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

by Anand Neelakantan

  Dhamaka shifted uneasily on his legs. Skandadasa noticed that he was avoiding his eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally.

  ‘It happened after that slave Nagayya escaped,’ the young slave said.

  Skandadasa had guessed as much. He knew the slave had had outside help. The needle of suspicion pointed at Roopaka. From the beginning, he had not liked the man, and with the suspicion growing in his mind, Skandadasa started hating the officious assistant.

  He said, ‘If someone could open the door from outside when the tide was low, someone can open it when the river is in full spate too. It only requires a diver with a strong pair of lungs. This is the biggest security risk. I want this closed now,’ Skandadasa said, and again his assistant protested.

  Ignoring him, Skandadasa snapped at the young slave, ‘Hurry, call your friends. Fix the door so that it can never be opened.’ The slaves hurried to do the mahapradhana’s bidding.

  ‘I want to see the Gauridhooli,’ Skandadasa said. The entire workshop fell silent.

  Skandadasa repeated what he’d said, and Dhamaka finally replied, ‘I am afraid it is not possible without an official order.’

  ‘All right, this is my order,’ Skandadasa whipped out a palm leaf, scribbled an order with his stencil, put his official seal on it, and slapped it down on the table. Roopaka tried to object, but Skandadasa asked him to keep quiet. Stung by the insult, Roopaka picked up the palm leaf.

  Skandadasa snatched it back and said, ‘You are just an assistant. Do not forget your place.’

  Roopaka’s face flushed red. He said in a cold voice, ‘Swami, no mahapradhana has ever treated me like this.’

  ‘Get used to it,’ Skandadasa glared at him and then turned to Dhamaka. The head slave hurriedly walked to a wall and opened a secret door. He entered and closed the door behind him. Skandadasa was at the edge of his patience.

  Dhamaka came back with a small, closed iron pot. Skandadasa waited impatiently as he opened it. The room filled with an iridescent blue. Skandadasa extended his hand to take the powder in his fingers but Dhamaka moved the pot away. ‘Highly poisonous. It will burn your hand to your bones, swami. It should not see sunlight. Hence it is kept underground. It will be mixed while we forge the swords and that is what makes Gaurikhadga, the famous Mahishmathi sword, so strong and flexible.’

  ‘What goes into making it? Have we checked its other uses? Have we experimented with it?’ Skandadasa asked with enthusiasm.

  ‘No, my lord, we have not, and we should not. We do not know what disaster it would bring, what ill luck it would—’

  ‘Bah, superstitions. If you are not ready to tell me, I shall find out. This needs to be studied and meticulously recorded for posterity. This discovery should not die here. It has to be bettered; we should find other ways to use it. Give me the pot. I shall do the experiments myself. I am sure some old books will have references to Gauridhooli,’ Skandadasa said, reaching out.

  Roopaka intervened. ‘Swami, this is highly irregular. You do not have the authority. This is against national security. You are dealing with state secrets.’

  Skandadasa smiled as he took the pot from Dhamaka’s hand. He closed the lid tight and said, ‘I am the state now, friend, and this is my secret too.’

  He said goodbye to all the slaves, and congratulated the young workers for closing the ceiling door with a huge metal sheet. He walked out with the pot of Gauridhooli. Roopaka walked behind him with a scowl. The slaves looked worried and a few of them closed their eyes in prayer. Superstitious, like most slaves, they believed Gauridhooli always brought ill fortune to the possessor.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Bijjala

  Bijjala was in a foul mood. The ceremonies to mark his twenty-first birthday had started much before sunrise. Now it was almost evening and still Rudra Bhatta continued to drone mantras, and showed no signs of slowing down. There were more than two score priests chanting with the chief priest and adding twigs and ghee into the sacred fire. His mother sat cross-legged near the priest, piously repeating the mantras silently. His father sat with a grave face, but Bijjala could see that the king was bored. When he became king, he would stop all this nonsense, Bijjala decided.

  Various dignitaries and noblemen sat in the durbar, dressed in their finest clothes and ornaments. Bijjala was hungry and impatient. The aroma of delicious food from the royal kitchen was driving him mad. Using mango leaves, the priest sprinkled everyone with holy water from a pot between his legs. Bijjala wanted to empty the water into the holy altar and bang the priest’s shaven head with the pot. Mahadeva sat patiently, his face serene and smiling near his mother. That irritated Bijjala more.

