

  ‘Ah, but whose bastard? Bhoomipathi Pattaraya’s brother’s bastard. Krishna, Krishna, I can’t imagine how the bhoomipathi would react when he finds out about this,’ the clerk said, hanging the last sword on the wall and washing his hands. He had to do it ritualistically, as he had touched the same sword as Kattappa. The clerk would also go home and take a bath for the same sin before starting to beat his wife, Kattappa thought. Hell, Shivappa’s words had already infected his thoughts.

  ‘Swami, if the bhoomipathi had cared, she would not have been living in the orphanage and sweeping floors,’ Kattappa said. His brother was holding the girl’s hand and, even from such a distance, he could see the girl blush.

  ‘Boy, blood is blood. Money has nothing to do with it. With the girl’s father dead, Bhoomipathi Pattaraya might have thought the royal orphanage to be a better place for her to grow up. But when it comes to blood…hmm…but who could fault your brother. Have you seen the girl’s breasts? Like budding mangoes!’ The old man leered at the girl, young enough to be his granddaughter.