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

by Anand Neelakantan

  ‘He showed his lenience by making my father crow-feed,’ Sivagami’s eyes glowed with unshed tears.

  ‘You are too young to understand, Sivagami.’

  ‘Not as young as I was when I saw him killed.’

  ‘Until now, Devaraya was considered a man who acted as he thought was right; he did not think about what was right for the country. A misguided man, perhaps. So the maharaja ordered only his execution, for the damage he did was immeasurable. But he spared his family and his servants,’ Skandadasa said, staring at her.

  ‘How kind of him. I am touched.’

  ‘Can’t you understand, girl?’ Skandadasa’s voice acquired a dangerous edge. ‘With this book found in his home, everything changes. It proves he acted with an intention to destroy Mahishmathi. He was a traitor and a thief in every sense. No, don’t interrupt me when I speak, and no theatrics again. He set afire, or got someone to set afire, the library with the intention of stealing this book. He then went on to act in a way that would have jeopardized the future of Mahishmathi. He conspired against the king. He was planning to act in such a way that his actions might have resulted in wiping Mahishmathi from the face of the earth.’

  ‘Let the king hang him again if he can. Or let him hang me,’ Sivagami snapped back. Her lips trembled with rage. ‘You are concocting stories and blaming a dead man who cannot defend himself. Shame on you, sir.’

  Skandadasa shook his head in dismay. ‘How can I make you understand? I am almost sure of what I am saying.’

  ‘Ah, almost—’

  Skandadasa raised his hand to stop Sivagami from talking further. ‘Yes, almost. If I had all the proof, you would have been arrested by now.’

  ‘Arrested for what? For what my father may or may not have done twelve years back? I was five then, swami.’

  ‘Rules are rules, girl. I am telling you this because I want to give you one chance to escape. Had I got all the proof, I would not have bothered to give you this advice. If your father’s guilt is proved, the maharaja would be forced to act as per the ancient code. And don’t act brave and foolish and say “let him hang me.” Hang you they will, but all those servants who served Devaraya would also be hanged with you. Their homes would be razed to dust. Before that happens, run away from this country and never come back. You will not only be saving yourself, but many other lives. Without you, Maharaja will be forced to spare their lives. The servants cannot be punished before the family member. Run far away so that they can never find you.’

  Sivagami was stunned. She did not know how to reply. ‘There can be nothing more evil than the government of Mahishmathi,’ she said finally, her eyes filling up.

  ‘Rules are often cruel but necessary, daughter. As a person I can never support killing so many innocents for no fault of theirs. But no country would survive if it did not make an example of traitors. I wanted to give you this chance as I too find it unfair to go after you considering you were only five when your father decided to sell this country. That is why I called you—to warn you. Run away and everyone shall be spared.’

  Sivagami threw back her head and said defiantly, ‘No. You have nothing that can prove my father’s guilt. You are lying.’

  ‘You will regret this.’

  ‘I will not run away. Do you want to know why? I will destroy this evil empire that has killed so many innocents like my father,’ Sivagami said.

  ‘You may leave,’ Skandadasa said in a flat tone.

  Sivagami walked towards the door without looking back. At the door, she paused. She had to ask this question.

  ‘I thought you were a good man when I saw you last time, swami. How can you be so cruel?’

  Skandadasa walked towards her and stood close to her. The slanting rays of the sun fell on his cragged face, making him look tired and old.

  ‘You think I relish what I am doing? This is my duty, my offering, my prayer. In this job, I have to do many things I hate. But that is my way of repaying this country for making me who I am. I was not born privileged like your father. Neither destiny nor this country gave me anything on a silver plate. But I am still grateful for what I have. There are more instances than I can count when I have hated my job, yet I continue to work like a draught animal. I could have lived a miserable life, criticizing everything about the system. It has done worse things than what it did to your father. It has robbed the diginity of people like me. The illiterate, oppressed and broken people. The entire system has crushed us for many thousands of years. Yet, when the opportunity arrived, I grabbed it and decided to put my heart and soul into the betterment of all citizens. I vowed to myself that I would never discriminate, never be unfair and never do what others have done to us. It is easy to take revenge, to kill and to die. It is tough to be part of the system and change it, inch by inch. I have been fair to you in warning you about the impending danger. But if my country asks me to kill you, I shall do it without blinking an eye. I may not sleep for days after that, yet I will do it for my country.’