  From the crowd, Keki was trying to catch his attention. After many unsuccessful attempts, Keki took a flower from her hair and threw it at Bijjala. The prince turned and Keki gestured that they should go. That made Bijjala more edgy. He had been under house arrest for the last few months. He had been waiting for his coming-of-age birthday like a hornbill waits for rains in the forest. Now Skandadasa would not be able to control him. He was free to go anywhere he wanted. He hated Skandadasa from the bottom of his heart. Impudent rascal, a good-for-nothing low caste who had pretentions of being a nobleman. When he became king, he vowed to throw out the arrogant swine. He did not know what his father saw in the man. If someone had asked for his opinion, he would have said Skandadasa was fit only to wash the floor of some tavern.

  Unfortunately, the king never asked him anything. He consulted more with Mahadeva. His brother was a coward; an effeminate fool. He was able to win everyone over with his words. Bijjala did not find any need to use sweet talk. His sword was enough for him to make people obey him. He would rule over everyone with an iron fist. People should shiver when they heard the name Bijjala.

  If his father had had any sense, Bijjala thought, he should have made Pattaraya the prime minister, instead of that nincompoop Skandadasa. That was one gentleman. They did not make people like him anymore. Despite Bijjala losing heavily to him in Kalika’s den, Bhoomipathi Pattaraya was grace personified. He was polite to a fault and never even mentioned the debt he was owed. Though the last time he had met Pattaraya, the fat man had blabbered something about some stone. Bijjala had laughed it off. He had asked Pattaraya why he would steal a stone from him. Pattaraya mentioned that he had given it to his slave. As if it was the bloody duty of the princes to know where their slaves went. Kattappa had been missing after he had saved the slave from the Vaithalikas. Good riddance. Bijjala thought it would be a good thing to have a female slave instead of an ugly black one following him around.

  Finally the rituals were over and the guests retired, praising the sumptuous meal. Bijjala hurried outside and rushed to his stables. The finest Arabian horse, black as midnight, was waiting for him. A gift from his father, a gift befitting the next ruler of Mahishmathi. Bijjala caressed the silky mane of the horse for a moment and then pulled himself onto its saddle. He kicked the horse with his pointed shoes and the beast shot forward.

  He raced through the garden, jumped over the fountain, splashing water and landing gracefully on the other side, and galloped towards the fort gate, jumping neatly over every single hedge. He frightened the geese and trampled over finely laid beds of flowers. An old gardener, who was tottering around with a pail of water, was brutally kicked out of the way, and the prince laughed as he saw the man hitting the ground hard. Bijjala was now standing on the stirrups, urging the horse for more speed. People ran away like frightened chickens as the huge war horse thundered past.

  Two soldiers came running and stood at the gate with their spears crossed, blocking his path. Bijjala did not even bother to pull on the reins. They dove to either side as the horse blasted through their puny blockade. Fools, did they think they could stop Prince Bijjala? A determined guard ran behind Bijjala and managed to catch hold of the reins. The horse reared to a stop, and it took all his skills for Bijjala to stop himself from being thrown off. He was trembling with rage when the hea
d of the guards at the fort gate came running and bowed deep in front of him.

  ‘Your Highness, you are not supposed to go outside because of the security threat,’ the senior man said respectfully. Bijjala beckoned to him, and the man bowed a bit more as he stepped closer to the horse.

  ‘Says who, son of a bitch?’ Bijjala said. The man looked shocked. Bijjala knew the maharaja always called him by his name, talked to him with affection and respect. He was an old faithful, having served Mahishmathi for more than four decades. No wonder these bastards are spoilt and dare to stop a prince.

  ‘Eh…Mahapradhana Skandadasa’s orders, Your Highness.’ The man had tears in his eyes. His men were watching how he was being treated. Good medicine for your arrogance, thought Bijjala. He decided to teach the old man a lesson he would never forget. The man was wearing a few medals as pendants. Some frigging tokens of appreciation rendered by the maharaja. He did not know what deeds of valour the old man might have performed in the wars before he was born. Nor did he care. He grabbed the medals and pulled the old soldier to him, enjoying the look of terror on the craggy old face. What an ugly face to look at, full of scars from sword fights. The old man had only one ear, and that too only half of it. How could his father employ such disgusting men in his service?

