As the hookah missed its mark, the prince was startled by laughter that sounded like the strumming of a rudraveena. When Bijjala turned back, he saw a dazzlingly beautiful woman lying on the bedding, gazing at him. The prince’s mouth fell open and he made to lurch at the woman.
Kattappa continued to stare at the blank wall, though he was acutely aware of the beauty lying a few feet before him, leaning on the cushion and looking seductively at Bijjala. He could not help glancing at her. She looked as if she had been sculpted by a master. In the light reflected by the crystals and diamonds in the wall, her skin looked almost iridescent. She was scantily clad, with a silk band tied across her shapely breasts and a dhoti that was tied many fingers below her navel and barely covered her upper thighs. She stretched a slender arm and called Bijjala with the flip of her index finger.
‘Come, my prince. How long will you make this Kalika wait?’ Her voice was husky and dripped honey. Kattappa’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. Much as he tried, her musky smell was stirring deep desires.
A tune rose from a flute behind the swaying curtains. It was a familiar romantic raga. He tried to identify it. Anything to keep himself from getting bewitched by the beauty of Kalika. Khamboji—that was the name the vidwans had given to this raga. As if knowing the names of ragas was going to be of any use to a slave. He closed his eyes and opened it hurriedly for, even in his mind’s eye, all he saw was Kalika. He was scared to close his eyes again. His father was right. He was yet to control his senses, his vow of brahmacharya was imperfect, and he was still assaulted by such evil thoughts.
Kattappa knew the prince was trapped in the grip of this beautiful woman. He should have stopped Prince Bijjala from coming here. Kattappa stole a glance at the prince, who was standing as if he had grown roots to the floor.
Keki took Bijjala’s arms and, seductively, her steps in rhythm with the soft beats of the mrudangam in the background, walked him to Kalika. The prince moved as if he was in a dream, his eyes fixed on the beautiful arching figure on the floor.
‘She is all yours, Prince,’ Keki bowed, and Bijjala removed his pearl necklace from his neck and threw it at the eunuch. She caught it deftly. ‘A poor gift, my prince, but I won’t complain. What are good friends for, if they start expecting great gifts every time?’
Delirious with happiness, Bijjala fell on his knees and leaned to touch Kalika with his trembling hands. Kalika stopped the prince by placing her right foot on his chest. Kattappa averted his eyes from her ivory thighs.
‘Go on, kiss it, Your Highness,’ Keki whispered in Bijjala’s ears. Kattappa stiffened. He hoped the prince would not stoop to the extent of kissing a whore’s feet.
Bijjala took Kalika’s foot and sucked her toes. Kalika moaned, arching her sinuous body against the pillow.
‘Further up, Your Grace,’ Keki said. Bijjala started kissing Kalika’s calf, then her knees, moving to her thighs. The music increased in tempo. Kattappa averted his eyes, but there was no escaping the mirrors that reflected and amplified what he did not want to see. When Bijjala reached her navel, Kalika gently pushed him away. She sat up and her arms went behind her back. Kattappa could hear Bijjala sucking in his breath. She was untying the knot of her breast-cloth. When Bijjala tried to help her, she lightly slapped away his hand. She looked into his eyes and laughed. Bijjala was trembling with excitement. Her fingers lingered, playing with the knots, testing his patience. He lunged towards her, hungry to grab her breasts with both his hands. Suddenly, she slipped away from under him and ran, laughing. Bijjala cursed and stood up, his dhoti in disarray. He grunted in frustration and anger.
Kalika stood a few feet away, striking an elegant pose, her enchanting figure reflected in hundreds of mirrors. When Bijjala reached her, she slipped away again, only to appear somewhere else. Bijjala ran from pillar to pillar, trying to grab her. Keki kept laughing and encouraging the prince. Kattappa stood like a statue, looking at some invisible point in the shifting walls. Once in a while, Kalika would allow Bijjala to catch her and he would shower her with kisses. Once she even let him put his hands under her breast-cloth, but then she slipped away again.