  ‘You boast about your sense of duty and yet you ask me to run from mine, swami. Is it not the dharma of the daughter to avenge her father’s death? Should I not fight back in whatever way I can?’ Sivagami said.

  ‘Fight all you want, but you will never win. You can change a system only by being part of that system, by being part of the change. You are filled with fury and have lost the ability to think straight. You have only thoughts of revenge in your mind. By staying here, you are risking the chance life is offering you. You can fight or change things only if you are alive.’

  ‘Good day to you, swami. If you find sufficient proof, you know where I live.’ Sivagami bowed and walked away from Skandadasa.

  Her mind was in turmoil. For a moment, she was assailed by doubts that he could be right. His words rang with sincerity, and it was difficult to ignore his warning. Yet she did not want to run away. Never run away from a problem—she remembered Thimma’s words. As she walked back to the orphanage, she thought about how she could diffuse the threat. The inspiration struck suddenly. She would steal the book from Skandadasa.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Kattappa

  Kattappa was sitting under a sprawling fig tree, watching the Vaithalika warriors practise in a clearing.

  For a few days after reaching the Vaithalikas, he had been sure the slave-catchers would trace him with their hounds. He was relieved and saddened at the same time when no one came for him. He was relieved that his brother remained safe; and he was sad that even the absence of a priced slave like him was of no consequence to his masters. He did not want to think about their indifference—he did not matter; he had always known that—but it still hurt. He was yet to achieve his father’s wisdom. He did not want to think about a lot of things. Like the disturbing sight Bhutaraya had shown him.

  Even after almost three weeks, the shock of seeing the pile of children’s skeletons had not worn off. Kattappa wondered what sort of men would treat children in that way. His sense of righteousness had been shaken. His job did not seem so sacred anymore. His ire against the Vaithalikas and their methods of terror felt hollow. What terrible secrets did each of the nobles of his kingdom hold?

  He was surprised at how good a warrior Shivappa was turning out to be. Watching his younger brother, his heart filled with love and pride. It was difficult to believe the young man fighting like an angry cock was the toddler he had once carried in his arms to see the antics of a street jester or mahouts bathing elephants in the temple ponds. He had been just a boy a little while back, following him everywhere. Does a younger brother ever grow up? To him, he would always remain a child.

  The forest was silent except for the clang of swords and the twang of bows. Warriors yelled, slapped each other’s backs, taunted those who missed their targets and clapped for perfect shots. The sun rose steadily over their heads. Kattappa’s hands itched to hold a sword, to swing it above his head, crouch like a tiger with his chest feeling the dew of the grass, to leap up, twist and spin in the ai
r, and land on his feet while swinging his weapon in a graceful arc. He wanted to cross his spear with a warrior, to feel a throbbing horse between his legs, the caress of a breeze on his balding head.

  From afar, faint tunes and the hum of crowds could be heard across the river. It would be Mahamakam in another nine days, and he missed his Mahishmathi. Yet, he could no longer think about his beloved city without seeing the images of mutilated little bodies falling from the top of Gauriparvat, without feeling the smell of rotting corpses, without hearing the sounds of foxes and crows feeding on decaying little hands and half-gnawed faces.

  The more he thought about the atrocities that the Vaithalikas claimed were being perpetuated by the Mahishmathi empire, the more helpless he felt. He had ceased to think of Bijjala as the epitome of evil. If what the Vaithalikas said was true, Bijjala was just a misguided fool. And if his father, being the bodyguard of the maharaja, knew what was going on…what did that make him?

  Kattappa fervently wished it wasn’t true, but somewhere inside him, he knew that it was impossible that his father could have remained ignorant. But that meant his father was serving the regime even after knowing what it was doing, which in turn meant that Shivappa was right about him. But his father could do no wrong. His maharaja could do no wrong. Maybe it was the doing of some evil and corrupt officials…but that did not absolve the king. Rather, it made the king an inept ruler. Kattappa bit his tongue. How could he think like that about the king? It was treason.

