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

by Anand Neelakantan

  Her gaze wandered to the half-open door as it swayed open and a man walked out with a copper plate covered with a banana leaf and a tumbler of flavoured buttermilk. Skandadasa lifted the plantain leaf cover and the smell of spices spread in the room. Sivagami felt sorry for Gundu Ramu.

  ‘Excuse me, Amma. Would you care to share some food?’ Skandadasa asked. Revamma shook her head and continued her barrage of complaints.

  Skandadasa said, ‘All right, all right. I hope you don’t mind if I eat while talking to you. I rarely find time to eat, and the vaidya has said the only way to treat the burning in my stomach is to eat regularly.’ The upapradhana spread the little vessels containing curries around his plate and then his gaze fell on Gundu Ramu.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked the boy. Gundu Ramu looked fearfully at Revamma and then down at his feet. The upapradhana offered his guests a share of the food again. Revamma and Sivagami declined. Gundu Ramu gulped and gave a reluctant shake of his head. Skandadasa smiled and tore the banana leaf in half and started serving out a portion of his meal.

  ‘Swami, what are you doing? I have come here with a complaint about them and you are sharing your meal with this lout.’

  ‘Amma, he is just a boy—and a boy who is hungry, aren’t you?’

  ‘Swami, he eats like rakshasa—’

  Skandadasa raised his hands. ‘Amma, I know hunger. I was born into it.’

  ‘Swami, please do not misunderstand if I ask you something.’ Revamma scratched her head. Skandadasa nodded as he served Gundu Ramu food from his plate.

  ‘They say you are a shudra,’ Revamma said, and Sivagami bit her lip angrily.

  ‘They lied,’ Skandadasa’s smile did not fade.

  ‘Oh, I knew it. Sorry, swami, I was afraid…’ Revamma babbled.

  ‘I am something lower than that. I have no caste. I was raised in an orphanage. But my father was no martyr. He was a thief. An incompetent thief who was caught and lynched by those who were blinded by their righteousness. My mother married again and they did not want me. I ran away from my village and came to Mahishmathi city. For the first few months, I fought with street dogs and beggars for leftovers. Sometimes I won; most of the time they won.

  ‘I learned how to read and write when I got the job of a cleaner in a gurukulam. The monks did not teach me, but that did not prevent me from learning. Later, I did all sorts of jobs—shoemaker, farmer, guard, petty merchant, assistant to a street magician… The mahapradhana met me at one of these jobs, and offered me a post as a scribe. That gave me more time to continue my studies, and I am still learning,’ Skandadasa finished and pointed to the bookshelf. Revamma blinked.

  Sivagami’s eyes filled up. She could see herself in him. No, she was luckier. At least for the first few years of her life she had had Thimma. She’d had a sister in Thimma’s daughter. A mother and brothers. She had had a family. But she lost it all for no fault of hers.

  Skandadasa turned to Sivagami and Gundu Ramu and said, ‘Do you see that folded cloth near the maharaja’s bust? That is the first cloth I bought myself. I got it made by a poor weaver who had fed me one night. I spent my first salary on it. It is two decades old. So it will have more holes in it than a fishing net!’

  Gundu Ramu laughed.

  ‘Do you know why I keep it? It is a reminder of my humble beginnings. It reminds me of everyone who helped me on my journey. And it reminds me to be grateful to this country and city. For it may have tested me, but this is the only place in the world where a boy can arrive in rags and end up as deputy prime minister, irrespective of his caste, creed and religion. If a son of a thief, an orphan, can do that, imagine what you two, the son and daughter of noblemen, can achieve.’

  ‘I…I …’ Sivagami struggled to find words. Skandadasa waited patiently. ‘I am the daughter of Devaraya.’

  Sivagami waited for the shock to show on Skandadasa’s face. Instead, he placed his hand on her head and said, ‘I know. You are like a daughter to me.’

  Revamma coughed, and when Skandadasa looked up, she grimaced. She pushed Sivagami’s book towards Skandadasa and said, ‘Swami, see the book she was hiding from us. The girl is not as innocent as you think. I am sure this contains some treason against our country. It was that traitor’s book.’

