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

by Anand Neelakantan

  ‘When your brother told us what a great warrior you were, we thought it was an empty boast. When you fought so many of our best warriors single-handedly to save your master, I knew you were as good as me.’

  The voice was calm and measured and Kattappa turned his head towards the source. A powerfully built man with a flowing salt-and-pepper beard on his coal-black face was smiling at him. Kattappa tried to get up again, but the giant gently pushed him back down. He came around to face Kattappa.

  ‘But when your brother said you could fight in the dark, with your ears becoming your eyes, the speed of your arms your only shield, we laughed at his words. We said such warriors belonged to the tales of yore, like a Karna, like an Arjuna or an Aswathamma. Or they were gods, like Rama or Krishna, or asuras like Ravana. No mortal from these days could do that. Had we not seen you fighting, we would have seen your brother’s words as nothing more than a misplaced idea of his big brother’s abilities. But I have to admit, Shivappa was right.’

  Kattappa looked away. Traitors, a bunch of criminals. It broke his heart to know that his brother was one of them.

  ‘It seems you are angry with us, son,’ the man said. Kattappa felt the middle-aged man’s rough hand on his shoulder. He pressed his lips together. He would have no dealings with such criminals.

  ‘Is it because of the welcome we gave you? How else could we welcome a great warrior? If only you cared enough to be a patriot…’ the man smiled.

  That got to Kattappa and he snapped. ‘How dare you talk to me like that? Thugs, bandits, rapists, looters, traitors…’ he shouted.

  The big man chuckled, ‘Hmm, then why did you come to join us?’

  ‘Join you?’ Kattappa yelled. ‘I came to take my brother back!’

  ‘Then take him. No one has tied him down. We are free men here.’ The big man sat on a stool which creaked under his weight. He was built like an ox, with powerful shoulders and long limbs.

  ‘Where is he?’ Kattappa asked.

  ‘How should I know?’ The big man smiled again. His smile was really beginning to bother Kattappa. He tried to get up and immediately let out a scream. His leg throbbed with pain.

  ‘I am here, Anna.’

  Kattappa turned towards the voice and Shivappa stepped out from the shadows of a huge tree. He came and stood near his brother. Kattappa had rehearsed many angry lines to chide his brother with; he had often thought about how he would make his brother feel ashamed of his actions, make him feel guilty; but instead he found his eyes filling up. He reached out to feel his brother’s arms, shoulders, face and head. ‘You are all right, Shivappa?’ Kattappa asked.

  His brother knelt by him, holding his hands with both of his own and said, ‘Now that I have my anna, I am all right. I knew you would come. I waited for you every day.’

  Kattappa caressed his brother’s cheeks.

  ‘Nanna?’ Shivappa asked.

  ‘He…he thinks you are dead, Shivappa. The poor man is broken from within. Kanna, let us go back.’

  ‘Dead? You told him that I was dead?’ Shivappa stood up, letting go of his brother’s hands.

  ‘What choice did I have, Shivappa?’

  ‘You had the choice of speaking the truth, brother. I never thought you would lie.’

  That hurt. He had lied for the first time in his life, and he had done it for his brother’s sake, to shield him.

  ‘What are you blabbering about, Shivappa? You wanted the dandakaras to pursue you with their hounds?’

  The big man chuckled. ‘I told your brother that this is what would happen. He was so sure that you would tell the truth and—’

  ‘Who the hell are you, sir?’ Kattappa snapped at the big man. ‘What business do you have to interfere in our family matter?’

  Kattappa heard the clang of a hundred spears on shields. The big man threw his hand out to stop his agitated followers.

  ‘Brother, you do not know who you are talking to,’ Shivappa cried. ‘I apologize on my brother’s behalf, Your Highness.’

  ‘Highness?’ Kattappa stared as his brother bowed before the big man.

  ‘His Highness is the real king of Mahishmathi,’ Shivappa said. The Vaithalikas around clanged their spears on their shields and cried, ‘Jai jai Mahishmathi Maharaja.’

  The man raised his hand after the third cry and quiet descended on the forest once again.

