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

by Anand Neelakantan

  The prayers soon reached a crescendo and Revamma started shaking her huge body. It was to be one of those days when Kali possessed her. The cries of ‘Amma, Kali’ rose from everyone’s throat. When she had seen it for the first time, Sivagami had been scared. Now she felt bored of the histrionics. She shifted her weight from her left leg to her right. Mosquitoes buzzed around and one landed at the tip of her nose. She tried to squat it and opened her left eye. It seemed to read her mind and, at the last moment, flew away.

  She was about to close her eyes when suddenly she saw the new boy from earlier slipping away into the kitchen. She was horrified. Was he mad? She slowly crept away from the prayer area and ran to the kitchen. The stove was lit and she could hear water bubbling in the huge vessel kept over it. In the dim light, she saw him leaning over the table where the food was kept.

  ‘Hey,’ she cried and he almost jumped out of his skin. He knocked down the vessel, spilling its contents all over. Sivagami was scared someone would hear them. To her relief, the frenzied prayers of Revamma drowned out the noise. In the courtyard outside, each one was trying to outdo the other in a competitive show of piety.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she asked the boy, moving towards him. He shrank in fear, and his lips trembled.

  ‘I…I…I was looking for something to eat,’ he said.

  ‘I can see that,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘The question is why.’

  He looked confused and searched for a way to escape. Sivagami was standing at the door, blocking his only way out. He looked at his toes.

  ‘Why?’ she repeated, a bit more stern now, tapping her feet impatiently.

  ‘B…b…because…I was hungry,’ he mumbled.

  Sivagami burst out laughing. The boy’s plaintive admission was the funniest thing she had heard after leaving Thimma’s home. Days had been dreary, nights tiresome, and no one ever said a kind word to her in the orphanage except Kamakshi. But there was hardly any opportunity for humour. The boy’s matter-of-fact words, coupled with the scene in the kitchen, made Sivagami laugh hard.

  ‘You are funny,’ she said, when she caught her breath. Shrieks of ‘Ammaaa, Ammaaaa’ came from the courtyard. Keki’s shrill voice accompanied the braying of Revamma. The goddess had apparently possessed the old wart. She would go on and on like this, her hair let loose, her entire body shaking, and soon, she would start jumping around crying. Thondaka beat the drum as if it was his enemy and the cook kept jingling the bell, totally off key to his haphazard rhythm. The smoke of incense and camphor from the courtyard snuck into the kitchen.

  The fat boy looked out through the window bars. Now the entire congregation had started jumping up and down, clapping their hands. The drum and the bell competed with each other in creating absolute cacophony.

  ‘Are they crazy?’ the boy asked.

  Sivagami burst out laughing again. ‘No, they are just being godly,’ she replied.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Gundu Ramu,’ he said, a bit bashful.

  ‘Gundu Ramu?’ she asked.

  ‘Gundu Ramu,’ he repeated.

  ‘Sivagami,’ she said.

  ‘No, no, Gundu Ramu,’ he replied.

  She stared at him in disbelief before bursting out laughing again.

  ‘Gundu…’ she said, sputtering between her laughs.

  ‘Ramu,’ he said, as if Sivagami was finding it difficult to pronounce the second part of his name.

  Sivagami fell on the floor, clutching her belly and laughing.

  ‘I said my name, idiot,’ she said.

  ‘No, it is my own,’ he said. Sivagami stood up and gave him a playful punch on his belly. ‘I said my name is Sivagami.’

  ‘And mine is…’

  ‘Gundu Ramu. Yeah, yeah, you’ve mentioned it a hundred times already. What a funny name! Suits you but—’ she said.

  ‘That is the only one I have,’ he said, and they laughed together.

  Outside, the devotional frenzy was reaching its peak. Now the goddess had possessed the cook too and a few girls in the front row had already fainted.

  ‘Where are you from and how did you reach here?’ Sivagami asked. The smile had not left her lips. It felt good to laugh after such a long time.

  ‘Can I finish eating? I am hungry,’ he said.

  ‘If they see you eating, that witch will strip you of the hide on your back,’ she said, and his face fell. She could see the terror in his eyes; clearly the boy remembered his beating. He looked at the food wistfully and gulped. Sivagami took a plate from the kitchen and started putting all the savouries on it. She then piled it up with sweets meant for Revamma and placed it on the floor.