  Sivagami tensed as Skandadasa took the manuscript and untied the thread around it. Her fist tightened. She did not know what it contained, nor was she sure whether the deputy prime minister could read Paisachi. She observed him keenly as he flipped through the pages. Did his face express confusion or was it recognition that twitched in the corners of his lips for the blink of an eye? She was frustrated that she could not make out what he was thinking. She gripped the armrest of the chair.

  ‘This seems to be some shlokas in praise of Mother Gauri,’ Skandadasa announced.

  ‘Swami, you can read it?’

  ‘No, not much. A few alphabets here and there. It is in old Paisachi, which no one speaks now. It is the tongue of the Asuras of yore. A few Siddhas in the southern forests may be able to read it, perhaps, provided we can find them and persuade them to leave their hermitage and come to this city of sin. It would hardly be worth it. It is just a devotional book of some old Shakta.’

  ‘Nothing treacherous in it?’ Revamma was clearly disappointed.

  ‘Nothing that I could decipher,’ Skandadasa said, and was about to give the book to Sivagami when the door burst open and a guard announced, ‘Bhoomipathi Pattaraya demands an audience with you, sir.’

  Before the upapradhana could react, Pattaraya came in with his hands folded in namaste.

  ‘Well, well, I didn’t know you had company, Skandadasa.’

  ‘Yes, Pattaraya, but I am honoured by this unexpected visit. What can I do for you?’ Skandadasa said, and Sivagami saw with dismay that he was placing her book in the drawer of his table in an absentminded fashion. She tried to catch his attention, but Skandadasa was not looking at them any more. Though he was civil with Pattaraya, Sivagami could feel the tension between the two men.

  ‘I am here because you ordered me to come. Is it your birthday or something? You are feeding orphans?’ Pattaraya softened the edge of his words with a smile.

  Sivagami shifted her gaze to see Skandadasa’s reaction but his face remained impassive. Revamma was sitting at the edge of her seat, not sure whether to get up out of respect for Pattaraya, or remain seated as Skandadasa had directed her to. Gundu Ramu had no such worries. He was wolfing down the food on his leaf.

  Sivagami stood up, wondering how she could recover her book. She felt helpless.

  ‘There is no hurry. Please sit,’ Skandadasa said, and Revamma, who had made to stand up as well, sat back down on her seat.

  ‘Please be seated, sir, let the boy finish his food,’ Skandadasa said.

  ‘Of course, of course. Annadanam Mahadanam. Nothing is greater than feeding the hungry. Have your fill, son,’ Pattaraya said. They waited until Gundu Ramu belched and licked his fingers.

  ‘Amma, I will enquire about what you said and let you know,’ Skandadasa said then, and gestured to his help to clear the table. Sivagami understood they were being dismissed. Pattaraya occupied the seat Revamma had just vacated.

  ‘One day, we should have food together, daughter,’ Skandadasa said as Sivagami began walking towards the door. She wanted to ask for her book, but he had already turned and begun conversing with Pattaraya. There was some bitterness between these two, she could tell, though the tone and words remained civil. She was not too bothered by it, though. She just wanted her book. Should she interrupt them and ask for it? Before she could summon up the courage, Revamma, who was by the door now, called out to her.

  She walked away, mortally scared of what Skandadasa would find in the book. She guessed that he was just diffusing the situation by claiming it was a devotional book. She knew he would call for her one day, and she dreaded that call.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Jeemotha

  Jeemotha stood nervously at the prow
of the ship as it floated through the swamps of the upper Gomukha. He was sure the ship was being watched. Was there some movement behind the reeds that bordered the riverbanks? Why were his captives silent? Why had they stopped crying? Since the previous night, things had become ominously quiet. He had whipped a few slaves, just to hear their screams. The strange birdcalls that followed them made him edgy. He was contemplating anchoring the ship somewhere to investigate the shore, when Keera—who was standing near him, blabbering something—collapsed on Jeemotha. For a moment, Jeemotha did not understand what was happening. Then he saw an arrow quivering in Keera’s neck. Terrified, Jeemotha pushed him away. Keera was already dead.

  Jeemotha scanned the shores on either side. Where had the arrow come from? The captives remained silent. Blood from Keera’s body spread on the deck like ink from an overturned bottle. The oracle Nanjunda started crying out of fear and mumbling some mantras. Jeemotha snapped at him to be quiet, but his order was cut short by an arrow that grazed past his nose and hit the sail mast. When the shock subsided, Jeemotha saw something dangling from the tail of the arrow. A message.