  ‘Don’t worry. I am not Maharaja Somadeva in disguise. These boys call me the king. But I am destitute like them. I am Bhutaraya, the leader of the Vaithalikas. It is true that, hundreds of years ago, my ancestors ruled the forests. Where the city of Mahishmathi stands now was also our forest, our domain. We consider the forest to be the holy locks of Amma Gauri. My ancestors ruled all the lands from the borders of Kadarimandalam to the valley of the Snow Mountains. All the tribes and kingdoms, like the Kiratas of the swamplands, the cattle traders in the grasslands, the Chempadavas of the river lands, the Nishadas, Jambukas and Surakarnas in the forest lands that stretch northward of Gauriparvat, all of them used to bow to the Vaithalika king. All except the Kalakeya tribes and the Kuntala kingdom ruled by women.’

  Kattappa stared at him with wide eyes. The man was not making any sense. He had not heard of any tribes ruling the forests. The forest lands were under Bhoomipathi Akkundaraya, the pastoral lands under Bhoomipathi Guha, the swamplands under Bhoomipathi Heheya, and the Gauriparvat under Khanipathi Hidumba. Not even the bards sang make-believe songs about Vaithalika kings. In all their songs, Vaithalikas were evil rakshasas, dacoits and looters. They were the epitome of cruelty. That was what the bards sang. That was how the plays and ballads depicted them. That was the truth, for it had been repeated time and time again.

  Bhutaraya saw the confusion on Kattappa’s face and leaned forward. ‘I understand, this is difficult for you to comprehend. The victor’s stories tend to be powerful. They have the capability to erase everything that does not suit their narrative. We are the losers of history.’

  ‘Not for long. We will win soon,’ cried Shivappa, and the forest shook with the shouts of ‘Jai, Jai Vaithalikas’, scattering the birds from the trees around.

  ‘That has been the dream of every Vaithalika king for the last three hundred or more years. It is said that no Vaithalika king has ever died in his bed. The usurpers of the Mahishmathi throne have ensured that.’ Bhutaraya smiled at Kattappa.

  ‘A deserving end,’ Kattappa muttered, eyes aflame. ‘No traitor should be spared. As long as there is life in the bodies of slaves…’

  ‘Slaves? How did you become slaves? Have you ever thought about that?’ Bhutaraya leaned forward and ran his fingers through his beard. Kattappa had not seen anything more repulsive than the black man’s smile.

  ‘It is our fate.’ The reply sounded unconvincing even to Kattappa’s own ears.

  ‘Yes, indeed. The fate you chose yourself,’ Bhutaraya said.

  ‘Leave me, sir. I have no intention of talking to traitors.’

  ‘Some would call your father a traitor.’

  ‘How dare you talk ill of my father?’ Kattappa sat up.

  ‘That is the truth, though it seems you don’t take to the truth too well. You belong to a family of traitors, young man.’

  ‘My father has served Mahishmathi all his life. He has lived for and he would die for Mahishmathi, just like our ancestors have done for the last eighteen generations,’ Kattappa panted with exertion and anger.

  Bhutaraya chuckled. ‘That just makes him the nineteenth traitor in the family.’

  Kattappa stared at the big man. Was he insane? Or was there some truth in what he was saying?

  Bhutaraya kept his hand on Kattappa’s and said, ‘Son, you belong with us. These are your brothers. This is your forest.’

  Kattappa stared at him, not wanting to believe what he was hearing. He belonged to the despicable tribe of the Vaithalikas? How was that possible? He had taken pride in the fact that Mahishmathi kings had always been dependent on his family for their protection. An
d now this Bhutaraya was calling his father a traitor.

  ‘You are lying,’ Kattappa said, shaking his head. Angry murmurs rose from all sides.

  ‘Ever heard of Mahamakam, son?’

  ‘The day every twelve years, when the blessings of Amma Gauri reach Mahishmathi,’ Kattappa said.

  ‘Listen, you young fool,’ Bhutaraya began, and then gestured with his hands. Kattappa saw warriors on either side move away and fall on their knees as a man walked in, carrying something on a leaf. When he reached Bhutaraya, the king of the Vaithalikas bowed down and took the leaf from him reverentially. He turned to Kattappa and showed it to him. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  Kattappa stared at the lacklustre stones placed in the middle of the leaf with shock. They looked like the stone he had been carrying in his waist-band. The one Pattaraya had given him at Kalika’s den. Only these were slightly bigger. He was tempted to check his waistband but he controlled the urge. They should not know that he had something similar with him. ‘River stones?’ he asked nonchalantly, and extended his arm to touch them, but Bhutaraya pulled the leaf back.

