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

by Anand Neelakantan

  Without a word, he began to backtrack. Bijjala became aware that Skandadasa was not beside him only after a few seconds. When he turned, Skandadasa was hurrying back the way they had come. Bijjala ran after him.

  ‘Hey, hey, where are you going?’

  ‘To the maharaja. Anything you want to discuss, we will discuss it before him.’

  Bijjala grabbed Skandadasa’s hand. ‘You are not going anywhere.’

  Skandadasa looked down at Bijjala’s hand and calmly prised his fingers open. ‘We will talk in the morning, Prince. Now I have a job to do.’

  Suddenly, from the shadows, three men moved in front of him. ‘We hate procrastinating important things, Skandadasa,’ a fat figure said in a low voice.

  ‘Pattaraya,’ Skandadasa exclaimed.

  ‘At your service, Mahapradhana.’ Pattaraya moved forward and bowed with mock humility. Behind him stood Pratapa and Rudra Bhatta. Skandadasa turned back and saw Bijjala had taken out his sword and was running his index finger along its sharp edge.

  Pattaraya put his plump hand on Skandadasa’s shoulder and said, ‘It would be better if we keep this between ourselves. What do you say Pratapa, Rudra Bhatta? Our mahapradhana is kind enough to invite us in. Swami, please open the door.’

  Pattaraya and Pratapa led Skandadasa to the door. As the mahapradhana opened the door with his trembling hands, he wondered who had opened and shut his drawer a few moments back if these people had been waiting outside.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Shivappa

  Shivappa had watched Kamakshi walking away and it had broken his heart. Initially, he was angry at her behaviour. Why couldn’t she understand the importance of his mission? His life was in danger and all she cared about was a sweet reunion. But when she had left, guilt started growing and soon it consumed him.

  He had not told her anything specific. He had asked her to be ready for the day and she might have come with great dreams. Dreams of living together, dreams of a family, dreams of living a free life and not that of a slave, in some faraway land, dreams of living as man and wife with many children playing around them. Their shared dreams, their wishes, their love for each other. Against their love, thoughts of revolution, the freedom of the Vaithailikas, Gauriparvat—everything looked silly, everything a coloured lie. Nothing was more precious than Kamakshi for Shivappa.

  Shivappa began to follow her through the crowd. It was difficult, and many times he lost sight of her. Then he saw her entering the garden path and sneaking past the dozing sentry. At the far end of the garden was the office complex that housed the residences of many high officials, but they would be closed at this time. He stood frozen, worried that he was far away from where he was supposed to be as per Bhutaraya’s plan.

  Shivappa knew the bell would toll six any moment. That was the time that had been decided for the coup to start. By the next bell, they were supposed to weave their way in stealth towards the king, but Shivappa was moving in the opposite direction. The drum he was carrying felt heavy on his shoulders. The urumi sword lay coiled like a snake under the drum head. He had only to whip it out and wave it and his men would rush from all sides to the dais to cut off the head of Maharaja Somadeva. Instead, he was walking in search of his lover. He felt horrible for betraying his cause. But then, he told himself, he was just another cog in the great wheel of revolution. An insignificant speck. They would manage without him. But his Kamakshi had only him.

  He walked up to the garden gate, by which time the dozing sentry had woken up and another had joined him. Shivappa had no plausible excuse to be there. He was supposed to be at the far end, along with the tribals, slaves and untouchables. They eyed him suspiciously and barked at him to return the way he had come. Shivappa was getting desperate—he had to find his Kamakshi. One of the sentries shoved him back and ordered him to go away. His hand went to his drum. At that moment, he saw Prince Mahadeva running towards them.

  ‘Shivappa!’

  Prince Mahadeva was as shocked as he was. For a moment they stood facing each other, too startled to move. Shivappa was the first to recover. With a punch he broke the drum head and whipped the urumi from inside.

  Mahadeva screamed, ‘Arrest him!’