  ‘Here, eat your fill,’ she said.

  ‘But you said… Won’t they?’ he demurred, pointing at the crowd hopping up and down in the name of god.

  In reply, she picked up another plate and started piling up food on it. She sat across from him on the floor, cross-legged. He turned around to ascertain whether anyone might be creeping up on them.

  ‘Will she beat me again?’

  ‘Of course. Every day, for everything and for nothing.’

  ‘My father never beat me,’ the boy said and looked down. Sivagami saw his eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘Oh, where is he now?’ She knew it was a stupid question as soon as she voiced it. No one with a living father or mother would come to this place, but she had already spoken without thinking and there was no way of taking it back. Gundu Ramu’s shoulders started shaking and tears fell from his eyes. It was funny to see a ten-year-old boy cry. She had stopped crying long back. Nothing would make her cry.

  ‘Eat your food, Gundu, before they come,’ she said.

  Gundu did not stop crying, but he started shoving food down his throat anyway.

  ‘I am from Tamliya village. It is famous for its bards and singers. World-famous bards. Have you heard about my village?’ he asked, as he attacked another mound of rice. Sivagami moved the bucket of sambhar towards him and her eyes widened as he started pouring ladles upon ladles of it on his pile of rice. He looked at her expectantly. She had no clue about the village or its world-famous bards. But she did not want to disappoint him.

  ‘Yes, I…I have heard of it. World-famous. Tamliya…’

  Gundu’s face lit up and Sivagami felt guilty for lying.

  ‘And of course you must have heard the name of Madanappa.’

  ‘Ah, Madanappa. Of course, of course. Great singer. World-famous,’ she said. ‘Is he your father?’

  ‘Madanappa!’ Gundu was horrified. ‘No, he is an idiot. He brays like an ass. He was my father’s greatest enemy. He never allowed my father to be famous.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘Sivagami, you are making fun of me,’ Gundu said uncertainly.

  ‘No…I…’ Sivagami faltered.

  ‘Of course you know that Madanappa is our village chief.’

  ‘Is it? I mean, of course. Would you care for some more rice?’ she said, trying to change the topic.

  ‘No, it will kill my appetite if I eat any more. It will spoil my dinner,’ he said, but helped himself to more rice anyway.

  Sivagami knew there was not going to be any dinner. Not for the next three days, once Revamma had discovered what they had done. But she did not want to let him know that. The fool was thinking this was some kind of tavern and he could eat his fill. Today, many in the orphanage were going to go hungry. She thought of it as their punishment for bullying the boy and quite relished the idea. Though even she was terrified to think what Revamma’s reaction would be. The goddess would soon leave her body and the devil would be back. She felt pity for Gundu, for what was in store for him. She placed a sweet on his plate.

  ‘No, no, sweet is fattening,’ he said and kept it aside on the plate. ‘What was I saying?’ he asked as he mixed sambhar and crushed pappad over it.

  ‘About the world-famous Madanappa,’ Sivagami said, suppressing a giggle.

&nbs
p; ‘No, Madanappa is not world-famous. He is just a stupid village chief who never recognized talent. My father was world-famous. Rather, he was not yet, but he would have been, had he not died in the war,’ Gundu said, lips quivering. ‘He would have made our village world-famous.’

  Sivagami fell silent for a moment. ‘But Gundu, how could a singer die in a war?’ she asked.

  ‘The local senanayaka had commissioned him to write his story. He made my father write all sorts of lies. He made my father sing that the senanayaka was the descendant of Lord Rama. My father’s job was to record the great deeds of the senanayaka and compose songs for posterity. Oh, what wonderful songs my father made.’

  ‘I am sure you loved them.’

  ‘No, I hated them. They were all lies,’ he said as he crushed another pappad. The final aarti was going on in the courtyard. Sivagami knew that, any moment now, the others would come in. The bucket of rice was almost half empty.

  ‘All stories and songs are lies. There are no honest storytellers. Those who pay will make you write what they want,’ she said. She spoke from experience. She remembered the songs they had made up about her father’s supposed treason. She hated all poets, bards and writers.

