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Chapter Text

I. 5 Things that happened if he survived  

1. He was found by two fishermen who supplied fish to the royal palace. They saw his clothing and immediately assumed he was dangerous (since he was dressed to blend in with the thieves and assassins of Singhapuram). But he was also pretty badly injured and perhaps dying. They decided to take him to the palace. If he was a threat, he would be dealt with appropriately. If he was a spy, he would be interrogated. If he was an innocent man, he would be protected. There was another body in his arms as well, but this man was mostly uninjured because the other man’s body had cushioned him from the impact. The uninjured stranger regained consciousness and refused to say a word. Kuntala did not believe in using torture to extract information but they needed to know if they were in danger. If their gentle persuasion methods didn’t yield anything, they would have to resort to more unsavory means. The physicians of Kuntala’s royal family had to fight to save the life of the injured stranger but they managed to get him out of the woods. However, his memory was affected thanks to the severe head trauma. He couldn’t even remember his name (Devasena’s attendants nicknamed him Sivu for convenience sake) and he had a pronounced stammer when he spoke. He appeared to be unfamiliar with weaponry but Princess Devasena noticed that his hands were calloused as only a swordman’s could be. Besides, he couldn’t have gotten such impressive musculature by sitting around. This worried her. She could smell danger in the air. They would have to act fast. 

2.  Sivagami’s heart was bursting with grief. She wanted to announce three full days of statewide mourning but she couldn’t afford to do that. They had no idea who Saket had sent their military secrets to. She had sent two secret search parties far and wide to search for Baahubali (or his corpse but she refused to entertain that thought) and Saket. So far, they had found nothing. Furthermore, she didn’t want to create panic by announcing to the whole world that Baahubali was missing presumed dead. Bhallaladeva did not like his mother’s attitude. He wondered bitterly if she would have grieved this way for him. But that did not matter. Baahu was dead. He, Bhalla, would be king. And Mahishmati was strong enough that it could deal with any danger. He didn’t think there was anything to worry about even though they didn’t know which enemy kingdom Saket had colluded with. Sivagami did not have her son’s confidence. She finally put her faith in Katappa and gave him her blessing to go search for Baahu and Saket. Meanwhile, she asked Bhalla and Sethupathy to prepare for a defensive war. 

3. Maybe it was luck, but it did not take long for Katappa to find him. He was passing through Kuntala when he overheard at a local tavern that a tall, strong-looking hulk of a man had become the princess’s newest pet project. There were rumors that he was suffering from memory loss and that the princess was only being kind to him in order to help him heal faster, so he could tell her who he really was and why he was there. The other man found with him had been completely uncooperative so far. And everyone was worried that they were spies who had come to cause harm to Kuntala. This was too much of a coincidence to ignore and Katappa knew without a doubt that the “spies” were none other than Baahu and Saket. Without wasting another moment, he made his way to the palace and sought an audience with the princess. He quickly made up a story of looking for his nephew who had lost his memory. And sure enough, he was allowed to meet Sivu. And unsurprisingly, Sivu immediately sensed the familiarity that existed between himself and this man who claimed to be his uncle. Katappa was relieved. But when the time came to answer questions about Saket, he had to hold his anger back. He claimed to not know anything about Saket but sent an urgent message to Mahishmati but it was too late by then. The Kalakeya had attacked. 

4. Sivu did not understand why Mama wanted to leave so urgently but after much coaxing, he was able to get the truth out. A place called Mahishmati was in the midst of a crisis– a war with the feared Kalakeya tribe. While the tribe’s name didn’t ring a bell in his mind, the word ‘Mahishmati’ sent a jolt of electricity through him. Mahishmati was home. And suddenly, the next moment, Baahubali knew himself again. Without wasting time, he demanded an audience with the King and the princess. The guards were stunned at this sudden transformation, but they wisely called the princess. Maybe “Sivu” had recovered his memory. It took less than an hour to explain everything to King Jayasena and Princess Devasena. Baahubali requested them to hold Saket in their custody till he came back. And with that, he and Katappa made their way to Mahishmati on the fastest horses Kuntala could give them. 

5. The battle was almost over. Most of Mahishmati’s army had been decimated. Bhallaladeva had been killed and Sivagami had been taken captive. The scene that greeted Baahubali and Katappa was on of utter chaos, destruction, and death. From a distance, they saw Bhalla’s decapitated head obscenely perched high on a pole. Sivagami’s saari was torn, she was bleeding from a nasty wound over her right eye and Ingkoshi forced her to kneel in front of him. Her undone hair billowed in the wind as the chains around her neck made sure that breathing was done with difficulty. There was no sign of Bijjaladeva anywhere nor of Sethupathy. Baahubali saw red. Hot, white rage bubbled under his skin as he took in the horrors that had been wreaked upon his mother and his motherland. But he knew he would still have to keep his emotions from taking over if they were to have any hope of saving this mostly-lost battle.  

“Mama, I am going to get mother,” he said decisively. “Stay here and cover me. If I return with her alive, we will regroup and fight back. If I am killed, make sure mother has enough time to get away to safety. Do not come back for me. Evacuate the villages and towns and form a resistance; I will be there if the Gods will it, but you must go on without me if you must.” 

Epilogue

One year. That’s how long it took for them to organize themselves. The resistance– a ragtag bunch of farmers, laborers, craftsmen, and women—found allies in the small but dedicated army of Kuntala. Together, they worked tirelessly to eat away at the foundation of the Kalakeya empire. They swallowed bile each time they rescued traumatized villagers from ransacked settlements they had failed to protect. Every such incident strengthened their resolve to do better. Ultimately, Baahubali had enough. He disguised himself and found himself a place in the palace’s royal kitchens on the eve of the Kartik Amavasi feast. He had never thought his cooking skills would lead him to victory in the battle but here he was, marveling at the strange things life taught him every day. 

Poison, a soft weapon, typically a women’s weapon.