  It was ominous in its brevity—surrender or die.

  Like hell he was surrendering. This was his last chance. If it was Skandadasa’s men, he was not going to abandon his wares like the last time. He would fight till the end. He spat for good luck and shouted for all his men to be armed. He could hear his men unsheathing their swords, arrows being notched, spears being picked up. He waited for the enemy to attack. Nothing happened. Not a thing stirred. A few clouds in the sky, some birds hopping around in the swamp bushes, the distant call of larks and his ship gently floating on the water—it would have made a perfect painting.

  After they had cruised along for a few hours, the tension abated and the vigil eased. His men started cracking jokes and debating how much each woman would get once they reached the shore. On Jeemotha’s orders, his men flung Keera’s dead body into the river. They were passing through the cow’s mouth now, the gorge where the river was at its narrowest. Hills loomed over them on either side, marking the end of the swamps. Thrushes gave way to jungle.

  They were so relaxed that, when the attack came, they were thoroughly unprepared. It started with the ship lurching. The men fell and the slaves in chains tumbled around like ninepins. When he had regained his balance, Jeemotha rushed to the starboard to see what had rammed into his ship. A huge log had floated across, blocking the path of the ship and slowing it down. The crew was engrossed in finding the best way around the log when it started raining arrows. They came down from everywhere: from the tops of trees and from the hills. Jeemotha ducked to the floor of the deck and lay flat on his stomach. He was screaming orders for his men to do the same when he saw a figure jump onto the deck from a hill, soon followed by several others. The log had completely blocked the path of the ship, jamming it in the gorge.

  Before Jeemotha could recover, the deck was swarming with the enemy. Gandhaka—he needed gandhaka, Jeemotha told himself, as he tried to crawl down to the lower deck undetected. His men were being butchered. If he could reach the deck where barrels of the sulphur powder were kept, he could start a fire and sink the ship. He was not going to allow these bastards to get away with his hard-earned goods.

  ‘Srimant,’ a voice called out. He stopped short a few feet away from the ladder that spiralled towards the lower decks and turned back in surprise. There was something odd about the voice. He could see a figure standing on the deck, hunched, leaning on a stick and holding a trident in its hand. Dressed in black from top to bottom, their faces covered with masks, half a dozen warriors stood behind the figure, arrows held ready in their hands. Jeemotha tried to draw his sword, but an arrow pierced his fist. He had half a mind to jump into the river. Who the hell were these people?

  ‘Tie him up,’ the figure said. Now he understood what was odd about the voice. It sounded feminine. And old. Fear started creeping up on him from the tips of his toes. The hunchbacked figure was being helped by the archers to climb down the ladder. A wind uncovered its veil for a moment. And Jeemotha saw who it was. Cheers from the captives rose around him. He cursed. He would rather have died in the storm at sea, instead of having to face Achi Nagamma.

  They had tied him to the mast of the ship, near the crow’s nest, his legs dangling forty feet above the deck. It was a miracle that he was even alive.

  The ship was cruising slowly up the river. The breeze was mild and the sails billowed a little, catching the wind. The log that had blocked their way had been freed and he could see it floating behind, secured to the rear of the ship by a rope. The woman was a curse for mankind, Jeemotha thought. She and her blasted army of women! Who would have thought he would be defeated by a bunch of peasant women, led by an invalid old wench? The story would spread all around Mahishmathi and beyond. Even in the pearl islands where he traded slaves. Men would laugh at the once-feared sea pirate.

  They had questioned him till evening, asking him who he was selling his wares to. He had tried to bluff his way out, but the old woman saw through each of his lies. When night fell, she ordered her women to tie him up. It had not been this scary then, as he could not see how high up he was. Now, with the river swelling with an impending storm and the western skies darkening with swirling, inky clouds, it was terrifying to be up there with both hands tied.

  A crow came and sat at the rim of its nest. It is your bloody nest, so do feel free, Jeemotha inwardly cursed. The crow hopped and settled near his nose. Its beak glistened in the sunshine. It tilted its head and peered at Jeemotha’s face. Before Jeemotha could react, the crow pecked his cheeks. He was too astonished to scream until the sharp iron smell of his own blood hit his nose, and his lips tasted salty. When he finally yelled out, the crow flapped its wings, flew in a circle above him, and landed back on the handrail. Jeemotha screamed again. The crow cawed in reply. Shrill laughter arose from the deck.