  The word ‘treason’ sent a shockwave down his spine. His brother was planning something big for Mahamakam. It was not that he had forgotten it, but the fact that the day was approaching soon, and he was still with the Vaithalikas, made him realize that even his commitment to the oath of his forefathers was wavering and his own loyalty was suspect to his mind. Again, Kattappa wondered why no slave-catchers had come in search of him.

  He had to escape today, if at all. He had to persuade his brother to give up his foolish dream. They needed to talk to their father and clarify things. Maybe everything would be cleared if they could just do that. His father would be overjoyed to see Shivappa. And they could reach Mahishmathi in time to warn his father about the impending coup.

  Kattappa had been wanting to talk to Shivappa, somehow dissuade him from this suicidal mission. But Bhutaraya kept his guards near Kattappa constantly. They stuck to him like leeches, following him even when he went to answer nature’s call.

  He watched as Shivappa took on four warriors with his bare hands. His brother flipped the first attacker over his shoulder while cracking the next one’s chin with his leg. The next two attacked together, yelling and swinging their swords from either side. Kattappa’s heart was in his throat when he saw the flash of metal, but his brother jumped, twisted and rolled, evading the cuts, thrusts and blows from the swords. In a whirlwind attack, all four fell on Shivappa together. Kattappa watched, gripping the edge of his cot until the four warriors went spinning to either side. He cheered with the other Vaithalikas while Shivappa thumped his chest and gave a bloodcurdling yell. Now, Kattappa thought.

  In a swift moment, he drew the sword from the scabbard of the guard to his left, turned on his heels, and before the first guard knew what had happened, Kattappa had taken the second sword from the guard to his right. He ran towards Shivappa, surprising everyone. He threw a sword at Shivappa who caught it in mid-air.

  ‘Show your skills to your brother,’ he yelled.

  Kattappa saw Bhutaraya stopping the guards who were rushing towards them. Shivappa smiled and said, ‘Anna, you are still weak.’

  ‘The king’s guards are not a bunch of milk babies like this bunch,’ Kattappa said, gesturing with a sweeping hand at the Vaithalika warriors. He was greeted with a roar of disapproval.

  ‘They will make mincemeat of you before you can even sneeze,’ Kattappa said, eyeing Bhutaraya.

  ‘Shivappa, get back,’ Bhutaraya said, scowling and drawing his sword. Kattappa’s heart sank. He had wanted his brother to bite the bait, not Bhutaraya. That was the only way he could get a chance to talk to him.

  ‘Swami, he is my brother. Let me handle him,’ Kattappa heard his brother say. Bhutaraya grunted and put back his sword in its sheath.

  The Vaithalikas stood in a circle as the two brothers bowed to each other and touched the ground with their right hands in respect. They stepped back and then rushed forward, their swords clanging. They stood pressing their chests against the blunt edge of their swords.

  ‘Enough of this foolishness. Let us go home,’ Kattappa hissed.

  ‘Coming there soon,’ his brother said and drew his sword back, making sparks fly. ‘This Mahamakam, to kill your king.’

  Kattappa warded off his brother’s strike, twisted and pressed his brother’s sword to the ground. They were shoulder to shoulder. ‘Don’t get yourself killed.’

  His brother shoved him, danced back and leaped high, evading Kattappa’s thrust and, arcing his sword, landed on the ground. ‘Stay here and save yourself. Anna, you are too weak to even walk.’

  Kattappa answered with a flurry of thrusts, cuts and strikes. Each one was parried with dexterity and answered back with ferocity. Kattappa felt alive after many days. He was careful not to hurt his brother, yet Shivappa showed no such consideration. It does not matter, Kattappa thought. He is still my younger brother, a little boy. But he made sure to block his brother’s attacks. Every thrust was evaded or returned. Step for step, strike for strike, the two slaves fought as Vaithalikas cheered from all sides. The brothers were soon covered in sweat and out of breath from talking. Grunts were answered with grunts, yells with screams, curses with swear words. A few cuts here and there would not hurt, Kattappa thought, and it was needed to provoke his brother. He feigned weakness and then struck like a cobra when his brother attacked. He drew first blood, which made Shivappa blind with rage. He is still my competitive little brother, Kattappa smiled, as the next strike sent sparks flying near his face.

