‘Shivappa, Shivappa,’ Kattappa cried, patting his brother’s cheeks. He shook his brother’s shoulders and cried, ‘Ayyo, ayyo, Shivappa, wake up, wake up, brother. What have I done to you? NO, NO.’
Kattappa stared at his brother’s body and sat back in shock. Then realization sank in and he hit his head with both his hands, ‘Oh, I have killed you, ayyo, I have killed you, brother. Oh gods, punish me. I am worthless. I killed my brother.’
An eagle screeched above and circled in the sky. Wind raced through the meadow, making the army of grass bend in submission. Was it the wind that made Shivappa’s eyelashes move, or was the setting sun playing tricks with his grief? The slave stopped crying and moved towards his brother’s limp body. Kattappa kneeled down and shook his brother again. He dropped his head onto his brother’s chest, hoping against hope.
Kattappa felt a powerful hand grip his neck and press his face down. Shocked, he tried to wriggle away, and saw that he was staring into Shivappa’s eyes.
The pain started as a pinprick in his back and then exploded in a trice, spreading through every nerve of his body. Kattappa understood what it was. He had been stabbed. Stabbed by his brother.
His brother pulled himself out from under Kattappa and stood over him. His head covered the blood-red sun. Blood trickled down Kattappa’s chest, spreading warmth through his body. The smell of his blood made him giddy. The earth swam around him. His brother had tricked him, stabbed him in his back. Why, my little brother, why, he wanted to ask.
‘Our father taught us more than marmavidya, Anna,’ his brother’s voice sounded as if it were coming from afar. ‘He taught us to consider our duty above everything, even above blood relationships.’
Kattappa wanted to say something, but he was swimming in and out of consciousness.
‘My duty is to my race. My mission is to free the slaves. For that I will do anything.’
Kattappa tried to focus on the words, but his brother’s voice seemed to be merging with the roar of the river far below, and with the rustle of grass near him. He was slipping down. He was rolling now, and sometimes he smelled the wetness of grass, sometimes the expanse of the sky. Kattappa stopped at the edge of the cliff. A rainbow had arced across the river. What a beautiful dusk to die in, Kattappa thought, as his brother stood looming above him.
‘I will go to any extent to achieve my dream,’ Shivappa said. His brother’s voice. Kattappa was so proud of his little brother. He wanted to hold Shivappa’s hands once more.
‘No one can stop me because my cause is bigger than any individual.’ Shivappa’s words were so inspiring. My brother is a hero, Kattappa thought. They were little now, running through the meadow, laughing, yelling. They were chasing hares through the grasslands. They were playing with wooden swords as their father watched.
Images, memories, useless, precious. The river laughed from below. The rainbow throbbed.
He felt his brother’s arms lifting him up. He stared into his brother’s eyes with all the love he could muster. His brother was crying. Shivappa, son, don’t cry, he wanted to say. He wanted to lift his hands to wipe those tears. But he was too tired.
‘Anna, forgive me.’
Kattappa heard his brother’s words, and before he could reply, he was flying through the air. His brother, standing at the edge of the cliff, watching him falling down, became smaller and smaller. The rainbow parted as the slave fell, as if afraid of touching his black body. The river had no qualms about the colour of his skin. She would embrace anyone who came to her and keep them in her heart. She waited for him below, laughing with her countless hands beating over as many rocks. The river with a heart of stone.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Parameswara
It was a damp day when Thimma entered the room of Mahapradhana Parameswara. The mahapradhana was busy with his assistant Roopaka, and he gestured for Thimma to take a seat. Thimma sat on the edge of his chair, nervously clasping the table in front of him. Behind Parameswara’s seat, there was a huge window through which Thimma could see rain falling like thread from the roof. The rains depressed Thimma. Rain is the sorrow of gods, he thought as he watched the palace gardens dissolve in a haze of mist and drizzle. As a child, rain meant endless amusement; in youth it meant romance; in middle-age, nothing mattered except the struggle of everyday living; but it was in the last leg of one’s life when the rains assumed their sinister avatar.
