‘Please…’ she pleaded, only to be rewarded by a cut across her cheeks.
Before the first blow landed on his body, Gundu Ramu started screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Please, please don’t beat me. I am the son of a poet, please…ahh…ayyo…ayooo… please. My father is a world-famous poet…please…please ayooo.’
Despite her determination to not show emotion, tears sprang to Sivagami’s eyes. ‘Sorry, I am sorry,’ she mumbled.
‘Sorry…who wants your sorry?’ Revamma hit her again.
She wanted to scream that her apologies were not for Revamma, they were for the boy, but decided that would make matters worse.
Suddenly Thondaka cried in surprise, ‘My, my! What is this?’ Sivagami felt her head swimming. Thondaka picked up the book from the floor and sniffed it. He was perplexed by the strange script. Revamma snatched it from him, looked at its cover and stared at Sivagami.
‘I think I know what this is,’ Keki said with a cruel smile as she took it from Revamma’s hands.
Sivagami felt her knees going weak.
TWENTY
Kattappa
It had been more than three months since Shivappa had gone missing. Kattappa’s injuries from his ordeal with the Vaithalikas were yet to heal. He limped around in his hut, his arm in a sling, foraging for something to eat. As usual, there was nothing he could even munch on. Rains had set in and the work of slaves had increased manifold. His father was too busy serving the king. He had decided to drown the sorrow of losing his youngest son by indulging in more and more work. He did not even take the mandatory rest days for slaves during ekadashi every fortnight. Though Malayappa never put in words the loathing he had for Kattappa, with every word and action he let it be known that his eldest son was responsible for the death of his younger son.
That was the lie Kattappa had told everyone. He and Shivappa had accompanied Bijjala to the forest for hunting. Near Patalaganga falls, Shivappa had slipped and fallen into the swirling waters of the river. The prince and Kattappa tried their best to save him. The prince had jumped in first to help Shivappa. Kattappa had no choice other than to follow his master. All three were caught in the swift current and fell down the waterfall. It was a miracle that Bijjala and Kattappa escaped. But when they climbed ashore, they were attacked by Vaithalikas. Bijjala had fought bravely and killed all of them. Kattappa’s life was saved by Bijjala.
Kattappa was surprised at how easily he could lie. It troubled him. More than anything, it showed that he did not have the courage to face the truth. He told himself that he lied to save his master, and saving one’s master was the supreme dharma for a slave, but he knew he lied more for the sake of his brother’s safety.
A few divers were sent to recover Shivappa’s body from the gorge, but they returned empty-handed. After a few reluctant dives, they declared that the body might have been carried away. It was not worth risking their lives for a dead slave boy. Kattappa spent days crying and calling out his brother’s name. Convinced by his act, none other than the mahapradhana had come to him to console him. Kattappa was upset with himself; confused and hurt at his own ability for deception.
It hurt him to see the face of his father standing like a pillar behind the king. He could see that grief had aged him overnight. He knew how much his father loved his younger brother. He wished he could at least tell him the truth. But it was dangerous. If anyone found out that Shivappa had run away, they would set the best Mudhol hounds on his trail. A dead slave boy was worth less than the carcass of a horse. You could not make footwear with the skin of a slave.
Kattappa had agonized over his lie but justified it to his conscience that it was the only way to prevent the king from knowing where Bijjala had been that eventful night. With nothing to do for the past few months, he brooded and worried in the thatched hut, blaming himself for his failings. He rarely saw his father and, surprisingly, he even missed Bijjala. He was willing to serve his master even in this condition, but he had orders to not be seen in the palace until he had healed. The prince also was recovering from his injuries.
The queen had been devastated on seeing her injured and unconscious son, and had screamed at Kattappa for not ensuring his safety. She lamented that a prince had risked his life to save a worthless slave. She got Bijjala moved to her chamber and declared she would not leave her son’s bed until he healed.