It was against his Kshatriya dharma to kill indiscriminately or to kill someone by deception but in this one year, he had learned that the so-called righteousness he practiced came with degree of privilege that was unavailable to the common folk who lived outside the folds of caste. Their daily survival depended on pragmatism and working within the confines of the tiny space they occupied at the very bottom of the oppressive caste barrel. And now, Baahubali lived with them. Earlier, he had only glimpsed their reality through the constant ridicule and verbal abuse Katappa suffered at the hands of uncle Bijjala but now, he knew their pain firsthand because he was one of them; they all were—and the Kalakeya were the new royal overlords. 

“If we ever get out of this,” he swore to himself. “Mahishmati will not follow the caste system. We will build a different society, a stronger country, and a decent home for all of us.”

It was with this determination that he stirred the poison into the goat stew, the main dish for the evening’s festivities. He wasn’t worried about harming his own people or the Kalakeya women. It was understood that this meat was only for the warring class of the Kalakeya tribe and they were exactly the ones Baahubali needed to target. 

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The next morning, Mahishmati celebrated Rakshasa Daahan a whole year after the stipulated date. Ingkoshi’s dead body burned atop a tall pole for all the world to see and Sivagami Devi crowned Amarendra Baahubali the new king of their country. 

II. The one scenario in which he didn’t survive.  

Katappa returned empty handed to Mahishmati several hours after the end of the war. He had tried to return in time, but alas, it was too late. Bhallaladeva was dead. Sivagami Devi was also dead. She had been taken captive and in a last, desperate act of defiance, had killed herself with Ingkoshi’s own dagger when he dragged her for what would have certainly been a very public and torturous defilement—but not before she stabbed him in his remaining good eye, thereby blinding him completely. As often happens in war, her corpse was thrown to the angry soldiers who ripped her apart in minutes but at least she was no longer alive to feel it. 

Katappa’s helplessness, grief, and fury threatened to consume him but he forced himself to think like Baahubali. The Rajmata was beyond saving. But the common people in the villages and towns still had a chance. Without engaging with the enemy, he turned back quietly and made his way to Samanthapuram, the first large township just miles from the palace. The resistance would begin there.  

Chapter Text

Sanga

1. 2- Cooking

Life in Amburi was simple, community-oriented, and joyful. Their tribe relied on what Mother Nature gave them freely, and out of respect for her, they made as little modifications to her bounty as possible. 

Food was a small exception to that rule. Sanga lovingly crushed a bunch of fresh fruits and herbs together as she prepared for the annual Dharanjini Puja feast. They celebrated the Earth Goddess with an offering of the first crop of the season. For Sanga and Rushima, their first crop of that season came from the humble mint plant behind their hut, the peppers Sivudu planted two months ago, and the first mango that fell from the tree before it was ready to be picked. 

She did this activity every year but the charming thing was that each year, her ingredients were slightly different. Last year, she had made a sweet banana halva with sugarcane juice and coconut. 

Unsurprisingly, this was also her son’s favorite celebration. Since childhood, she had taught him to help her with the simpler tasks. It had started with things like kneading dough, shelling peas, tasting the final product, and serving it to the community. 

However, now that he was all grown up, he insisted on doing a lot more than those little tasks. And even though his friends laughed at him for doing what they considered ‘women things,’ he didn’t care. If anything, he often joked that even when he got married, he would cook for the Dharanjini Puja and his wife would just have to take the backseat. 

Speaking of marriage, Sanga was really worried about Sivudu. He was 25! And he had no interest in any of the village girls. If she could have had her way, he would have been betrothed as a child to Sindhala but alas! Her father had already chosen a different groom for her. 

Sivudu was now the oldest remaining bachelor in the village and at the rate things were going, all the good matches would be gone if he didn’t make up his mind soon. Maybe tonight, luck would smile upon them and he would fall in love with someone (because the knucklehead would only marry for love. What a ridiculous notion! Shiva only knew where he learned such strange ideas.) 

Sanga hoped he would pick Dindima. She was beautiful and hardworking. Maybe she would be able to tame his wild instincts!

Chapter Text

Vaidehi (Bhallaladeva’s Wife in the Silences and Insanities Universe)

8- Sex Headcanon

Maharani Vaidehi did not remember her wedding night. She did have a faint memory of the ceremony itself but even that wasn’t particularly pleasant. How could it be when it was marked by the deafening thunder of her world coming to an end?

Her father and brothers had been killed in battle by Bhallaladeva. Her mother, Queen Sarada had been captured. And two choices had been put forth before her. 

She could either give up Naveenapuram and all the vassal kingdoms under the Hurana dynasty over to Mahishmati or she could choose death and allow the rest of the kingdom to meet the fate of Kuntala.

The first option had been demeaning but it had been their only one. They couldn’t have allowed their people to burn. It was their duty to ensure the safety of their subjects even in the face of absolute defeat and humiliation.

This tainted salvation would take the sacrifice of Princess Vaidehi. And that’s how she had come to be the Maharani of Mahishmati, also the personal sex slave of Bhallaladeva. 

As a young maiden, she had often wondered about her husband and what it would be like to be married. She had even glanced through a copy of Vatsyayana’s Kama Sutra found only in the library of in the royal courtesans’ palace. 

But nothing could have prepared her for the devastation she experienced as she was dressed in red and gold for her extremely short wedding ceremony and the unending wedding night of which she had no recollection– except for the blood on her thighs the next morning, the hand-shaped bruises on her hips, the bloody scratches on her chest, and the severe pain in her intimate areas that made it excruciating to sit for several days. 

And even when she was taken after that, the experience remained painful, degrading, and soul crushing. He often hit her during their violent couplings and for some strange reason, chose to call her ‘Devasena.’ One time, she dared to correct him. “My name is Vaidehi,” she had snapped. And he had responded by backhanding her hard enough to split her lip. 