Thimma knew this day would come; he had dreaded it every moment since the death of his friend Devaraya. Now he could understand Devaraya better. He had come to beg for one last time so he would not be forced to do something that revolted against everything he stood for.
The room was bare except for piles of books and an easy chair in a corner where the old man took his afternoon siesta. Thimma’s eyes locked onto something by the side of the chair. He stood up and walked to it. It was a toy elephant, crudely made, as if by the hands of a child. It looked so incongruous in the room of the prime minister of Mahishmathi. Thimma picked it up. The marks of the little fingers that had shaped the mud were still on it. It had such an endearing quality of domesticity, of the innocence of childhood, that he was reminded for a moment of Akhila. He felt a lump in his throat.
‘My grandson’s, Thimma,’ Parameswara said. Roopaka was walking away with a bundle of palm leaves that bore the mahapradhana’s official seal. Parameswara stood up, fumbled for his walking stick, and headed to Thimma’s side. A smile lit up the old man’s face as he took the elephant from Thimma’s hands. For the next few minutes, Parameswara talked about his grandchildren. Thimma stood, listening to tales that made his heart heavier. Outside, the rain continued to fall unceasingly. When Parameswara finally enquired after the reason of his visit, Thimma hesitated. But he knew he had to get this over with soon, or he would lose courage.
Thimma said softly, ‘Swami, I am resigning. I cannot do this.’
Parameswara stared at Thimma and shook his head, ‘If only it were so easy…’
‘You are so proud of your grandchildren, swami. Why can’t you understand the pain of others? There are many grandfathers who have lost their grandchildren, there are mothers who have gone insane after losing their children.’
‘All for the sake of our country, Thimma. If you do not do it, someone else will. Only you can do it with compassion,’ Parameswara said sympathetically.
‘No, I cannot.’
‘The Gaurikanta stones will reach Guha Bhoomi anytime now, Thimma. There are only a few days till Mahamakam. It is your duty to bring them across the river and get them to the workshop safely. The security and safety of Mahishmathi and its people depend on it. Our civilization owes its prosperity and progress to Gaurikanta. You have to do it for the country, friend.’ Parameswara tried to place his hand on Thimma’s shoulder but Thimma shrugged it away.
‘Why can’t this be the last time? Why can’t we let the boys go? They have toiled enough for us. Why do we have to kill them all and then get a new set of boys every twelve years?’
‘It is not killing, Thimma. It is a sacrifice for Amma Gauri, for Mahishmathi, for—’
‘Swami, do you believe in what you are saying?’ Thimma’s eyes flashed with anger.
‘For the greater good, a few have to be sacrificed. Aren’t the soldiers sacrificing their lives for the country, Thimma?’
‘Swami, forgive my impertinence,’ Thimma said and took the toy elephant from Parameswara. ‘Would you have the little hands that fashioned this to dig Gaurikanta in the mines?’
Parameswara trembled with rage. For a moment, his voice choked. He grabbed the elephant back from Thimma and pointed to the door with his walking stick. ‘Out, out of this room, this moment!’ he shouted.
‘Sacrifices are meant to be made by others, swami? Like the children of the poor, of the helpless, of the destitute, of the lower castes—’
‘I won’t have this conversation. I will have you arrested,’ Parameswara’s lips trembled with rage.
‘And hang
me like you did Devaraya? For standing up against injustice? I will happily hang for it, but I will not commit this sin.’ Thimma glared at the old man.
‘You think it is so easy? Eh? You think you can become the hero and sacrifice yourself? Last time, when the king hanged Devaraya, it was me who saved his girl by pleading her case with him. The rule is that the entire family hangs for treason, Thimma. Remember that. If the maharaja decides to hang you and your family, I will not lift my little finger to save you.’