  ‘Fool, these are no river stones. This is Gaurikanta,’ Bhutaraya said, peering into Kattappa’s eyes. ‘These are the holiest relics of our tribe. Being a Vaithalika yourself, it is a shame that you do not know what this is. For many generations, Vaithalikas have bowed before this prasada of Amma Gauri. The gift given to Vaithalikas since time immemorial. The right of the Vaithalikas over Gauriparvat is as old as the hills, as ancient as the seas.’

  ‘I…I don’t understand…’ Kattappa said.

  ‘There are many things you don’t understand. Or you do not want to understand. Why is Mahishmathi the biggest empire?’ Bhutaraya asked as he handed back the stone. Kattappa watched it being taken away. All the Vaithalikas remained on their knees with their heads bent till the man vanished behind the undergrowth. Even Shivappa.

  ‘I asked you a question, Kattappa,’ Bhutaraya said.

  ‘Because Mahishmathi is blessed by the gods. Because Mahishmathi has the best warriors who are ready to live and die for it.’

  ‘Ha, ha! Do add, because Mahishmathi is willing to kill and maim, rape and loot to keep their power and hold over all others. Don’t look so shocked. Every king throughout history has done just that. And about the blessings of gods, ha, that can be bought by sacrificing a buffalo or goat and filling the belly of some priests. There are enough people to live and die for any number of things. All of that does not matter. What matters is the unique advantage they have. And that advantage is the Gaurikanta.’

  ‘How could a stone—’

  ‘I am not finished,’ Bhutaraya said, eyes flashing. ‘This is no ordinary stone. The swords, the spears, the chain mails, the shields, all have a secret metal extracted from the Gaurikanta in them. It is made by a secret process. The final alloy is called Gauridhooli, worth many thousand times its weight in gold. There are only a few smiths who can forge a Gaurikhadga—the swords made from Gauridhooli—or Gauriastra, the arrows with Gauridhooli tips. They can pierce any armour.’

  Kattappa tried to say something, but Bhutaraya gestured for him to listen.

  ‘Three hundred years ago, one of my ancestors was foolish enough to give asylum to a petty vassal of the Kadarimandalam emperor. The vassal’s name was Uthama Mahadeva. He was Uthama the noble, but only in name. My forefather, as per our ancient dharma, gave him and his family a place to stay. He was running away from the wrath of the emperor of Kadarimandalam, and he was desperate to keep his worthless head on his neck. My ancestor, Katyayana Vaithalika, took pity on him and his family. He treated that bastard, Uthama Mahadeva, like a brother. And how did he repay him? By taking away Gauriparvat from us. By making us destitute.’

  ‘How can a fugitive take over Gauriparvat and the Vaithalika kingdom? Your story is incredible.’

  ‘Because Uthama Mahadeva was helped by a traitor among the Vaithalikas—Ugranagappa, the commander of the Vaithalikas. He betrayed the secret of Gauriparvat and Gaurikanta to Uthama Mahadeva,’ Bhutaraya said. A thick silence followed.

  Kattappa understood the import of what the strange king was saying. He looked away from Bhutaraya. He could see Shivappa standing stonefaced. Bhutaraya finally said the words that Kattappa had been dreading.

  ‘Ugranagappa was your ancestor, Kattappa. His daughter was raped by one of the Vaithalika queen’s brothers, but that did not give him the right to betray a whole country. And what did he get in return—slavery. Your ancestor was a fool. He signed away his freedom for vengeance. But he also signed away the future of his people and his country.’

  ‘I do not believe this heresy, sir,’ Kattappa cried. ‘If you possessed Gaurikanta, the so-called invincible stone that can make the deadliest swords, spears and weapons, why did you lose to a fugitive?’

  Bhutaraya’s nerves became taut with anger. A vein in his neck throbbed. Gritting his teeth, he said, ‘We lost because the Gauriparvat was and still is divine for us. The mountain is our mother, our devi. We do not, cannot, exploit her resources. We had only a few weapons, while Uthama Mahadeva had been secretly hoarding them. In the most cowardly fashion, he betrayed us with the help of your ancestor and drove us away. We lost our mother and our home. Since then we have been fighting for her. And we could not reclaim it because we never mastered the art of making Gauridhooli.’

  ‘Gauriparvat is divine for the people of Mahishmathi too,’ Kattappa said defiantly.