Eventually though, she got used to it. Her personal attendants knew better than to ask questions but they always added neem extract and aloe juice to her bath water. And they left several towels and a bottle of turmeric-infused almond oil for her in bedroom, knowing that she would need those after spending a night with the king. 

In the first few months of her marriage, Vaidehi saw how her husband treated his imprisoned brother and how the guards treated the common people. She just assumed that Bhallaladeva was incapable of tenderness or love or kindness. But then she got pregnant with his child.

And during the months of her pregnancy, she saw a different side of him. He did not look at her. He did not touch her even. But for hours together, he watched her belly. He often talked to the child growing within her. But even as he did so, he refused to look at her face. And when his lust struck, he called one of the courtesans to their bedroom and satiated his appetite through her right in front of his wife. 

Mercifully, it was always quick. He did not hit the courtesans, he never verbally abused them. He did what he had to and they did what they had to. 

Mount. Thrust. Release. Unmount. Leave. 

After Bhadra’s birth, Vaidehi’s life went back to how it used to be. Bhallaladeva went back to his old ways and she got used to being addressed as Devasena. 

She got pregnant thrice more in the next four years but she miscarried the first two times and the last time, she gave birth to a stillborn baby girl. No funeral was conducted for her but in her mind, Vaidehi named her Princess Aamuktha, the liberated one– because she had been saved from being born to Bhallaladeva, saved from being turned into a vessel of hatred and anger like her brother Bhadra. 

Now, Bhallaladeva was dead. Baahubali had been freed from his cage. His wife and son were alive. 

But what did Vaidehi have? 

Nothing. Her lot in life always had nothing. But she would endure. After all, she was still here and her once-formidable tormenter’s corpse would burn on a pyre come morning. 

Chapter Text

1. Amarendra Baahubali- 4- Driving Headcanon

Since Amarendra Baahubali lived before cars were invented, it is impossible to tell what sort of a driver he might have been. But  a lot can be gleaned about the legendary king’ s possible driving style through Amresh, a 25-year-old fencing instructor in a private boarding school in Nainital, India. 

Why? Because Amresh is a direct descendent of Amarendra Baahubali and even though there is no way to prove it, his personality, countenance, sense of right and wrong, and even his swordplay (um, fencing) is uncannily like that of Baahubali. Could it be…?

As a teacher in an isolated boarding school situated high up in the mountains, it is a good thing that he is such a safe driver. While he loves the thrill of speed and the wind on his face from the window, he understands that life is a precious gift and it would be foolish to waste it on a few moments of adrenalin high. 

That is why he follows the traffic rules, adheres to the speed limit, and insists that his students wear their seat belt when he drives them to and from the mall road. He is so adept at mountain driving that he can cover the usually 9-hour drive between New Delhi and Nainital in 7 hours without speeding.  But he absolutely hates driving on Delhi roads. People honk incessantly, hurl abuses at each other, scream at the other passengers in the car, and end up with blood pressure problems. He just shakes his head at this weird testosterone-fueled stupidity.

Last year, he trained two of his female students for their driving tests and unsurprisingly, both of them passed with flying colors. As a prize, he drove them and their friends to Bhimtal, a more quiet and picturesque lake district not too far from the school. He treated the students to a boat ride, a fishing lesson (they caught two large mahaseers) and ice-cream. 

2. Amarendra Baahubali- 9- General physical contact headcannon

Affection is important to Amarendra Baahubali. As an orphan, he understands very well that had his aunt not taken him in as her own child, his life would have turned out very different. He does not underestimate her kindness; as a result of which, he is more sensitive than most to other people’s needs. He also understands that what cannot be strung into words can sometimes be conveyed best through an embrace. 

When he hugged Katappa for the first time, he was a mere boy, all of 9 years and barely high enough to reach the slave-soldier’s elbow. And yet, he had dared to hug him in front of everyone– the courtiers, the ministers, the other members of his family. His mother had given him her customary glare of disapproval but there had been no fire in her eyes. She couldn’t let anyone know but she was proud of him for having the courage to hug Katappa. It was a secret just between the two of them. And they took it to their graves. 

Baahu is generous with his touch. He pats his soldiers on the back. He embraces his brother freely in moments of triumph and joy. He dutifully touches the feet of his mother every morning and receives her blessings. He also touches the feet of his uncle even though he never receives anything for it. 

But despite his affinity for physical affection, he absolutely does not touch women. He isn’t sexist. In a perfect world, he would embrace his female friends and fellow soldiers just like he does with the men. But unfortunately, he does not live in an ideal world. Far too many men use seemingly innocent touches to convey cheap, objectifying emotions to women. It gives them a sick sort of satisfaction to make them uncomfortable. And many a time, the women don’t say anything because the world does not listen to them. 

Amarendra Baahubali is doing his bit to change things. If and when he becomes king, he will ensure that every child in Mahishmati will be educated in the basic idea of respect– respect for the divinity and the humanity of every human being. He wants every little boy in the kingdom to grow up with the idea that the girls are the same as him, deserving of everything he wishes for himself, and that they command the same respect and control over their own bodies and personal space. 

This is why he never touches the ladies, not even the ones who flirt with him. Oh, he flirts with them too but there are ways to do so without making them feel like a piece of meat. 

3. Amarendra Baahubali- 16- Anger headcannon

‘Anger should be your weapon, not your weakness…’

His teacher, Guru Pramodananda had taught him this lesson as a very young child. Mastery over anger. This had been the difference between Parshurama and Rama.

For years, he had thought that even though this was an important lesson, he would probably never need it. 

Amarendra did not get angry. Nothing fazed him. 

He felt concern. He felt love. He felt righteousness. 

He felt. 

And that was enough. His ability to empathize with his fellow human beings had made him one of the greatest warriors in Mahishmati’s history. It was true that he had killed a number of people in battle. But none of them had been killed in anger. 