Thimma’s shoulders slouched in defeat. He bowed stiffly to Parameswara and left without a word.
Parameswara stood in the cavernous room, alone and crushed. His fingers carressed the toy elephant. Outside, the rain had gathered strength and an unhinged window banged against its frame. He pulled himself to his chair and collapsed into it. Thimma’s words weighed heavily on Parameswara. The questions Thimma had asked were his own questions. He knew the answers. They were buried deep inside his heart. He had fooled himself by forcing his mind to believe that he was doing this for his country. So far he had suppressed the voice of his conscience with the idea that he was only doing his duty.
But Thimma’s question to him about why he was not letting his grandson work in Gauriparvat had forced open the door to his conscience with the strength of a crowbar. From any other man, he would have taken it as an insult. He would have ensured that such a man was ruined forever. But coming from a scrupulously honest man like Thimma, it was as if a mirror had been held to his face, and a stranger had stared back at him. He did not like what he saw. Fifty years ago, when he had joined the service of Mahishmathi, this was not what he had aimed for. He’d had lofty goals; he was proud of his compassion and intelligence. Over time, though, he had fought political battles, he had done the right things as well as many wrong things to advance his career, and finally he had managed to fulfil his ambition: to become the mahapradhana of Mahishmathi. That was the tragedy of his life. Looking back, he wished that, at least once, he’d had the courage of Devaraya. He wished at least once he’d had the courage of conviction to stand up against the maharaja, like Thimma had done against him, and say he would not do something so heartless.
He was a coward, Parameswara told himself. It was a sad realization, after a career spanning half a century. His wife was right. It was time to leave everything and retire. He looked at the toy elephant with fondness. He would spend more time playing with his grandchildren, he thought as he placed it back down near the chair. Thimma’s words about the grandchildren of the poor came rushing from the depths of his heart, and with an iron will he pushed them down. There would not be any peace if he kept thinking like that. I am not only a coward, but a selfish man too, he thought sadly. He extended his arm to ring the bell to call Roopaka. His sleeve caught the toy elephant and it fell down, shattering into shapeless pieces.
When Roopaka came, he was staring down at the broken pieces. The room was unlit and cold.
‘Swami?’ Roopaka asked softly.
Parameswara willed himself to turn towards his assistant. He was thankful that there was no light. He would have been embarrassed had Roopaka seen the tears in his eyes.
‘Arrange for an appointment with the maharaja now. Also, call for Skandadasa.’
‘Yes, swami.’ Roopaka turned to go. He paused at the door and asked, ‘And if they ask, what should I say…’
In answer Parameswara walked out of the room. He passed Roopaka, walked down the steps and stood in the rain. He waited for the rain to wash away the weight in his heart. Roopaka stood patiently at the edge of the veranda. Far away, the peak of Gauriparvat was hidden in the clouds.
No rain or even all the waters of the Ganga could wash away my sins. There is the blood of so many innocents on my hands. Amma Gauri, do not judge me harshly, for I was a fool, Parameswara thought.
‘Swami?’ Roopaka called again, as if to remind him of the question.
Parameswara turned around slowly, a bitter smile on his face, and said to his assistant, ‘To the maharaja, don’t say anything; I shall tell him myself. To Skandadasa, tell him that Parameswara has resigned. And do not forget to congratulate him, for he is going to be the next mahapradhana of Mahishmathi.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Thimma
Thimma stood by the river as its waters gushed past him, frothing like black, boiling ink. Rain fell like pellets. Thimma was in no state to go home. He had promised his wife that he would not do his duty on Mahamakam. He thought of jumping into the river and ending it all. But that was a coward’s way out. He would not do it. He would find a solution, but he had no idea how.
It was not the transport of the stones he dreaded—it was the mass murder of boys. They would be younger than Akhila… Mahishmathi is living a lie. The empire will crumble, for it is built upon the tears and blood of innocents, he told himself. Then he felt like laughing. For three centuries the empire had flourished, going from strength to strength, conquering most of the kingdoms from the Snow Mountains to the three seas. The blessing of Amma Gauri, the bards sang.
