A riveting tale of power, revenge and betrayal

The Rise of Sivagami’ penned by Anand Neelakantan is the first ever prequel to a film and one of its kind experiment in the country. This extract from the book showcases the lives and times of young Kattappa, Prince Bijjala and Mahadeva

The hunting party was speeding through the forest. A lean, dark young man ran alongside the elephant that carried the king of Mahishmathi. Ahead of him, his father rode a white horse that had a plume on its head.

Behind him, amid the soldiers, rode the princes of Mahishmathi on their chestnut mares. A train of soldiers straggled behind them, weighed down by the carcasses of hunted deer and wild boars on their shoulders. Shadows of trees had started crawling towards the east.

Mist was creeping up from the bushes. They had been hunting since morning, but for a party of three score people, the catch was pitiful. The drizzle that had started the previous night had made the forest damp and earth squishy.

‘Kattappa, run ahead and make arrangements for camping,’ the man on the white horse turned and addressed his son. Kattappa selected a few slaves who could help him and left the procession. A group of bards was already waiting under the trees, busy twanging their tampuras and tuning their mrudangas when Kattappa reached the camping site. They stood up reluctantly. The black steel ring around his neck marked him a slave, but the way he carried himself made them show grudging respect.

Kattappa asked them to make space and they moved away, huddling together, whispering amongst each other as he got busy giving instructions to erect tents and lay down carpets. His thoughts turned to his younger brother, Shivappa. At seventeen, Shivappa was yet to graduate from the position of a palace slave, the one who did menial jobs for his masters, but he never saw the world outside the palace.

He was not old enough to accompany the maharaja’s hunting party, but had been adamant about joining them that morning. Only their father’s scolding had made him retreat in sullen silence. But Shivappa was not one to give up so easily.

Later, Kattappa had had to smuggle in his brother, who was now working at the rear end of the hunting party, helping soldiers carry their baskets and water pots. Their father, of course, was unaware. Kattappa worried that his impulsive brother may pick up a quarrel with some servant or the other and blow his own cover. There would be a price to pay if their father came to know.

Kattappa shouted for everyone to work faster as he watched the first of the king’s horses turn towards the camp. Servants were arranging bales of hay for the horses and filling huge copper vessels with water for the elephants to drink. Soon the air was filled with the sounds of whinnying and the tread of shoes as the hunting party approached.

Kattappa ran his gaze all over the camp to ensure that it had been set up as per order. This was the first hunt where he had been given such a big responsibility and he did not want to botch up. When he looked back at the contingent, the elephant carrying the king was already kneeling for his majesty to alight. Kattappa saw his father jumping down from his horse and hurrying towards the king. His father kneeled before the king and Maharaja Somadeva climbed down, stepping on Malayappa’s shoulders.

‘Hey, you, slave boy.’

Kattappa tensed. He knew there was nothing wrong with being called a slave boy, after all, that was what he was, but every time he heard it, it riled him. More than the word ‘slave’, it was being called a boy at the age of twenty-two by Bijjala, who was younger to him by a few months, that upset him more.

Hiding his distaste and planting an expression of extreme servitude, he turned towards the voice. Prince Bijjala gestured for him to come near his horse. Kattappa walked over. He bowed, and the prince indicated that he should kneel down. People were watching him.

‘Brother, stop. He is elder to you,’ Prince Mahadeva said in a shrill voice. Bijjala snickered, ‘Slaves don’t have any age, or names, for that matter. They are bound to obey what we say.’

‘But…’

Bijjala’s arm shot out and slammed into Kattappa above his left ear. The world spun around the slave. He had not seen it coming.

‘When I ask you to kneel, you have to kneel immediately,’ Bijjala punctuated his order with another slap on Kattappa’s cheek. Kattappa hurriedly knelt down. Bijjala stepped on his lean shoulders and got down from his horse. Kattappa swayed under the weight of Bijjala, lost his balance, and fell flat on the ground with the prince. There was silence and everyone looked at them. Prince Mahadeva laughed.

Bijjala stood up. His fine silk dhoti was smeared with mud. Kattappa was scared. He had made a big mistake. He saw Bijjala’s anger growing on his face. He took a step back as Bijjala snarled and drew out his whip. Kattappa’s throat went dry. Bijjala took a step forward and cracked the whip. It did not connect with Kattappa, but he was terrified. He closed his eyes, waiting for the lash to bite.

‘No, Anna….’ Kattappa could hear Mahadeva crying out. Oh, no, please, that will only anger him further, Kattappa thought. Bijjala wound the lash around his arm and cracked it again. Kattapa took a step back in fear, stumbled and fell down on his back. Bijjala towered over him, his curly head blocking the sun. Kattappa could feel the dampness of the grass, and was acutely aware of the sharpness of the grass tips.

He crawled on his back, pushing with his hands and legs to slide as far away from Bijjala as possible.

‘Mercy, Your Highness, mercy,’ he cried, as the lash arced above his head and cracked across his face. He gritted his teeth and tried unsuccessfully to stop the tears.

A tongue of fire burned across his cheeks, across his shoulders, nose, stomach, thighs as Kattappa pressed his lips tight, determined not to cry aloud. The lash cracked again and again.

This was his fate, the fate of his ancestors. He was nothing but a slave, a slave who was supposed to give his life to protect the royal family of Mahishmathi. Yet, somewhere deep inside his heart, it hurt. He was no better than a horse, or perhaps that was an overestimation.

Extracted with permission