He had killed because he was protecting the citizens of Mahishmati from harm. He had killed out of compassion for the innocents who would die if he did not save them from the invading enemy. His motivations had always, always been selfless. 

But anger– that white hot rage that consumes the blood– is selfish. And he felt it now in his veins, flowing like lava through his entire being. 

How dare they? HOW DARE THEY?

The image of his pregnant wife bound in chains, made him see red. He wanted to cause destruction, utter and absolute chaos for how she had been treated. 

But mercifully, the words of his Guru saved him from his own self. 

‘Anger should be your weapon…’

His anger would be his sword. 

In one swift motion, he cut away Devasena’s chains and readied himself to face the wrath of his mother. 

Chapter Text

1. Katappa- 3- Sleeping

Katappa has always been a fan of the traveling bards that make a stop at Mahishmati every monsoon. They stay for a few weeks and entertain the common folk with stories from faraway lands and times gone by. 

As a child, he had attended some of these kathakarni evenings with his mother. His father had never been able to go because he could not unless he had the king’s permission. And since he didn’t consider it proper to ask the king for anything, nothing, including permission, was ever given. Among the tales of the bard, he had always been fascinated by the story of a princess who was made to fall asleep for one hundred years by the curse of an evil priestess. The story, whose origin was in the kingdom of Austrasia (circa 511 AD- circa 751 AD), was completely foreign to Katappa but that is also why it was enchanting. 

He is an old man now. Sleep does not come to him easily. While he had always slept deeply as a child, these days, his nights are consumed by worry. Sometimes, the torment is so immense that he only finds peace in watching Rajmata Devasena sleep comfortably in her own bed. But unlike the sleeping princess from the fairytale, she will wake up in the morning and attend to official matters in the hall of audiences. 

2. Katappa- 13- Nickname headcanon

He loves the holidays because that’s when his mother’s family comes over for a visit. Some years, the king allows them to leave the capital and travel to their ancestral village for a few days as well. And every time, he gets to meet his cousins, who all love him very much. The girls say he is cute. The boys ask him to play with them. They even let him win!

Except for Madhuprabha. He is older. And he does not like to include his four-year-old cousin in his games. But he enjoys teasing him. 

“What’s your name?” he asks him every day. And when Katappa responds with “ Tappa,” he laughs like a hyena. He has taken to calling his cousin ‘Tappa Tappa,’ ‘Kappa Tappa,’ and a number of other ridiculous variations of the awful nickname. 

But while everyone jokes and chuckles, Katappa is confused. He is not sure anymore of what his name is. And that’s why, when he returns to the capital with his parents, he commits a huge blunder at his very first meeting with Prince Vikramadeva, who is also four. 

It is their first training session under Guru Kamakhyarajan. When he asks Katappa for his name, he confidently says, “Kappa Tappa.”

Unfortunately, by the time he is 7, the prince is teasing him about it as well. And this time, it takes severe restraint to not yell back, “ I AM KATAPPA.” 

However, when he is 25, he realizes the value of the silly nickname. No one will know it anymore because the last person to use it has passed on. Maybe he will share it with Maharaj Vikramadeva’s son. But then again, maybe he won’t. 

3. Katappa- 18-  Favorite possession headcanon

Brawn does not come without brain. Karikala Katappa Nadar has always known this. Sharp as an eagle, wise as an owl, and gifted in logic, he can match wits with the brightest minds in the kingdom if only he were allowed to. 

He surreptitiously watches the two princes play chess. Amarendra Baahubali is clearly the better player but he often loses because Bhallaladeva is not above cheating. 

Katappa does not know that his fondness for chess has not gone unnoticed. 

“Mama, when is your birthday?” Baahu asks him casually after lessons one afternoon. 

“The Shukla Navami of Bhadrapada” Katappa says. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing,” Baahu says. “Just trying to train my memory by learning everyone’s dates of birth.”

It is a strange answer but Katappa pays no mind to it. Princes often have unusual quirks. He, a mere servant, is not supposed to understand them. 

Three months later, he is sitting in his quarters, watching the moon. In six days, it will be a full-moon night. Which means, it is Shukla Navami today. And in the month of Bhadra too, he realizes with a jolt. He has turned 38. Another year as the slave of Mahishmati’s throne. Another year as the loyal guard of the royal family. Another year as Baahubali’s Mama. The last one brings a smile to his face. 

Just then, as if on cue, Amarendra walks in. 

“Mama,” his exuberant voice fills the little room with life and robustness. 

Katappa turns around and greets him “Yes, my prince. What can I do for you?”

“You can take this and open it,” Baahu says and hands him a box. 

Intrigued, Katappa opens it. He does not know what to say.

Despite his best efforts, his eyes tear up.

 Inside the box is a hand-carved chessboard with 32 perfectly-crafted pieces. 

“I… I have no words for your kindness,” he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. “But I… I am a slave. I cannot own this.”

Baahu smiles. He knew this would come up. And he made sure to prepare for it.

“You can accept anything a member of the royal household gives you and you must not give it to anyone else,” he recites straight from one of the many dharmasutras of Mahishmati. “…So that if you are ever asked to return it, you are able to do so.”

But he isn’t quite done yet. He steps closer to Katappa and pulls him into a tight embrace. The older man flinches at first but the depth of the young prince’s affection is such that he cannot remain immune from it. Hesitatingly, he returns the hug. 

“Mama, this is a gift from me, your nephew, to you, my uncle,” Baahu says gently. “These rules and regulations are meaningless in front of the relationship you and I share. But since the oath of your ancestors means so much to you, I read the rules. Please accept this chess set. I know you want to. Even you know you want to.”

And so, that’s what Katappa did. 

Today is the 927th anniversary of that fateful birthday. No one knows its significance. Katappa, Amarendra Baahubali, the dynasty of the Sarvasteeras, the kingdom of Mahishmati, and the royal palace with the royal slave’s quarters– none of it exists anymore. 