Bijjala started to get angry. The next time she appeared, he was prepared. His warrior instincts had taken over. Surprising her, he moved like a whip and caught her. His hands fumbled with the knot of her upper garment, but before he could untie it, Kalika kissed him full on his mouth. Bijjala closed his eyes, enjoying the taste of Kalika’s luscious lips on his. When he opened his eyes again, he was holding the breast-cloth, but Kalika had vanished. The music stopped abruptly.
Bijjala roared in anger. He asked Keki where Kalika was. Keki laughed. Bijjala shook Kattappa by his shoulders and screamed at him, asking him whether he had seen Kalika. Kattappa had seen Kalika without her breast-cloth, and had been so ashamed that he had averted his gaze. He stood with his head hanging in shame as Bijjala cursed. Keki kept laughing until Bijjala drew Kattappa’s sword and pressed its edge to her neck.
‘Bring her now,’ the prince shouted. Keki’s eyes bulged in fear. For the first time that day, Kattappa felt relieved. He hoped Bijjala would press the sword a tad more and finish the wretched creature here and now.
‘I am all yours, Prince.’ Kalika’s sweet voice startled them. The entire room had changed. The mirrored walls had folded to one side, to reveal a long hall. At the end, Kalika was sitting like a queen, wearing dazzling jewellery and elaborate headgear decorated with colourful plumes. She had a gown of string pearls that covered her from her neck down to her ankles. It was fastened with an elaborate knot near her left collarbone.
Bijjala pushed Keki away and ran towards Kalika. Kattappa hurried behind him. Keki, who was on the floor, caught Kattappa’s legs.
‘Whoa, where are you going, slave boy?’ she cried and held on firmly to Kattappa’s leg. The slave continued to walk, dragging her along, but she would not let go of his legs. Bijjala had reached Kalika with his drawn-out sword.
‘Enough of your games, you bitch. Come here,’ Bijjala screamed. His voice was boyish and his face turned red when Kalika burst out laughing.
‘Darling, my sweet prince, you look so adorable when you are angry,’ she said as she stood up. Her fingers were playing with the knot of the string pearl gown and her lips pouted seductively.
‘Come, come, my god of love, my Kamadeva,’ she said and Bijjala took one tentative step. Her fingers yanked the knot and the gown disintegrated in a flurry of pearls flying in all directions.
Kalika stood gloriously naked, her left hand on her hip, her right hanging free, touching the top of her thigh, and her head thrown back. Exquisite pearls of all colours danced on the floor, bouncing, hitting the walls, pillars and steps, and rolled everywhere as if they were bashful of their mistress’s nakedness. Bijjala stood transfixed, drinking in her beauty. Kattappa froze, unable to look away from the bewitching sight of the goddess. When the last of the bouncing pearls had rested, music rose again from the background—the veena drawing out an exquisite raga. Colourful smoke curled from the ceiling and filled the room with the scent of jasmine.
Kalika traced an invisible line from her lips to her navel and said in a husky voice, ‘You have to earn me, Prince.’
‘What should I do? Should I fight your enemies, should I bring you silk from Cheenadesa, attar from Arabia, clever dolls from the land of the barbarians? Tell me what I should…’ Bijjala’s excited words stopped midway when Kalika put a finger to her lips.
‘My prince is so kind. All those are welcome, but I give myself only to those who can play games,’ Kalika said, wetting her lips. Kattappa was alarmed. Something didn’t seem right.
‘What game do you want me to play? You want me to fight a raging bull with my bare hands? You want me to match my sword with the best of the warriors? What game?’ Bijjala asked, and Kalika collapsed on her high seat, laughing.
She crossed her legs, hiding her charms, and said, ‘I know those are too easy for my warrior.’
> Kalika pushed a stool with a chaturanga board towards him. ‘Let me see how well you play,’ she said, opening a carved sandalwood box. ‘Keki?’
Keki let go of Kattappa’s legs and ran towards Kalika who handed the box over to her. The eunuch started arranging the coins on the board. Bijjala looked worried and glanced at Kattappa. The slave knew his prince was no good at chaturanga. He had never played it well. In fact, he was never good at anything that needed brains.
‘Prince,’ Kattappa bowed to Bijjala and said, ‘it is time for us to go.’