  Bijjala slapped the soldier across his face. ‘That is for stopping me,’ he said. He slapped him again, this time with the back of his palm. ‘That is for taking the name of that bloody low caste Skandadasa.’ Another slap drew blood from the soldier’s nose. ‘That is to teach you to be more respectful to your superiors.’ A final punch from the prince knocked the old man unconscious.

  Bijjala screamed at the terrified guards, ‘Bloody morons! Know this. I am twenty-one today. I am not bound by the orders of some Shudra. I will be ruling over all of you soon. I go where I please.’ He glared at the guards and one by one they fell on their knees around him.

  ‘Water,’ he growled. He had polluted himself by touching the ugly old soldier, even if it was to slap him. A guard came running with water and poured it so Bijjala could wash off his sin; he stood a few feet away, careful not to touch the prince even by accident. Bijjala shook off the excessive water from his hands on the face of the guard. He then spurred his horse and galloped past the still-kneeling guards.

  The wind whistled in his ears as Bijjala rode past the river towards Kalika’s inn. He had been a caged bird for so long. Today, he was free. It was an exhilarating feeling. No one was going to stop him from getting what he wanted now. Images of Kalika sitting naked kept popping up in his mind, and he felt feverish and excited. The horse felt very slow, and the road too long.

  By the time he reached Devadasi Street, his horse was frothing at the mouth. He touched the pouch of gold coins he had on him, a present from his mother, and then the three-rowed diamond necklace, a gift from the women of Antapura. Mahadeva had given him a portrait. A worthless gift. And Bijjala would have preferred for Mahadeva to have drawn him sitting astride a horse. Instead, his brother had drawn him sitting by the river, with Gauriparvat in the background. Only a fishing rod was missing to make him look like a fisherman. Bijjala had only contempt for his brother.

  As he walked his horse through the street, he realized that there was something odd about the place. There were no whores calling out to him and the pimps were sitting around with morose faces, staring at him with hostility. Many women were sitting in the street. Was someone dead? Why were they so angry?

  Last time, he had been taken through a shortcut so Bijjala now asked someone for the way to Kalika’s inn. A few men with sticks surrounded him.

  ‘What the hell! Move away,’ Bijjala shouted. Instead, the men closed in. Bijjala’s hand went to his sword. A guard in employment of the Devadasi guild appeared with a bow, an arrow in it pulled taut, pointed at Bijjala’s heart. The women behind them started screaming, ‘Kill him, kill him, kill him.’ Bijjala was terrified. He tried to pull out his sword and heard the bowstring twang. A blink of an eye later his horse neighed, thrashed its front legs, fell down and started twitching. His father’s present, the prized horse, shot dead. The arrow was aimed at him, yet his reflexes had saved him. Even without thinking, he had moved away and the arrow had found its target in the horse.

  Bijjala barely had enough time to draw his sword and swing it before the mob closed in on him. He fought like a man possessed, drawing blood, hacking limbs and heads. He kept them at bay, but more and more people came running. He wished he had his bodyguards with him. For a fleeting moment he thought about his faithful slave and wished he was by his side. He was not going to last long for sure.

  ‘Kill him, kill him, kill him’—the crowd chanted. ‘I am your prince, Prince Bijjala, the firstborn,’ he cried in a shrill voice. The mob laughed at the tremor in his cry. They could sense his fear. ‘Death to the prince,’ they now began to chant.

  Bijjala swung his sword wildly, keeping the mob at bay, but they kept pressing forward. He cut a spear that came flying at him into two. His was a Gaurikhadga, but even that would not be enough to fight a mob of a hundred people and swelling by the minute. He was losing all hope when Bijjala saw a familiar face in the crowd.

  ‘Keki!’ he cried over the din of the mob as he parried the thrust of a sword and ducked a dagger thrown at him. ‘Keki…help me.’

  He saw the eunuch fighting her way through the crowd, screaming at people, pushing, shoving, jostling, punching, dragging and kicking as she tried to reach him. Everything was a blur and he was injured in many places. I am going to die on my birthday, thought Bijjala.