  Before the sentries could react, Shivappa’s urumi lashed out and coiled around one of the guards’ necks. Shivappa gave a pull and the urumi came coiling back to his hand. The guard’s head rolled on the ground. Prince Mahadeva screamed in fear and stepped back. He cried out to the other guard, ‘Go, soldier, run—tell them the Vaithalikas have got in. The maharaja’s life is in danger…’

  The soldier ran screaming and Shivappa lashed his whip sword at him. The urumi’s sinuous end twisted around the guard’s neck and ripped off his head. Mahadeva stood there, shocked, his limbs trembling with fear. He knew he was no match for Shivappa. He had been beaten by the slave several times during practice. He saw Shivappa wind the urumi back into a tight coil. The words of Kattappa came flashing to his mind. His family’s life was in danger and his country was in danger.

  Mahadeva rushed towards Shivappa and caught him by his waist. Shivappa had expected the prince to flee. The sudden action took him by surprise and together they fell down on the ground. The long ribbon sword was useless as Shivappa did not have enough space to use it. Mahadeva held on to Shivappa and they rolled on the grass. The sword wound around them, cutting into both their skins. Shivappa pushed Mahadeva but the prince clung on, not giving him space to move. Somehow he managed to free his left hand and punched Mahadeva in the face, splitting the prince’s lip. Yet his grip did not loosen. Shivappa pounded at Mahadeva’s face repeatedly. The prince screamed and cried out in pain, but he held on. Shivappa was growing desperate about Kamakshi.

  Mahadeva knew it was a losing battle. He had never been a fighter. He was tackling an opponent bigger than him and more skilful. He wished it was Bijjala instead of him tackling Shivappa. His brother would have overpowered the rebel. Instead, god had willed that a coward like him had to shoulder the responsibility of saving his country. The urumi was cutting into his back, and he had gone numb with the punches he was receiving. He was going to die, he was sure of it. Killed by a slave—even his death would be a blot on the illustrious dynasty of Mahishmathi. A prince who could not even defeat a slave. A sharp pain shot through his stomach and he found himself flying through the air. Shivappa had managed to free his leg and had kicked him. Mahadeva fell on his back, his head slamming hard on the ground. For a moment everything went blank.

  Mahadeva lay wheezing on the grass. Tears of defeat made everything hazy. He waited for the slave to cut off his head. He had tried his best to stop Shivappa, but his best had not been enough. He saw Shivappa’s face looming above him. He closed his eyes, waiting for the cold steel to coil around his neck.

  Then he heard footsteps fading away. With great difficulty he turned his head. And he saw Shivappa stumbling into the garden path, yelling ‘Kamakshi’. Mahadeva wondered why Shivappa had not killed him. Maybe the rebel had felt pity for him. Maybe the gods were giving him a second chance. He tried to get up, pressing his palm on the ground for support, but collapsed and vomited. Amma Gauri, give me strength to reach my father and warn him. The earth swam before his eyes. He coughed up blood, and it frightened him. Coward, coward, a voice said in his mind. Amma Gauri, please…give me a few more moments to live, he prayed, and with a supreme effort pulled himself up onto his feet. He started running towards the dais, to his father.

  The palace bell tolled six times.

  FORTY-SIX

  Bijjala

  When Keki reached Skandadasa’s house, they were leading the mahapradhana into his room. Keki tapped Bijjala’s shoulder and grinned. ‘Your Highness, the present is ready. Keki has kept her word.’

  Bijjala looked at Pattaraya, who gestured that his presence was no longer necessary. Bijjala caught Keki’s hand and, in nervous excitement, asked her, ‘Where is she? Take me there.’ Though he knew where she would be, it would be nice to hear it fro
m Keki’s mouth.

  Keki had no intention of going back to a place haunted by ghosts. She pressed the key in Bijjala’s palm, gave his hand a squeeze, and said, ‘She is waiting in your chambers, Prince. You go to your heaven and drink the elixir. This poor eunuch’s place is here.’

  Bijjala let go of her hand and hurried to his chamber. Keki watched him go and congratulated herself on a job well done. She considered warning him about the ghost of the slave that was haunting the palace and decided against it. The prince would know how to tackle a ghost. He was a great warrior. She sighed at the closed door of Skandadasa’s room and wondered what they were discussing. She felt scared to stand alone in the darkness and drifted towards the garden.