  ‘Divine?’ Bhutaraya stood up and repeated Kattappa’s words to his followers. ‘He says Gauriparvat is holy for Mahishmathi. Did you hear him?’

  The warriors clanged their spears and shields angrily.

  ‘They are destroying what is holy in the foulest fashion. It is a shame on humanity, it is a shame on everything that is right, and you call that divine?’ Bhutaraya said to Kattappa.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Kattappa cried, his rising anger finally exploding. ‘You had a mountain and you lost it to someone more clever. And it happened hundreds of years ago. So many kingdoms have been lost and won. You owned Gauriparvat and the Gaurikanta for many generations and now Mahishmathi owns it.’

  ‘Enough!’ Bhutaraya shouted over Kattappa. ‘Don’t talk about that which you know nothing of. We never extracted Gaurikanta from the belly of our mother. We took what she gave. She gave her treasures voluntarily when she bled. Sometimes she bled once in a hundred years, sometimes once in a thousand. The stones flowed in her blood of fire. She is a jwalamukhi, a volcano, and she gives her blessings when she is pleased. We would never have drilled our mother’s womb.’

  ‘You mean to say that we drill Gauriparvat? You dare say we defile our holy mother, to whom each citizen of Mahishmathi prays? I challenge you to a duel right now. I will avenge this insult to our religion, our beliefs, our people.’

  ‘You are a bigger fool than I imagined. Hear this. Your king and noblemen, who you are so keen to fight for, are fooling you. They have been fooling your people for many generations. The evil they perpetuate is beyond words.’

  ‘You are lying,’ Kattappa snarled.

  ‘You want proof? Do you have the guts to face the truth?’

  Kattappa was shaken by the emotion in Bhutaraya’s voice. But he pulled himself up and said defiantly, ‘I don’t need proof. My king would never do that.’

  ‘Fool, there are people who do it for him.’

  ‘A few people may be bad. Which country does not have bad people? But my country is great,’ Kattappa finished with emotion.

  ‘A few people may be good, but their cowardice makes them worse than useless. There are merchants who would do anything for profits. Heard about Jeemotha? Heard about many others who are struggling to establish this business? Your king and the evil empire he rules over has unleashed the devil in each man. Greedy men, shameless women, corrupt officials—your country is full of them. And, of course, it is full of fools like you who thump their chests and think their country is the best. You have nothing to eat, no roof ove
r your head, nothing to wear, nothing to drink, no land to till—still you fools cry the loudest and shrillest about your country.’

  ‘If you do not like my country, go elsewhere,’ Kattappa cried in rage.

  ‘Elsewhere? Your king steals my land, destroys my earth, eats away my forest, mines my mountains, and drives away my people, and his slave tells me to go elsewhere! Bah! Wait and watch. How long can your rulers fool the people? If it goes on like this, your country will collapse. We won’t have to do anything at all. You will destroy it all by yourselves before the next Mahamakam.’

  Kattappa did not want to hear any more. Despite his outward steadfastness, his notions of right and wrong, duty and patriotism, were all turning topsy-turvy. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be far away from this place, from these people. Everything he held dear would crumble if he stayed here any longer. He got up from the cot and tried to stand on his feet.

  ‘I will not stay a moment longer in this hub of traitors.’

  He heard the slap first before his cheeks burned. He collapsed onto the cot. Bhutaraya hissed, ‘You think we will let you go now? Do I look like a fool? You are not going anywhere till your king dies. Don’t worry, he won’t last beyond Mahamakam.’

  ‘Mahamakam is months away…’ Kattappa trailed off, ashamed that he was thinking more about his period of captivity than the safety of his king.

  ‘Don’t worry, your king will not last till Mahamakam. This year we will not allow it to happen. We are prepared. We will not allow for the carnage that follows the festivities. We have had enough for the last three hundred years. And you are joining us in this great fight for the freedom of your people.’

  ‘I…I cannot break my oath.’

  ‘Fool, our girls are getting kidnapped by Jeemotha and other merchants like Kathavaraya. They end up in brothels. Little boys end up in places worse than that. You expect us to sing praises of your kingdom? I will destroy Mahishmathi.’

  ‘You will fail…’ Kattappa said, but the conviction had gone out of his tone. ‘And you are lying. Or you are just parroting someone who wants to spread rumours about my country. You are all traitors. This is an ancient land…’