  ‘You are still a boy, Shivappa,’ he said and was answered with a kick to his ribs. Kattappa fell down and rolled away just when his brother’s sword came down close to his neck. For a moment, Kattappa felt angry. He should not have done that. That was against the rules of combat.

  ‘You are playing unfairly,’ Kattappa said as he rolled again.

  ‘When has life been fair to us? Time to pay back in the same way,’ Shivappa retorted.

  ‘That is not what our father taught us,’ Kattappa said, as he landed back on his feet and nicked Shivappa’s shoulder.

  ‘He taught us many wrong things,’ Shivappa said as his movements became more aggressive. He attacked Kattappa with a flurry of swings and thrusts. Kattappa backtracked and the circle of onlookers split to give the warriors room. They continued to spar with each other. A few more feet and they would clear the open space. Kattappa eyed the Vaithalikas. They were engrossed in the fight. His brother no longer seemed to be fighting for practice. A chill ran down his back as Kattappa realized that his brother was fighting to kill. Bhutaraya had converted him into a weapon. If he had to save his brother, he had to take him back. He let his brother’s sword nick him in his shoulder. As expected, the edge pierced his right shoulder; he threw down his sword and held his wound with his left hand. He could feel the warmth of the blood spurting through his fingers. He feigned fainting. His brother dropped his sword and rushed to him to catch Kattappa before he could fall down. In a swift move, Kattappa grabbed Shivappa, turned him, and thrust his index finger in his brother’s neck. Shivappa collapsed, paralyzed.

  Looking at his brother’s bulging eyes, Kattappa said, ‘There are a few right things our father taught us. Marmavidya, the art of paralyzing people, is one of them.’ His brother tried to say something, but only gurgling sounds emerged from his mouth. Kattappa had to act fast—his brother would be paralyzed only for a little while. The Vaithalikas were running towards them now. Kattappa lifted his brother onto his shoulders and crashed into the thick undergrowth. H
e could hear the Vaithalikas behind them. An arrow swished past his ears. He continued to run, weaving his way through the bushes, zigzagging through the jungle. He could hear the trees coming alive. His brother lay limp on his shoulders. His leg had started paining, yet there was no time to stop. A spear splintered a tree ahead of him. He looked back, running, and crashed into a tree ahead and fell down. His brother rolled down on the ground. He scampered to his feet and was about to pick his brother up again, when a warrior crashed through the bushes. Kattappa caught him by his neck, heaved him up and slammed him to the ground. He picked up his brother, turned left and ran blindly into a thorny bush. The earth disappeared below his legs.

  He fell, crashing through the trees, bouncing on branches, cracking them, remaining suspended for the fraction of an eye blink, and then continuing to freefall again. His shoulders hit the ground first and pain shot through his ribs. Everything went blank, the sky was down, the earth was up and there was grass in his mouth as he rolled down the hill. He slammed into a rock and blacked out. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was at the edge of a cliff. Down below, the river roared its way to the distant sea. Shivappa, where was Shivappa? He panicked. For a moment, he thought his brother had fallen down and the river had swallowed him. The hill sloped dangerously towards the cliff edge, dropping a good three hundred feet down to the raging river. He turned on his back, screaming with pain and fear and an impending sense of doom. He screamed his brother’s name to the river. All he heard was the echo of his own desperate voice. The river laughed back, taunting him. He slammed his fist down beside him again and again. He was about to slither down the slippery slope to check for signs of his brother, when he thought he heard a noise from above.

  There, Kattappa told himself, that could be him! There he was. Or was it just the sound of a rock falling? ‘Oh god, let it be my brother, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods,’ he chanted as he ran up the slope. He fell down on his knees and slipped back, his fingers desperately grappling for a hold in the ground. The earth gave up the grass without any fight, and he slipped further down. In the slanting rays of the sun, he could barely make out a coiled figure that was somehow being prevented from falling by a protruding rock. He managed to get up again and run up the hill, holding on to shrubs and clefts in the meadow. Loose stones raced down the slope like children, bouncing through the grass, and vanishing into the abyss to the roaring river below. Kattappa reached the rock and pulled himself up. His brother was lying on his back, his eyes staring at the swirling clouds above.