Bijjala looked at Kalika, who sat smiling. He gulped as his eyes roved over her naked body. Kattappa knew he had lost when he saw the fire of lust in Bijjala’s eyes. The prince said, ‘I am ready to play. I can defeat a woman with my eyes closed.’
Bijjala climbed up onto the dais and sat on a chair, waiting for Kalika to get up and sit across him. Keki moved back after she had placed all the coins on the board. She handed over the dice to Kalika.
‘I am impressed, my prince,’ Kalika said, clicking the dice together. ‘But I am not the one playing with you.’
Bijjala looked at her, confused and angry. Kattappa’s fists curled in tension.
‘Are you mocking me?’ Bijjala asked. ‘If you are not playing, who do you want me to play with? This disgusting eunuch or my stupid slave?’
‘With me, Your Highness.’
Kattappa and Bijjala turned towards the voice. A dwarf came waddling from the side. ‘Khanipathi Hidumba at your service, Your Highness. I will be playing against you.’
‘A dwarf?’ Bijjala started laughing. ‘This dwarf is my opponent?’ He slapped his thigh in merriment. Kalika threw the dice in the air and Bijjala caught them before they touched the ground. He clicked them together and cried, ‘Ah, this is going to be fun.’
‘Of course, Your Highness. Fun is what we all seek. Let there be a wager, let there be some witnesses. In fact, I have called the noblest men of Mahishmathi to witness our game,’ the dwarf said. As if on cue, Bhoomipathi Pattaraya, Rajaguru Rudra Bhatta and Dandanayaka Pratapa walked in. Kalika rose to welcome them. She hugged Pattaraya and Pratapa, planting a kiss on their cheeks. Bijjala gritted his teeth. Rudra Bhatta was sweating and looking away from Kalika’s glistening nudity. She touched his feet and sought his blessings, which he hurriedly gave, wiping his sweat with his angavastra.
Keki caught the priest regarding Kalika’s naked behind and said, ‘There is no sin in looking, Rajaguru, nor is there a charge. Look to your heart’s content.’ The priest’s friends laughed and Rudra Bhatta looked down in shame.
‘Shall we start? What is the wager?’ Hidumba asked. In reply, Bijjala removed his diamond studded bracelet and slammed it on the table. Hidumba looked at his friends and with a scornful smile that made his face more hideous, did the same with his pearl necklace. Hidumba threw the dice, screaming, ‘Pakida, pakida twelve.’ An unseen percussionist in some hidden chamber rolled his fingers on his mrudangam as the dice spun on the table.
Kattappa knew, from the laughter of Hidumba’s friends, that the game was lost before it had even begun.
FIFTEEN
Skandadasa
It was past midnight when Skandadasa returned to his chambers. Maharani Hemavati had summoned him. Both her sons were missing. The queen had been livid. She had screamed that if something happened to her sons, she would have his head rolling. She was justified in her anger too. Even when she insulted him and pointed to his lowly origins, Skandadasa had stood with his head bent. He was fortunate that the maharaja was not in the palace, else he would not have been given time till morning to find the princes.
Skandadasa had built up his reputation with hard work and dedication in a career spanning twenty-three years. At the age of forty-five, he remained a bachelor. He was married to his job. He always prided himself on his capability to do any job efficiently. When Prince Bijjala was almost killed by the elephant, he was the one in the durbar who was most vocal in criticizing the incompetence of Senapathi Hiranya and Dandanayaka Pratapa. He had given a speech before Maharaja Somadeva about how both the army and the police had failed to protect the prince. The king had patiently listened to him while Hiranya and Pratapa seethed and fretted. Once he sat down, Somadeva had consulted briefly with Parameswara and then ordered that, henceforth, Skandadasa would be responsible for the security of the princes and the fort.