Bards now had a new topic. Songs were sung in every nook and corner of the country about the compassionate prince who was so brave that he jumped into the roaring waters of Patalaganga, fought crocodiles with his bare hands, all to save his slave boys. He had swum against the current holding one boy in each hand. One slave was lost for he was a sinner and the other was saved only because of the compassion of the prince who prayed to the river gods to spare at least one so that he would have a slave to serve him.
Kattappa’s mouth filled up with bile every time he thought about the night when he had to flee with Bijjala on his shoulder. He limped outside to clear his throat. The sky was brooding over the wet earth. Trees dripped with mossy green. A crow, its feathers shuffled and wet, tilted its head to see whether he had maybe brought some food. It hopped for some time before perching on a tree and cawing in protest. Far away Gauriparvat was dissolving into the monsoon sky. Was Shivappa hiding in its jungles? Kattappa sighed and, for the umpteenth time, he promised himself that he would go in search of his little brother. What could Shivappa be doing with the Vaithalikas? How much poison had the evil Vaithalikas injected in his innocent brother’s mind?
‘Kattappa.’
Kattappa winced when he heard the voice. Skandadasa. He had been expecting this visit. Skandadasa had been sent on a forced pilgrimage by the maharaja as a part of his punishment. It was meant to reform his immoral activities. The queen wanted him to be dismissed, but Parameswara had prevailed upon her. Every moment, Kattappa had dreaded the return of Skandadasa. He knew the upapradhana had not bought his lie.
‘Son, I will get straight to the point. Tell me, were you telling the truth?’
The bluntness of the question took the wind out of Kattappa. He stood quiet for a moment. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He slowly fell on his knees and touched Skandadasa’s feet.
‘Swami, I cannot bear the burden of my lie anymore. We had not gone hunting. But I cannot say where we had gone. It is against my dharma, swami. I cannot betray my master,’ Kattappa said in a broken voice.
‘Just tell me how you got out. I do not want other details. I know who all were there in Kalika’s den.’
Kattappa remained silent.
Skandadasa said, ‘This country is in great danger. The royal family may be in great danger. Your words will help me do something about the threat.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Kattappa said, ‘We went in a palanquin brought by Keki.’
‘Hmm, but was there anyone else?’
‘No one else, swami.’
‘Why was the prince wearing a merchant’s dress when I found you?’ Skandadasa asked. This was one question that had nagged him since that eventful night when Bijjala claimed to have fought the Vaithalikas and saved Kattappa. He knew Kattappa was lying, but he wanted to know who had procured the clothes for the prince.
Kattappa looked down without answering.
‘Where did you procure merchant’s clothes for the prince?’
‘I did not procure it, swami. It was supplied by the palace eunuch Brihannala,’ Kattappa said without looking up.
Suddenly everything fell into place for Skandadasa. He had been worrying about the extra drummer and where he had come from. Now he understood that Brihannala had persuaded a merchant to lend his clothes to Bijjala and then smuggled the merchant out as a drummer later.
Skandadasa had always included Brihannala in the group of suspects. Brihannala might have been doing this in collusion with Keki to trap the prince and take him to gamble in Kalika’s den. But something told Skandadasa that this was not a straightforward case of greed. He knew
some criminal activity was going on, but could not figure out what it was. He wondered whether it could just be a case of raging hormones. The princes were supposed to be celibate till they turned twenty-one, as per tradition. But Bijjala would not be the first prince in the three-hundred-year-old history of the kingdom to break this rule. Something was not adding up, though. Why should so many people be involved in arranging a meeting between Bijjala and Kalika? A woman could have easily been found in the harem of the king. Many women would have happily bedded the future king of Mahishmathi. No, there had to be more to it.
He had to find out who the merchant was, and where he’d gone. Whether he was just a petty merchant who was paid by Brihannala for his clothes, or whether he was someone who had played a more sinister part. How did the Vaithalikas know Bijjala would come down that road, at that time? He could sense Pattaraya’s hand somewhere, but there was no proof. Going to Devadasi Street to find witnesses was ruled out.