But an ancient-looking chessboard with 28 surviving pieces sits in a museum in the modern Indian city of Hyderabad. Even though nothing else survives from those pages of history which are considered little more than myth and folklore today, the chessboard is a piece of Katappa’s truth, a proof of the life he lived, and his favorite possession for over 50 years. 

Chapter Text

1. Sivagami- 12- Jewelry headcannon

As the Queen Mother of an opulent and wealthy kingdom, she has enough jewelry that if someone were to do an inventory, it would take them 6 years and 6 months to complete it. She is considered a trend-setter and an icon even though she doesn’t quite see herself that way. For her, the jewelry is nothing but something she must adorn herself with in order to reflect her status, the grandeur of her empire, and of course, the fact that she is a married woman. 

However, despite all the gold and rubies and diamonds overflowing out of her wardrobe, she insists on holding on to a cheap silver ring that sits on the index finger of her left hand. This ring was given to her by her mother, Anjana Devi, a farmer’s daughter who was married into smalltime nobility because of her beauty. This ring is a reminder of her mother’s humble beginnings, of the joys she sacrificed by marrying a man old enough to be her father, of becoming the third wife, and of raising a daughter who would, one day, lead Mahishmati to unparalleled glory. Sivagami Devi is like that silver ring. Unassuming. Inspiring. Common enough to have come from unimportant stock but precious in her own right that there is no one else like her. 

2. Sivagami- 15-  Singing headcannon

She does not sing. Never. Even in the early days of her marriage, when Bijjaladeva tried to romance her, she refused to sing for him. It was one of the things that drove a permanent wedge between them; because Sivagami has a beautiful voice. She was trained to sing since she was a young girl. She often sang praises of the lord during temple services at her home. Until a traveling sadhu put a strange thought in her head. “Daughter, your music is a great blessing. All that you sing, sing only out of love.” 

And since then, she has not sung again. She does not feel love for anyone so far. Not the Gods. And not her husband. But all of that will change in less than a month when she will give birth to her son, Bhallaladeva. Of course, she doesn’t know it yet. 

Chapter Text

1. 1- Holiday Headcanon

The royal household celebrates all the festivals of the year. Because there are so many, 6-year-old Princess Devasena thinks every single day is a holiday. Even on days when nothing is going on, she goes around wishing people a “Happy Today,” because she does not know the names of all the holidays but in her mind, that is no excuse to not wish people. 

As she grows older, she realizes that every day is not a festival. But she also believes that each day should be celebrated like one. And that is why, the evening prayers in the palace are conducted with so much pomp and splendor. 

Devasena’s favorite deity is Lord Krishna and her favorite day of the year is Krishna Ashtami. While she prepares elaborately for that occasion, she also brings a little bit of its magic to her evening puja service. 

The beautiful dress, her best jewelry, the fresh jasmines and marigolds, the singing, the dancing, and the offerings; all of them are a symbol of the jubilation that fills her heart. When she sings the hymns, when she reaches for the ecstatic high notes and the lilting low harmonies, she is convinced that the lord is watching her, that he knows her heart’s deepest desires, and that he will give her his darshan. 

Who knew her wish would come true in the form of a 6 foot 2 simpleton and the bull he refused to fight. 

2. 14- Dancing Headcanon

Devasena is not the best dancer in Kuntala. People often think she is but that is only because she knows how to cover up for the fact that she really cannot move her feet as fast as the trained Kuchipudi dancers who perform at the royal religious ceremonies. 

What she lacks in her footwork, she makes up for in expression. No one in Kuntala can match the depth of her eyes, the light that seems to shine from within her when she dances no matter how simple her steps are. 

Her instructor, Gurumaa Dakshini Devi would have stopped teaching her years ago had she been any other student. Her messy footwork, stiff waist, and somewhat jerky hand movements had made her seem like an impossible student. 

But then, one afternoon, she had accidentally caught the young princess singing. Oh… there was an ocean of love in her voice, her rhythm was in-time with the pulse of the universe, and each melodic phrase sounded like a blessing from Goddess Saraswati’s own lips. She continued to observe the young princess all day. Later, she saw her practice her swordplay with unparalleled grace and such fluidity that she would be death personified for enemies in battle.

Dakshini Devi never considered dismissing Devasena from the class after that. In fact, she changed her curriculum for her. And from lessons in hardcore classical dance, they went to devotional and creative dance in which the princess excelled. 

3. 16- Anger Headcanon

She has always been known to have a rather quick temper. She does not get angry for trivial things but too many people, men usually, think they can get away with trivializing the worth of a woman. Being the crown princess of Kuntala has taught her that even though her own people are progressive, the kingdoms around them are as patriarchal and violent as they had been for centuries. Men. Their chauvinism ruins everything.

But here, standing in front of this kangaroo court, with an accomplished and strong woman like Rajmata Sivagami Devi glaring down at her, she is forced to acknowledge a bitter reality. The chief villain in the story of women might be patriarchy but it practices its villainy through the willingness of the women themselves. Is she engaging in an act of victim-blaming? She is. But Sivagami Devi, who is so much like herself, is the reason she is in chains in her third trimester after being almost-molested by a low-life. 

Now she feels anger. But as she readies herself for another round of verbal sparring and humiliation, the sound of her husband’s gait reaches her ears. He is furious. She can tell by the thunder in his steps even before he faces her with raw fury burning in his otherwise kind and mellow eyes.

The next ten minutes are perhaps the longest ten minutes of her life. And she will think about them almost every night through the 25 years of her captivity under Bhallaladeva’ s cruel fist. 

But while she finds it in herself to forgive the late Rajmata for her blunders against her, she does not find the strength to forgive her for stripping Amarendra of his place as her son. How dare she take in an orphaned child as her own and then throw him out at the first sign of perceived disobedience? How dare she mock the sacredness of motherhood like that? How dare she ask for forgiveness?