  Keki reached him somehow and spread her arms wide. Bijjala hid behind the eunuch, ashamed and relieved at the same time.

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ Keki pushed away a few men who tried to reach Bijjala. ‘Have you gone crazy? This is our friend. He is not Skandadasa’s man. He is our man, our prince. He will help us.’

  The mob growled like a beast. Someone cried from behind, ‘They have closed our inns, they have rendered us homeless, moneyless and jobless. And the prince comes to gawk at our misery in his finest clothes. We want blood. We know we will hang for this, but we have nothing left to live for anymore.’

  ‘What happened?’ Bijjala cried from behind the eunuch.

  ‘He asks what happened as if he does not know,’ an angry voice said, and the chant of ‘Death to Prince Bijjala’ picked up again.

  Keki cried, ‘Peace. Hold on. This prince is innocent. He is not like the others. He is our man. He is our client. He is sympathetic to our problems.’ Keki took hold of Bijjala’s hand and raised it high. ‘He is our friend. My friend.’

  Bijjala blinked. Keki hissed in his ears, ‘Say you are their friend and that you will correct any wrongs done to them.’

  ‘What wrong did I do?’ Bijjala asked, confused.

  Ignoring him, Keki continued. ‘As a token of our friendship, the prince has come all the way from his palace to compensate you for your loss. He knows you have been wronged.’

  Keki plucked the pouch of gold coins from the prince, drew loose its strings, and threw the gold coins into the air. The mob paused for a moment, watching the gold coins shower down on them in disbelief. And then there was a mad scramble. They began to fight with each other for the coins, and in the melee, Keki grabbed Bijjala’s hand and ran.

  When they had left the street and entered the jungle, Bijjala pulled Keki to a stop and asked, ‘Would you tell me what that was about? I was almost killed—and I have lost all the gold coins I got as a present for my birthday.’

  ‘Thank your stars that you did not come out hacked like mutton chops.’

  ‘But why are they so angry?’

  ‘You would also be angry if someone threw you out of your home and made you a beggar.’

  ‘Mind your words, eunuch. You are talking to the crown prince of Mahishmathi.’

  ‘Go to that mob and declare it, if you dare. Dandakaras came with a huge force and closed down Devadasi Street. They have made our busi
ness illegal.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Bijjala cried. ‘Kalika…?’

  ‘Ran away with what she could grab. Let the devil eat her. Let Yakshi possess her. Bitch. She did not leave anything for this poor eunuch. But I know my darling prince will not forget this poor servant,’ Keki said grabbing Bijjala’s necklace.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Bijjala cried. Keki tugged at the necklace, breaking it. With a swift movement, it disappeared into her breast-cloth. ‘A small present for this poor eunuch who saved your life, my prince. Thank you, thank you. You are so generous. Jai Mahishmathi, jai Bijjala deva.’

  Bijjala seethed with anger. He had come with lust, desperate to get Kalika, desperate to win back all that he had lost, but he had ended up losing even more. ‘Who sent the dandakaras?’ he asked.

  ‘Who else, but that bastard Skandadasa,’ Keki said with a sigh.

  Bijjala had heard enough. He vowed that he would put a stop to the arrogance of the bloody low-caste pretender.

  ‘Are you going back to the palace, Prince?’ Keki asked. Bijjala grunted in reply.

  Keki said with a smile. ‘Wait, I will arrange for a palanquin, bull cart or chariot. Princes should not walk. On second thoughts, I feel it would be better if I too came with you.’

  On the way back, Keki filled him in on the atrocities committed by the dandakaras on Skandadasa’s orders. Bijjala decided that he would demand that his father remove the upstart mahapradhana from his post. He was now twenty-one. His father could no longer dismiss him casually. As per protocol, he was equivalent in rank to a bhoomipathi. The mahapradhana was above him in rank until the official declaration making him the crown prince came, but rarely would any salaried official dare to disobey a future king. Bijjala was convinced his father was a fool. He had to drive some sense into the old man’s thick head.

  Keki excused herself at the entrance of the durbar and Bijjala entered it with determined steps. He paused when he saw the old guard he had hit standing before the king. Bijjala’s gaze fell on Skandadasa, who was glaring at him. Something was not right.