‘Did your master bed any devadasi?’ Skandadasa asked the slave.
Kattappa shook his head. Skandadasa was frustrated. This was leading nowhere.
‘Did he really save you or did you save him? When I found you, you were grievously injured and on the verge of death, whereas the prince had no injuries except a bloody nose. I found it strange,’ Skandadasa decided to play his ace.
The slave’s lips trembled. He prostrated before Skandadasa and cried, ‘Don’t tell anyone, swami. No one should know. If someone knows my master was drunk and had to depend on a slave to save his life, it would be a great insult to him. Please do not tell anyone…’
Skandadasa was touched by the slave’s words. He had prided himself for having suffered a great deal of ignominy for the sake of his country, and here was a slave who had almost died saving his master, who did not care whether he lived or died. The slave’s sincerity pricked the bubble of Skandadasa’s pride. Work without expecting any reward—Nishkama karmi—the word had a new meaning for Skandadasa.
When he spoke next, he struggled to hide the choking he felt in his throat. ‘Son, your secret will remain with me till death. I wish we had more men like you.’
He helped Kattappa get up and walk inside. As Kattappa hobbled along, Skandadasa accidentally tripped on his dhoti and tugged it loose. The slave caught it before it slipped to the ground and retied it. Skandadasa averted his eyes. He would remember this incident later, when it would be too late.
He asked suddenly, throwing the slave off balance, ‘Who injured Bijjala?’
Kattappa did not reply.
‘Did it happen in Kalika’s inn?’
Kattappa remained silent.
Skandadasa was frustrated. ‘Did it happen during the fight with the Vaithalikas. I know that could not be. Bijjala was holding a spear. No one could’ve come and punched his nose without being killed. The punch was given much before the fight. Am I right?’
Skandadasa thought he discerned a slight nod from the slave. He was not going to get much more. He decided to cut short the visit.
He helped Kattappa to his bed and said goodbye. At the door frame, he paused and threw the bait he had saved for the end. ‘Your brother is roaming around with the Vaithalikas.’
‘Where?’ Kattappa asked and bit his tongue.
Kattappa covered his face with his palm. He had realized his mistake a tad too late. He had given away his brother. By biting Skandadasa’s bait, he had declared that his brother was still alive. That he had lied so far.
Kattappa was terrified of what the upapradhana would do now. He could hear the barks of the Mudhol hounds in his head. He sat, unable to face Skandadasa, scared if he looked at him again, he would suck all his secrets out. He sensed that the upapradhana had gone, yet he sat in his cot, afraid even to breath. He was still sitting in the same position when his neighbour, an old slave woman, brought him some gruel. He continued to sit without moving until the gruel turned tepid and flies buzzed around it. Birds in the rushes by the river called out as the day bled to death. Night sneaked out from his hut and spread everywhere.
It took the cry of the mottled wood owl to shock him out of his reverie. He shivered when the bird cried again. The harbinger of death. Despite the cold wet breeze from without, he was sweating. He had to find his brother before it was too late. He stood up, leaning on his stick, and limped towards the door. He paused at the threshold.
It would be the first time he would be leaving the hut after that night and he felt uneasy. He chided himself for being paranoid. He touched his waistband where he had tied the stone Pattaraya had given him. He slammed the door shut and stepped into ankle-deep slush.
He limped past the rows of slave huts. He wished he had his sword with him but his father had taken it away. He would get it back only if Bijjala took him back into service. It was dark and humid, with rain falling like the sky was melting. He had no idea where he should search for Shivappa. His leg was throbbing with pain and he was out of breath by the time he reached the river. He stood at the banks, watching the inky blackness of the sliding river for some time. Over the spatter of rain, he could hear the dull roar of the Patalaganga falls. It would be suicidal to swim across. With a heavy heart, he was about to turn back when he heard a cough. His first instinct was to go for his sword, but he was not carrying one.
His stick fell from his hands and splashed into the river. Before he could catch it, the current carried it away. Again, he heard the sound of someone coughing. As he stared into the darkness, he could discern the silhouette of a thatched boathouse to his left. He limped over and stood panting, holding the bamboo pillar of the boathouse.