  ‘Should have hung him upside down. It would have been more fun,’ one woman said, and the others laughed.

  Jeemotha wondered how long he would have to hang like this. He could see dark clouds over the distant Gauriparvat. Lightning streaked across and thunder rumbled towards them. The river’s waters had turned grey, with white crusts riding over the waves. A brisk wind started blowing, stopped for a moment, and picked up with double the force. It lifted the ship up and tilted it to one side. He was thrown to the side, his ankles twisting sharply, only to be tossed again to the other side as the boat straightened. He felt giddy as the boat moved wildly with the waves. The crow returned to perch near him.

  The women on the deck laughed. Another swell and roll of the boat made Jeemotha vomit on his chest. Trying to gain control over his nausea, he looked down and spotted the oracle Nanjunda’s grey hair. The oracle was sitting on his haunches, surrounded by women with their palms extended, eager to know their future. Bloody bugger, Nanjunda—he was the one who had given him the auspicious time to raid the village. Pretty auspicious it had turned out to be. You will reach a very high position within a few days, he had predicted. The pirate had not imagined that those words would come true so literally.

  ‘Bring him down,’ Jeemotha heard someone say. There were a few whistles, some comment which he could not hear clearly in the howl of the wind across his ears, followed by uproarious laughter. His head banged against the mast pole, causing him to black out for a moment, and when he opened his eyes, he was being hauled down. He swayed from one side to another, the rope around his wrists cutting into them. The wind had picked up even more and he swung wildly. He felt his arms would tear away from his shoulders and he would fall, armless, head first, onto the deck. A swell rolled the prow and the rope started uncoiling as the boat dipped. Everything went blank for Jeemotha. He was not sure whether it was he who was screaming or the wind blowing past him. The world was a blur of green as the rope uncoiled rapidly and he rotated in the air as he was brought down fast. He braced for the impact but was jerked up at the last moment.
He was once again forty feet above ground, hanging from his wrists and swinging wildly. Thunder clapped in the sky and the first drop of rain splashed on his cheeks. The creaking sound of the pulley kept rhythm with the hum of the oarswomen. Another hushed comment and raucous laughter followed from the deck. They are playing with me, the bitches. If I don’t get back at you for this, I am not Jeemotha, the pirate gritted his teeth.

  The wind was turning into a gale. His dhoti loosened at his waist and flapped around him, drawing giggles from the women. For a moment he wished the rope would break and he would fall down and die. Then the rope started loosening again, gently. Suddenly, the rope became taut and tangled around his legs. The wind carried his dhoti away and he dangled there in a contorted position, butt naked in front of the screaming, howling women. Even the rowers stopped rowing and came to watch the spectacle. Slowly, like a sack of bananas, he was lowered down and cruelly dumped on the deck. Another howl of laughter followed.

  They jerked him up and untangled the ropes. Only his hands were tied now and it was difficult for him to keep balance. He tried desperately to cover his shame, but every time the boat tilted, it took all his effort to remain standing. Each time he had to uncover himself to regain balance, he was greeted by laughter and screams. Of course, he had done worse to the many women that he had kidnapped when he was riding the high seas. Merchants’ wives made the best captives. He would tie them on the prow, naked, as he inspected and graded them for the price each would fetch. Now when the tables were reversed, he felt rage bubbling inside.

  I will get back at you, you bitches. You can’t treat a man like this. Women have no right to treat any man like this, let alone a fearsome pirate like me, he thought to himself.

  Fearsome! Thup! he spat. He looked more like the drunk village idiot. When bad luck comes, it never comes alone. It brings its bloody uncles, cousins, and their whores. His own men, tied near the mast, were grinning at him. After this, even if he survived this ordeal, no one would fear him. Jeemotha’s shoulders sank in despair. The news would spread. The next time he walked into a village, they would not run away in fear. Instead, they would laugh. Vidhushakas would mimic how he had squealed in every nobleman’s house during the Diwali or Dashami festivals. They might make a fucking play out of this. They would enact how he stood naked in front of a bunch of black, ugly, low-caste women. Bloody peasants. And the legend of Achi Nagamma would grow at his expense.