There is a reason why Devasena only thinks of Sivagami as her aunt-in-law. 

Chapter Text

1. 16- Anger Headcanon

There are very few things that make Mahendra angry. In fact, he can count on one hand, the number of times he has felt anger. 

The first time he had gotten angry, was when he was four. His mother wouldn’t let him accompany the other boys for a fishing trip. “You are still too young,” she had said even though he had been bigger and taller than the other kids. They had made fun of him for days afterwards. 

The second time, he had been angry with his first ever girlfriend, Tarika. He had been 9. She had been 8. She had promised to go with him for the annual village fair. He had even been collecting shells for both of them to trade with the shopkeepers and the other kids. His final count had been 36 shells, enough for six pieces of sweets, two toy animals, and perhaps a game of marbles where if they won, they would get to take home the precious blue marble that Kanandan owned. But ultimately, she had ditched him and gone to the fair with Suguma because he had collected 40 shells. It served her right that he spent all of it on the marble tournament and still didn’t win the prized blue beauty. 

The third time, he had gotten angry as a man; on seeing the ill-disguised amusement of their resident sage whose name no one knew. Everyone called him Baba but to him, he had always come across as a bit of a charlatan. However, Sivudu had never paid too much mind to it until he gave that mad advice to his mother to bathe the Sivalingam 116 times. How crazy could he be? Thankfully, this time as well, Sivudu, had had the last laugh. 

The fourth time, he had gotten angry on seeing Avanthika struggling with those four brutish soldiers in the snow. One of them had had his dagger at her throat. And that had, quite literally, pressed all his buttons. He had seen red and like death personified, he had killed them all. How dare they touch a woman like that? And how DARE they touch HIS beloved at all? 

The fifth time was now. But he had no way of characterizing the lava bubbling under his skin, threatening to burst out and consume everything that Bhallaladeva held dear. His true mother’s cut and bruised face made something scream inside him in raw anguish. But it was the unfinished tale of his father’s short life that made him thirst for blood. 

Oh, now he knew anger. The other times had simply been a preview of the fire that lived within him, waiting for his command to burn, to destroy, and to cleanse…

2. 17- Soft Spot Headcanon

Everyone knows about the two sides of the new king; the happy-go-lucky Sivudu and the young-but-trying-to-fill-his-father’s-shoes Mahendra. It is not an easy balancing act and sometimes, it takes a toll on him. 

But he does not complain. He recognizes how blessed and fortunate he is to have found his true family. He often spends hours talking to his mother, quizzing her for every detail about her life before her captivity. He also asks her about his father, but sadly, she does not know enough to satisfy his curiosity. Their time together had been too limited and too turbulent for her to have gleaned more from him about his early life. 

And that is why Mahendra tries yet again to seek out Katappa, who has so far been completely elusive… or as elusive as a slave could be.

Of course, Mahendra can make it a direct order but he does not want to. Slavery is immoral and disgusting. Besides, his parents gave Katappa the honor of being his godfather. There is no way he will desecrate that sentiment by reminding Katappa of his legal status. Moreover, he has been told that had his father ascended the throne, abolishing slavery, including the kind sanctioned by sacred ancestral oaths, would have been his first priority. 

Exasperated, Mahendra realizes that he will have to resort to his unconventional ways to get what he wants. And one afternoon, after the swordplay drill, he waits for Katappa under the Banyan tree where the soldiers take their meal. 

Katappa sees him and tries to scuttle away unseen but suddenly, he stops in his tracks…. 

“Mama…” 

That word. That voice. His ears have longed to hear it. He turns around but he knows he won’t see Amarendra. 

“Yes, My Lord,” he answers, trying to keep his emotions in check. 

“Come, let us eat together,” Mahendra says. “Please don’t avoid me like this. Did I do something to upset you? I… I know I remind you of my father. I’m sorry if it is too painful for you to look at me but…”

Katappa does not let him complete that sentence. 

“Please, say no more,” he begs. “It is indeed painful to remember each day that Amarendra Baahubali is no more. But it is blessing to know that you are here, that you, the child of his heart, are alive and amongst us. Do not, for a moment think, that I am avoiding you because I cannot bear to look at you. Sometimes, looking at you is the only thing that allows me to sleep at night.”

“Then why do you never talk to me.”

“I killed your father. I took everything from you. It is because of me that you grew up so far from your heritage and all that should have been rightfully yours since birth.”

“Mama,” Mahendra said gently. “There is no use crying over spilt milk. Yes, you feel guilty. But why punish me because of it?  No one in this palace knows more about my father than you. Everyone tells me of his goodness, his greatness, and how he was a God to the people. But you… Mama, you knew him as a boy, as a man, as a person. Do I not deserve to know my father as he was?”

Katappa had no answer for that. Mahendra had found his soft spot and he could not say no to the boy any more than he could have to Amarendra. 

What he did not realize was that this would also help the boy find his own place in Mahishmati’s story… a place where he would be a person unto himself; not just a legend or an answer to millions of prayers. 

Chapter Text

1. 15- Singing

There is a common misconception among the people of Mahishmati and adjoining kingdoms that the Kalakeya are primitive, uncivilized, and that they lack a culture. Isolationism has a funny way of creating false, othering myths that eventually become accepted as the truth. 

If only they could see the monthly Amavasya celebrations the Kalakeya hold in the honor of Goddess Sankinnilla; known to the outside world as Sharabha, Nikumbhila, Pratyangira, or Narsimhika according to various legends. 

The Kalakeya people sing in her praise. Like the forests they live in, their music echoes the sounds of nature. Their women can imitate the calls of owls, woodpeckers, herons, painted storks, darters, cuckoos, and even the magnificent saras cranes. The men harmonize the women’s bird song with rumbling, thunderous chants of ‘Aashali, Revali, Kundali,’ which in their language means, ‘Undefeatable, Immortal, Unstoppable.’ 