‘Can you take me across?’ Kattappa asked an old man who was sitting huddled inside. The man suddenly jumped towards Kattappa and came very close to the slave’s face.
‘Want to go across? Want to go across? Everyone wants to go somewhere. Why can’t people be happy where they are? One day, when Yama comes to take them to the only place they belong, they cry and scream and struggle. Why? Answer me!’
A madman. Kattappa flinched from the smell of the man’s unwashed body and clothes.
‘Where…where is the boatman?’ he managed to ask.
‘Gone. Gone down to the bottom of the river. Gone up to the heaven. How should I know? Why should I care? When I came here, this place was empty. When I am gone from here, this place will be empty again. Or will it be? Is there any empty place? Answer me! Answer me!’
Kattappa turned away to go, but a firm hand grasped his shoulders. ‘Brother, want to go across?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, why don’t you swim?’
Kattappa tried to shrug off the old man’s grip.
‘Afraid of dying?’ Though Kattappa could not see his face clearly in the darkness, he could sense the mockery in his tone.
‘No,’ Kattappa said.
‘Liar.’
Before he could answer, the old man had untied a coracle from the roof. He laughed again and grabbed Kattappa’s wrist. Kattappa found himself being dragged to the river. Pain exploded through his nerves as his injured leg hit the stone steps many times. The old man threw the reed basket into the current, yelled, ‘Shambo Mahadeva,’ and jumped into water, his head disappearing into the eddies of the swift current. Kattappa hesitated at the edge of the river, not knowing what to do. The very next moment, a hand shot out and pulled Kattappa into the water. His head hit the stones and his scream was cut short by the rush of water. Everything went blank.
When he opened his eyes, he was in the swirling reed boat, hurtling through the darkness. The old man was sitting at the other edge, both his hands out of the basket. His head was thrown back and disappeared behind his arching body. The world swam around Kattappa as he vomited water, gagged and coughed, clutching his belly. He steadied himself, holding on to the edge of the coracle.
They were in the middle of the river, and rain fell in sheets, drenching them. The old man was singing in some unknown tongue. He peppered his song with laughter and howls.
Kattappa cursed his luck. He wondered how he could escape the clutches of this madman.
‘Why do you want to go to the other side?’ the old man asked suddenly. The boat swayed and tilted as he crawled towards Kattappa.
‘None of your business,’ Kattappa said curtly.
The old man laughed aloud and gave a spin to the basket. Kattappa held the sides so firmly that his palms bled.
‘Afraid of death?’
Kattappa did not say anything.
‘Good, at least your silence doesn’t lie. How about some truth? What is the purpose of this foolish journey?’
‘I am in search of my brother.’
The old man laughed again. ‘No one is anyone’s brother, son. The world is a jungle and each of us is alone. Each of us is the hunter and every one is the hunted. Kill or be killed. In this jungle, only the smartest will survive. Your brother is smart, you are not. You are a fool, filled with stupid notions of duty. Unless you cure yourself of this disease, you are doomed.’
‘Who are you?’ Kattappa asked.
‘I am everyone. I am no one. I am Yama, I am Shiva, I am Vishnu and I am Brahma. In this mad, mad world, I am the only one who is sane. I am known by the name Bhairava, the insane.’
Kattappa had heard about the mad Bhairava from his father. The slave who had served the king of Mahishmathi, faithful as a dog, for many years. The slave whose family was killed at the orders of the king for a crime which no one remembered now. The tragedy that had made him mad. The madness that made him attack the king. The madness that saved his life but left him to rot in his insanity. Kattappa had assumed he was dead. It was terrifying to be alone with him, in a rickety reed boat in the middle of a stormy night, in the roaring Mahishmathi. No one would even know where he had gone.
‘Jump,’ the mad Bhairava said.
The Rise of Sivagami : Book 1 of Baahubali - Before the Beginning Page 19