He thought back to how it had all started. The mining of stones had gone on unabated for centuries. But there was a limit to the benevolence of Gauriparvat. As the years progressed, mines had to be dug deeper into the bowels of the mountain. The mountain became unstable, often caving in. Many miners perished. And soon there was a dearth of slaves to work in the mines. They became expensive to trade, and most of them died very quickly. It was almost a century back that an ingenious and cruel solution was found. It was discovered that smaller tunnels held better than bigger ones. And to crawl through the narrower tunnels, they could use little boys. Initially, on being told that the tunnels were safe, parents sent their sons voluntarily. But while the smaller tunnels were less risky than the larger ones, they were by no means totally safe. As the number of boys dying in the mines increased, people stopped sending their children. No amount of force or money could induce them to send their sons to their deaths. When the maharaja tried to take the boys forcefully, a bloody rebellion broke out. The maharaja was finally forced to declare that he was closing down the mines to end the rebellion.
It was then that the slave trade in boys had started. Merchants and pirates hunted down boys in remote villages in vassal kingdoms. The state acted as if it was trying to control the menace, but often turned a blind eye to it. The responsibility was divided between many officials. Dwarves were recruited to supervise the boys and ensure that they did not escape. Life in the mines made the dwarves extremely cruel, but the officials felt that this was required to get the maximum output from the boys.
The mines began to run deeper and deeper as the years progressed. The Vaithalikas continued to wage their war to regain their holy mountain, but a powerful state like Mahishmathi was never going to let go of its holy cow. Instead, the propaganda machinery of the state borrowed from the myths of the Vaithalikas.
The bards sang that, once in twelve years, Amma Gauri spat out the stones from her belly. There was some truth to this legend. Vaithalikas used to collect such stones many centuries ago and used them as idols to worship. It was conveniently forgotten that this discharging of stones from the volcanic mountain used to happen perhaps once in many centuries. The priests said that, since Mahishmathi was a blessed country, Amma Gauri gave her blessing every twelve years. It was a lie that was convenient for the citizens of Mahishmathi city to believe. Their children were rarely kidnapped to work in the mines—such atrocities only happened in remote villages where the destitute and lower castes lived.
And such people did not matter to the city folks. They lived in their own bubble, pumped up with patriotism and pride in their assumed cultural superiority. For them, Mahishmathi represented the best of humanity, the pinnacle of glory and human achievement. They celebrated their blessings once in twelve years in a grand fashion when all of Mahishmathi would assemble in the palace grounds. The magical light would glow three times from the top of Gauriparvat to mark the beginning of celebratio
ns. The commonfolk believed the light was lit by gods. Those who mattered, like Thimma, knew it was lit by the dwarves of the mines. It was so easy to sell anything to the common people, if one could add an element of magic and some religion into it.
The more Thimma thought about it, the angrier he became. If only they had given Devaraya enough time.
‘Swami, are you planning to jump?’
Thimma was startled by the voice. His hand went to the hilt of his sword.
‘Don’t kill me, swami. It is me, Brihannala.’
The last thing Thimma wanted was to talk to the eunuch. He nodded curtly and started walking to his chariot.
‘Swami, the mahapradhana did not relent, isn’t it?’
Thimma froze. ‘How do you know?’
Brihannala laughed, ‘Knowing is my job, swami.’
Thimma did not want to continue the conversation—he had a gnawing suspicion that the eunuch was leading him into a trap. He climbed into his chariot but Brihannala held the reins of the horse and said, ‘I can help, swami. In fact we can help each other.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Thimma asked.
Brihannala leaned forward and whispered something in his ears. Thimma was shocked.
‘No, I won’t do that,’ he said emphatically.
The Rise of Sivagami : Book 1 of Baahubali - Before the Beginning Page 27