  ‘My father hated to lie. He was a very honest man. But he wanted to be world-famous and it sort of killed him. On the one hand was his ambition,’ Gundu parted the rice to one side, ‘and on the other was his honesty. Honesty, ambition—ambition, honesty. He was torn in between.’

  Gundu took the sweet he had kept in the corner and gulped it down. She wanted to remind him that it was fattening, but stopped herself. The final cries of ‘Ammaaaa, Ammaaaaaaaaaa’ came from outside. The goddess was leaving Revamma. They would now come to take the prasad and make an offering to the goddess.

  Sivagami thought about how their faces would look when they saw that she and Gundu had eaten what was meant for the goddess. She felt wicked and happy. She would pay the price, but it was going to be worth it just to see the expression on Revamma’s face. Poor Gundu, though, the boy did not know what he was going to face.

  ‘Could you please give me one more sweet?’ he asked.

  ‘Why not? Take three.’

  ‘No, one will do. I am on a diet,’ he said and took all three. ‘So, I was saying, my father was torn between his profession and his conscience. He used to say that he should’ve become a politician or a government servant, since he had to lie so much. But we were poor and had nothing much to eat. After my mother’s death, he had to take care of me. He said, he was doing all this so that I could have a morsel of food.’ Gundu wiped tears with the back of his hand.

  ‘A morsel of food! Hmm, then?’

  ‘So he made the songs that the senanayaka wanted. But his honesty rebelled. So he found a middle path. He mixed facts with fiction.’ Gundu mixed the two mounds of rice and looked at her hopefully. She emptied the bucket of sambhar, scraping the bottom with the ladle. There goes Revamma’s feast, she thought.

  ‘He started ending every line of the song with the phrase, ‘Can you believe it?’ The common folks loved it, but I don’t know why,’ Gundu licked his fingers, ‘the senanayaka hated it.’

  Sivagami laughed. He appeared hurt, so she served him four more ladles of rice. Gundu grabbed the empty sambhar bucket and shook it over his plate.

  ‘It was like…’ Gundu cleared his throat and sang:

  ‘Mahanayaka, senanayaka, braver than Lord Indra—can you believe it?

  Lokanayaka, Veeranayaka, more handsome than Lord Chandra—can you believe it?

  Bhoomipalaka, Shooranayaka, stronger than Hanumanta—can you believe it?

  Rajyarakshaka, Shatrunashaka, more fearsome than Srikanta—can you believe it?’

  Gundu wiped snot with the back of his hand and sniffled. ‘The soldiers in the senanayaka’s army loved the song. After every line, when my father asked, ‘Can you believe it,’ they roared back with a ‘Yes, we do,’ and laughed. I think it was their laughter that got to the senanayaka. He ordered my father to lead the patrol on the western border. My father could handle a stencil better than any poet and he used to say a poet’s stencil is more powerful than a sword. He was… he was killed in the raid of Kiratas. I…I became an orphan. The villagers did not want to feed me. They said, I eat a lot. Someone was spreading rumours against me. Maybe it was all Madanappa’s doing. He hated my father’s talent. He hated our family and wanted me gone. He said I brought misfortune to the village. When I found out that my father had been slain and I had become an orphan, I cried for a whole day. For one day, I even went without food. Then, I begged for food from door to door. A few women gave me something to eat, but never enough. Most laughed at me when I cried about hunger. So when they came to bring me to this orphanage and promised me a lot of food, I did not think twice. They said they will honour me here because my father is a martyr for the cause of Mahishmathi. And here…and here…that witch caned me. Everyone here is evil,’ Gundu sobbed.

  He looked at Sivagami and quickly added, ‘Not everyone. You are good. I do not think you are evil. Are you evil like the others?’

  Sivagami laughed, but tears filled her eyes. ‘I hope I am not, Gundu.’

  ‘Of course you are not. You gave me snacks,’ he smiled.

  ‘Snacks! Those were not snacks, Gundu. That was a full meal for many.’

  ‘Meal? Oh…’ His face fell. ‘You mean to say they won’t serve me dinner now?’

  ‘No, not now,’ she said, feeling sorry for the boy. They might get to eat after three days, if they were lucky. Hopefully, Revamma would beat them unconscious and they would only wake up after three days.

  ‘Okay, I understand what you mean. Here they serve dinner late. I hope they won’t delay it too much,’ he said, licking the plate clean. Sivagami sighed. She started eating. They would come any moment now.