Skandadasa had approached the job with his usual tenacity, but soon he found that it was no easy task. The citadel of Mahishmathi was built almost three hundred years ago and had grown bewilderingly complex over the years. Each king had added his own modifications. There were underground tunnels and confusing corridors, secret rooms and chambers. It would have been manageable had there been a plan of the fort. When Skandadasa had asked for it, certain that such a map must exist, Parameswara had stared at him in disbelief. He was told that it would be most stupid to have such a thing. An enemy would just have to get hold of it to gain entry. Keeping certain things committed to memory was the best way to assure safety, the old man had told him patronizingly. It still bristled when he thought about his superior’s comment. Committing to memory was a crude method, he thought. What would happen if the only men who knew about certain aspects of the fort were killed in a war? He had not argued with Parameswara, but had started to map the entire complex in secret. Skandadasa was a man of method. It was a mammoth task and it would take many years, but he was not a person to give up easily. This would be his legacy, he kept telling himself.
He had also put strict restrictions on the movements of the young princes. It hurt his ego to know that both of them had fooled him and got out. Yet, that was what he hoped had happened. He was terrified to think someone might have kidnapped them.
He wanted to prove himself an able successor to Parameswara. He had neither legacy nor money. He belonged to a low caste and had come up through patient labour and determination. Becoming mahapradhana was something he desperately wanted to do. It would be the culmination of a journey, a promise he had made to himself when he came as a starving nobody to the city of Mahishmathi, thirty years ago.
Now, when people called him scrupulously honest and loyal like a dog, his chest swelled with pride. He was honest because that was his nature, he was loyal because he had been given one chance in his life, a chance he had grabbed with both hands. Mahapradhana Parameswara had given him that one chance. He had scrubbed floors in the taverns, washed dirty dishes in wayside toddy shops and studied whenever he could, standing outside schools and listening to the lessons. He was never allowed inside because of his caste, and even if anyone was ready to take him, he could not have afforded the fees.
If not for Parameswara, who had discovered and mentored him, he would have ended up as a server of palm toddy in some village tavern. Or he would have gone back to his village and taken up his caste profession of a bear dancer. That he became neither was a tribute to the kindness and foresight of the old mahapradhana.
Now the edifice he had built one brick at a time was threatening to crumble. He collapsed on his chair and massaged his head. After some time, he decided the only way to solve this was in his usual way. He would attack the problem methodically. He called for the records of all the gates and started checking who had entered and left the fort. There had been many carts and palanquins moving in and out, and the possibility of the prince hiding in one of them could not be ruled out.
After poring over the records for more than two yamams, Skandadasa found that the number of drummers who went out did not tally with the number that had entered. He did not know what that meant. He dismissed the thought of Prince Bijjala going out disguised as a drummer. He would have been recognized by the guards because of his sheer size. He decided to start his investigation by questioning the head of the harem.
Brihannala came in, in an awful mood. Skandadasa knew that the eunuch resented being summoned by him at this time of the night.
‘Can I sit?’ she asked gruffly.
‘No,’ Skandadasa said. Though he was above her in position, she was reputed to be close to the maharaja and was feared and respected by many officials. But Skandadasa had nothing to fear. He had come up through his own honest efforts. He needed no one’s favour.
Brihannala stood tapping her fingers on the headrest of the chair. Impatient—Skandadasa noticed. He pushed the box containing the gate entry–exit records towards her.
‘Check these palm leaves. An extra drummer has gone out of the fort. The records of the number of drummers gaining entry is one less than the number that went out,’ he said, staring at her.
‘So? My job is not to count how many drummers came, went, jumped from the tower and died or any such thing. I am the head of Antapura, not the watchman of the gate,’ Brihannala said, with a derisive smile on her face.
Skandadasa was about to reply when the gate of his mansion opened and a group of people came running inside. A young man was carrying another boy on his shoulders. There were many excited soldiers accompanying them.
‘Prince Mahadeva! What is all this, Your Highness? What has happened?’ Skandadasa asked, when he recognized the boy.
‘This boy needs the rajavaidya’s attention, but for some reason the guards brought me here,’ Mahadeva said.
Skandadasa had many questions to ask, but seeing the condition of the boy that the prince was carrying, he sent for the palace doctor at once. He helped Mahadeva lay down the boy on his table. The room was crowded with guards and people from the orphanage. Mahadeva fussed over the boy, opening his eyelids, checking his heartbeat and asking every moment why the doctor was taking so much time.
The Rise of Sivagami : Book 1 of Baahubali - Before the Beginning Page 13