While all the women must sing, only girls younger than 12 are allowed to lead the ritual. This is because they are the only ones whose high, virginal voices are able to perfectly reproduce the call of an elusive, mythical bird called the Kokoriya. The story goes that a Kokoriya  is so drunk on the smile of the Goddess that she must regain her sobriety by drinking in the moonlight from a full moon night. 

However, on Amavasya, the moon is nowhere to be found but even then, she sings the praises of the Divine Mother, hoping for a smile from her. It is this devotion that the female Kalakeya children represent. 

The boys do not enjoy a special status of this sort. They are considered the servants of the Kokoriyas– because if the Goddess smiles upon them, everyone around them will have the chance to bask in the afterglow of that blessing. That is how the men and the boys will find their strength for battle, unbreakable courage, and self-respect. Therefore, they must chant like the adult men even if they are no older than four. 

It is a pity that this beautiful, private ceremony has never been witnessed by an outsider even though it is at least a thousand years old. History will not know of it. And as the errors of history go, the only written record of the Kalakeya people will be found in Mahishmati’s archives. And it will be an unkind and inaccurate account. 

Footnote: The etymology of the word ‘Kokoriya’ leads to the modern Hindi/Sanskrit word ‘Chakor.’ The common source of the two words is unknown but one hypothesis says that the answer lies in the so far undeciphered Harappan script. 

2. 17- Soft Spot 

Life in the forest kingdom of Kalakeya was tough. While the people lived in harmony with nature for the most part, they did face frequent challenges– like wounded predators that turned man-eater, the monsoon showers that flooded the low-lying areas, and the brutal winters when food became scarce and human-wildlife conflict reached its peak. 

One of the biggest dangers they faced one year was the pride of lions that suddenly turned into man-eaters because of the harsh winter and the dwindling population of deer caused by a mysterious plant disease. 

One adult male, four adult females, three female adolescents, and two male babies. While the infants did not do any damage because they were still too young to learn how to hunt, the remaining eight lions killed and ate 13 people over a period of two months. 

For all of their fierceness in battle, the Kalakeya tried to avoid fighting wild animals if they could help it. But this problem could not have been ignored any longer. And so, an armed party of 20 men, including Chief Ingkoshi, had trapped and killed each of the eight culprits. 

But they had been unable to kill the two infants that were no bigger than the average housecat. 

Against their better judgment, they had brought the two cubs back to their settlement and adopted them as their own, not sure if this was a wise move or the stupidest thing they had ever done. The chief priestess named the cubs Dim-Dim and Dam-Dam. She prayed with the entire tribe that night that these new members would bring them prosperity, power, and prestige. She also prayed that they would not be the harbingers of doom upon them.

Their fears were put to rest as the cubs grew older. Dim-Dim and Dam-Dam reached an impressive size by the time they were three but instead of turning on the tribe, they became important assets to the warriors who trained them to fight in battle. This way, the innate ferocity of the two big cats was channelized to do human bidding. The words of the priestess came true. 

But for the women who were tasked with caring for the two boys, there was nothing even remotely ferocious or awe-inspiring about them. They treated them like pets. 

Till the very end of their lives, Dim-Dim and Dam-Dam found themselves in the unique position of being the Kalakeya tribe’s guardians and their collective soft spot. 

Today, a shrine to the two lions exists in the Mrugavani National Park in Ranga Reddy district, Telangana, India. Tourists and local villagers alike offer flowers to the two statues because the government banned the offering of meat 20 years ago. 

Chapter Text

1. 19- Favorite Photograph Headcanon (Warning: This is a Modern AU)

Professor Amresh Balaraju is packing up his things. The school is about to close for a month. The winter vacation starts tomorrow. Most other teachers simply lock their offices before leaving. But as an ad-hoc fencing instructor, Amresh knows there is a chance he won’t be asked to return for the spring term. 

Well, that’s life for a sports teacher. He has coached three different sports (soccer, badminton, and fencing) in four different boarding schools. Of the three, he prefers fencing the best since that is the sport he trained in while growing up in Florence, Italy. 

But after coming back to India at the age of 17 with his parents, his opportunities to keep up with fencing had been limited. And so, he had taken up other sports as well. But even then, he had dutifully participated in the Amateur Fencers’ League World Championship every year. And for three years in a row, he had won the competition. 

The prestige had been great. But it had not been enough to help him get by as an adult. His parents had asked him to join their family business; Maia Foods, a corporation that owned high-end brands like Caledonia Italian Wines, Devi Artisan Teas, Kamakhya Bean-to-Bar Chocolates, and Aahi Spices. 

But he had refused. And with his fairly useless bachelor’s degree in history, the only other job he had been able to get, had been that of a sports coach. 

Sometimes, he had had to do some rather strange things to remain in the good books of his colleagues and students. 

Looking at this dreadful photo from the October Dussehra celebration, he can only shake his head. That particular occasion took the cake in the weirdness department for sure. 

Of course, the students had asked him to dress up as Lord Rama. Plus, they had forbidden him from shaving his beard. They had also gleefully informed him that they looked forward to seeing him bare-chested in Lord Rama’s iconic orange garb. Those cheeky bastards had enjoyed his obvious discomfort and the sheer ridiculousness of the entire situation!

But the school rules had mercifully not allowed him to appear half-naked on stage.  And Thanks to their tiny budget, one of the drama teachers had had no option but to rustle up a random, “king-like” costume for him. 

It hadn’t looked too bad. 

He would have almost disappointed the students but his Hindi dialogues delivered in a weird Italian-Telugu accent saved the day! 

The laughter that had followed him around for weeks after that memorable disaster had made him feel like a character from the Amar Chitra Katha comics. 

However, despite everything, he had enjoyed himself– perhaps a little too much. 

And this candid photo of him where he is seen laughing with the drama teacher after the performance, is proof that maybe in another life, he had indeed been Rama… or a better, hotter, more interesting version of him! He does look the part, even if he is only a boring, old school teacher in real life.