  ‘You know what, Sivagami Akka? I can call you Sivagami Akka, no? We are friends, right? You are not a high-born noble or something like that, I hope. I am scared of big people. No, you can’t be. You are just like me. A girl of the common folk,’ Gundu said, looking at her faded dress. Sivagami smiled.

  ‘You can call me Sivagami Akka. And I am just like you.’

  ‘What happened to your parents? Your father must have been a soldier, right?’ Gundu asked.

  Sivagami’s eyes unwittingly welled up. The image of her father hanging from the scaffold flashed before her eyes. ‘He died,’ she said, her voice hoarse.

  ‘Oh, in some battle?’

  Her lips trembled and her fingers crushed the rice. She did not want to talk about it, did not want anyone to remind her of that day. She would talk about her father only when she had destroyed the Mahishmathi royal family. Unaware of the intense emotion he had set off in his new friend, Gundu blabbered on.

  ‘It is always the common folk who die. Some lord or bhoomipathi would have ordered your father to fight for him, I have heard lots of tales like this. My father taught me many songs. Some were in languages that no one speaks now. He tried teaching me the language of the old folks who ruled our lands thousands of years ago. The old tongue has the largest number of songs. Songs that were composed before even Lord Indra was born. Tales of adventures before even Lord Rama and Krishna had descended on earth as avatars. There is a book in that old tongue which has the biggest collection of tales in the world. Tales about dragons, tigers, other animals, princes, bhuta, preta, pisacha, yaksha, kinnara, gandhara, deva, asura, rakshasa, Vaithalika, apsara—you name it, the book has it. The book…err…I forgot its name. Wait, I got it, I got it. It is called Brihat Katha. Longer than the Ramayana, more vast than the Mahabharata or the southern epics and ballads. My father knew many tales from that book of songs. But the old tongue had a strange script. Not like Devabhasha, not like the language of our folks either, but a forgotten language. Akka, why are you looking at me like that? What happened?’ Gundu Ramu stared at Sivagami.

  ‘What did you say?’ she gripped his hands.

  ‘Did I say s
omething offensive, Akka?’

  ‘No, you fool, what language?’ she asked, shaking him.

  ‘Language? I forgot the name of the language. Oh Lord Ganesha, I will give you a hundred modakas, please remind me what the name of that language was. Ah, I remember at last. Lord Ganesha is great. It’s called Paisachi.’

  Paisachi? Sivagami stared at the boy in disbelief. She stood up, shaking the sticky rice off her fingers and rushed to the storeroom. She shook the bundle and the book fell down. She picked it up and rushed to Gundu Ramu.

  ‘Can you tell me what it says?’ she said, thrusting it at him. The boy was taken aback.

  ‘Is it a storybook or a songbook?’ he asked, confused. He took it in his hands and started browsing through it.

  ‘Quick, read it, before they come,’ she said as she shook him by his shoulders.

  ‘Who will come?’

  ‘Revamma and the others.’

  ‘To serve dinner?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Read it, you idiot. Read it, read it, read it.’

  Gundu flipped through the pages and stared at the picture of a triangle. ‘Sivagami Akka…’

  ‘What?’ Her heart was beating like a caged parrot. She gripped his wrist.

  ‘Is this a hill?’ he enquired.

  ‘That is a triangle, you fool. Read what is beneath it.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But what? Read it,’ she screamed. She could hear footsteps. They were coming.

  ‘I don’t know how to read at all,’ Gundu said with a bewildered face.

  Sivagami let out a loud scream. She wanted to tear him apart. She fell on him and the boy toppled on his back. She slapped him across his face again and again.

  ‘What do we have here? Playing bride and groom on their first full moon night?’

  Sivagami heard the shrill laughter of Thondaka. Before she could get up the cane cut across her back. As beatings rained down on her, she stood up, determined not to cry.

  ‘The devils have eaten all the prasad and were into something unspeakable. Apacharam, apacharam. All our prayers have gone to waste, Moodevi.’ Revamma started beating Sivagami with renewed vigour. Sivagami stood like a rock, her fists curled into balls. When she saw Bakula rushing to beat Gundu Ramu with the poker used for stirring embers in the stove, her determination broke.