  Bijjala rushed to his chamber. He had seen Kamakshi many times and had fantasized about her a lot. He had never thought his wishes would come true so fast. He must remember to reward Keki for her efforts, he thought. And Pattaraya, too, for the services he was rendering to the country. He hoped they would put the upstart Skandadasa in his place.

  When he was climbing the stairs to reach his chambers, he had been pleased that none of his guards were present. He had given strict orders, in anticipation of the night. He did not want someone to inform his father. But as he walked through the dark corridor he felt some misgivings. He gripped the hilt of his sword and increased his pace.

  His heart skipped a beat. What was the dark shadow that was huddled near his door? He slowed down, cautiously drawing his sword from the scabbard. The figure stood up. Something about it was vaguely familiar. The figure rushed towards him. In the faded moonlight, he saw its face and gasped. The dead slave—Kattappa.

  ‘Swami,’ the ghost called.

  ‘Don’t come near, you pisacha,’ Bijjala screamed, holding out his sword and pointing it at the approaching figure.

  ‘It is me, swami. Your humble slave, Kattappa.’

  Kattappa fell to his knees and bowed low, touching his forehead on the floor.

  ‘You…you are not dead?’ Bijjala asked.

  Kattappa touched his feet with both his hands. Bijjala felt relieved for a moment that it was not a ghost. Then anger came rushing up. The slave had seen his fear. How dare he come here and scare him like this? Bijjala raised his boot and kicked Katttapa across his face. The slave fell down, shocked and hurt. He folded his hands and cried, ‘It was a mistake to leave you, swami, I’m very sorry.’

  ‘You son of a bitch, you bastard—’ Bijjala rained kicks on Kattappa, who did not even raise his hands to protect himself.

  ‘Swami, swami, there will be time enough for you to punish me. But right now, there is grave danger to the king. I have told His Highness Prince Mahadeva, but the country needs you, swami. Please save your father. Please save His Majesty,’ Kattappa cried between kicks.

  ‘Shut up, dirty slave. Giving me advice! Thuph,’ Bijjala spat on Kattappa. ‘Stay here until I come out. Then I will decide how to punish you,’ Bijjala said, wagging a finger at Kattappa’s face.

  Then he paused. No, it would not do if the blasted slave stayed outside while he was enjoying Keki’s present. He turned to Kattappa and said, ‘Why are you standing here, you oaf? Out, out—go down and wait in the courtyard. Out. I don’t want to see your ugly face when I wake up.’

  He waited until Kattappa had walked away. When he was sure that Kattappa had reached the ground floor, Bijjala opened the door, entered and slammed the door shut.

  Kattappa sat on the first step of the stairs, staring emptily into the dark courtyard. Frustration and anger were raising their ugly heads in his mind. He had come to the palace, sacrificing his freedom for his master, and his master was treating him like this. He did not deserve it. Shivappa was right. No, no, I should not think like that, he corrected himself. He slapped his cheeks with his palm. It was a sin to think like that. His father’s words rang clear in his mind. ‘Your master may behave cruelly and unfairly towards you. You may feel anger towards your master for the way he treats you sometimes. That is human. But when such doubts come, the only thing you have to remember is, it is not the master you serve, but your job. Your dharma is to be true to your job. That is your worship. If you love your duty only when your master treats you well or pleasant things happen to you, you are no better than an animal that seeks pleasure and shuns pain. You are something beyond that. Kattappa, promise me that you will remain true to your dharma, your duty, irrespective of how your master treats you or your life treats you.’

  Kattappa stood up and wiped away the white marks that Bijjala’s boots had made on his dark skin. He walked with his head high and stood in the courtyard, his arms folded across his broad chest, staring straight ahead at some invisible point far away.

  Inside his chambers, Bijjala raised the wick of the lamp and a golden light illuminated the room. His breath stopped for a moment when he saw Kamakshi lying on his bed. He gazed at her, his eyes lingering on her heaving bosom and navel and her curving hips. He lay on the bed beside her and moved away her breast-cloth. He looked at her breasts, and then traced spirals with his index finger on her flesh. Then he saw the whip near her and smiled. Keki knew what he liked. He took the whip in his hand. The smell of musk made him giddy. He looked at Kamakshi and her fair skin. He closed his eyes, smelling the whip and imagining how her skin would be bruised when his whip would lash it. He started sweating and his lips trembled with fervour. His body heated up and his throat went dry. He raised the whip and cracked it across Kamakshi’s breast.

  Kamakshi woke up screaming in pain. She saw Bijjala grinning like a maniac and winding the whip around his fist. He beckoned her with his fingers. She became aware of her nudity and hurriedly covered her breasts. Bijjala laughed. He lashed at her again, enjoying her pain. She ran towards the door but he got to her before she could reach it. He grabbed her and threw her on the bed, ripping her breast-cloth into two. Grinning, he climbed back on the bed and she tried to shrink away from him. He teased her by laughing like a maniac, shooting his hand out to grab her breasts, and withdrawing it at the last moment. She covered her shame by folding her arms across her chest. She tried to scream but no sound emerged. She wept, her body wracked with heartrending sobs.

  Bijjala grabbed her wrists and tried to separate her arms. She turned her face and shut her eyes. He pulled her towards him and tried to kiss her. She kicked out with her knees, catching him between his legs. He howled in pain.

  Kattappa heard the noise. He ran up, taking two steps at a time, and banged on Bijjala’s door. ‘Swami,’ he called. Bijjala abused him and asked him to get lost. Confused, Kattappa started walking down the steps. When Bijjala turned, he saw Kamakshi was near the window, trying to jump out of it. He lunged forward and grabbed her by her waist. She held on to the window frame and tried to resist him.

  Shivappa was desperately searching for Kamakshi and had reached the courtyard when he heard the struggle. He ran, calling out her name. He saw a glimpse of her at Bijjala’s window before part of the frame splintered and Kamakshi was pulled in by Bijjala.

  Bijjala threw her back on the bed. He picked up the whip from where it had fallen. When she tried to get up, he lashed her across her face. When she tried to scream, he followed it with a back-handed slap. The girl was struggling too much. He thrust a part of her torn breast-cloth into her mouth, and when she tried to take it out, he tied her hands with the other half. He ripped away her skirt and her underclothes. He wound the whip in his hands and approached her. She jumped up from the bed and ran, but he stood blocking her way to the door. She sat cowering in a corner on her haunches as he moved towards her with the whip.

  Shivappa ran up the stairs and came face to face with Kattappa on the landing.

  ‘Anna,’ Shivappa gasped. He had thought his brother was dead.

  Kattappa’s kick caught Shivappa in his chest and he tumbled down the stairs and collapsed on the first floor veranda. Kattappa dove to grab him, but his brother rolled away and fell down tothe courtyard. Shivappa was up on his legs in a fl
ash with his urumi uncoiled. He rattled his whip sword and screamed, ‘Move away, Anna.’

  Kattappa stood facing his brother, with his arms on his hips and said calmly, ‘Traitor, this time you die.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Sivagami

  Sivagami had been searching for her book for a while. She had heard sounds outside the room and a couple of times she thought someone would walk in. When nothing happened, she became a little more relaxed. She wished she could light a lamp. Without it, she had to carry each manuscript to the window and check it by moonlight to identify whether it was her book or not.

  There had been nothing in the table drawer and she had begun going through the huge shelf of manuscripts in the room. Except for two outfits, a gold-tipped stencil, and some copper bracelets given for exceptional service to the state, the mahapradhana had few earthly possessions. She felt guilty about stealing into his chamber. The kind way he had dealt with Gundu Ramu’s hunger was still vivid in her memory. Not many officials had the same kindness when dealing with their inferiors.

  There were only a few manuscripts left when she heard raised voices outside. In a panic, she dropped the manuscripts she was holding. She waited with bated breath. The manuscripts lay scattered at her feet. The argument continued outside. She knelt down to pick up a manuscript and ran with it to the window. She hit her thigh on the corner of the table, but she did not have the luxury of even crying out. No, this was not the one. She ran back to pick up all the manuscripts that had fallen on the floor. Hurry, hurry, hurry, she told herself. She pressed the pile of manuscripts to her chest with her left hand as she picked up the rest from the floor. She would take all the manuscripts she could hold and look for hers at leisure. She promised herself that she would return what was not hers.