Oh… if he only knew!

Chapter Text

Chains were her nemesis. She hated them with a passion. Their sharp clinking, their burdensome weight, their abrasively cool surface; all of it reminded her of how far she had fallen. Even worse than the taunts and the humiliation, more than the filth and squalor of her cell,  it was these chains that bound her and held her captive; body, mind, and spirit. 

25 years of such cruelty would have broken her down completely were it not for a strange, unlikely friend. He kept her sane through the days by keeping her company through the nights. 

She had seen him with Katappa many times in the early days of her marriage. And as far as she could tell, he had been a part of her husband’s inner circle as well. But she did not know his name. 

Every night, he came and silently watched her sleep. She did not bother to let him know that she was aware of his presence. It would embarrass him. 

At first, she had been unnerved and worried about his intentions but ultimately, she had chosen to hold her silence. For one, she did not want him to know that she was awake during the night. For another, he always left before the crack of dawn. Sometimes, he left a little basket of essential items and fruits in her cage before leaving. 

After thinking long and hard, Devasena could only come to two possible conclusions. Either he was doing this to honor Amarendra Baahubali’s memory or he felt guilty because he could do nothing else to help her. 

For many years, this unspoken friendship remained devoid of interaction. Until one Adi Amavasya or what would have been Baahubali’s 38th birthday. 

“Who are you?” she whispered into the stillness but instead of getting startled, he looked at her and smiled. 

“S..s….sh…Shivu,” he answered. 

Devasena gasped. 

Wasn’t that how her husband had first introduced himself to her?

For several minutes, she was unable to say anything. 

At last, she managed to ask another question– a question she had wanted to ask for 12 years. 

“Why do you come here every night?”

“Be..be..beca..because…. because, it… it… is…a… a… gggg..ggg….goo…good… th..th…thing… to… do.”

Why do you bring me these care packages? How did you know that I like rose oil, reetha extract, and aloe vera gel?” 

“Is… is..isn’t.. the… that… what all w..w…women like?” he asked innocently. 

Something did not feel right about his response but Devasena let it pass. She was no longer a princess or a queen who could just demand answers and know that they will be given. 

Barring that exchange, she seldom spoke to Shivu. A few times, she asked him if his family was well. And he always answered in the affirmative. He did mention once that his wife was sick and that their son was being raised by his aunt. But other than that, he volunteered no information and she never pestered him for more. 

However, despite his kindness and the few times she saw Katappa, her life was one of misery and loneliness. 

She often thought her captivity would never come to an end and that she would only be free in death. 

But destiny had other things planned for her. 

In a strange twist of fate, she found her freedom and her long-lost son in one long, eventful day. 

Later, when the dust settled down, she tried to seek out Shivu. She wanted to see if there was anything the royal family could do to help him and his wife. 

When she asked Katappa about him, he didn’t know anything. He looked positively bewildered by what she told him. 

“There is no soldier by that name in the entire army, let alone my elite staff,” he insisted. “Maybe you are looking for Shivendragupta or Shivarajan?” 

“It is possible that Shivu is a nickname,” she agreed. “In any case, I need to see all the guards in the audience chamber right now. I will recognize him by face.”

Half an hour later, all the elite guards stood at attention before Rajmata Devasena. 

And sure enough, Shivu was among them. 

“Shivu,” she acknowledged him with a small smile. “I have been meaning to talk to you.  The royal household wishes to help you and your wife. But first, what is your official name?”

Shivu did not respond. Katappa looked confused. 

But Devasena was not going to be deterred. 

She came down from her pedestal and stood right in front of Shivu. 

“I did not get a chance to thank you for everything you did for me,” she said gently. “Now that everything is okay, it is my turn to do something for you.”

The guard did not meet the Rajmata’s eyes. He took a long moment before answering. 

“Rajmata,” he began in earnest. “I do not wish to offend you but I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. My name is also not Shivu. I am Randheerapala.”

In that moment, Devasena felt her heart stop. 

No. This couldn’t be Shivu. His voice, his tone– everything was different. And what happened to that pronounced stammer of his?

But she needed to focus. She needed answers. 

“You often left baskets of food, soap, and antiseptic ointments in my cage. You said your wife was ill and that your son was being raised by your sister.”

The guard looked frightened and he only shook his head at her, unsure of how to respond. 

Katappa saw how badly this was going and he had no explanation except maybe… maybe these years of such abject dehumanization had affected Devasena much more profoundly than he had previously assumed. 

He had to intervene and save the situation. 

“Rajmata,” he interjected politely. “Randheerpala is not married. He has no wife and no son.” 

“No… no… no….” 

She had to hold on to the wall to keep herself from falling down. 

“No… no…”

Katappa turned to the guards and dismissed them. He did not want them to see Devasena’s breakdown. 

“Please, you must calm down,” he pleaded with her as she sank to the floor. Tears rolled down her cheeks and silent sobs shook her frame. 

Katappa stood aside quietly. In his mind, this was natural. Finally, she was dealing with her grief. It was a good thing even if it was painful to watch. 

Unfortunately, he couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Devasena wept because she now knew what it was like to lose the love of her life for the second time in 25 years. 

Only this time, both recognition and realization came too late. 

Chapter Text

The Holly’s Restaurant & Pastry Shop was a favorite with the students of Montgomery College (which was actually a high school that had chosen to keep it pre-independence colonial name). Nainital was always teeming with tourists but for Holly’s, their steadiest customers came from the school. They had another branch in an upmarket Delhi neighborhood but it didn’t quite have the same magic. Maybe, being tucked away in the mountains, under a canopy of pine trees had something to do with it. 

But despite their old world charm, they needed to keep up with the times. The menu still featured classic favorites like the full English breakfast, broiled tomatoes, banoffee pie, fish ‘n’ chips, and soufflé omelet. However, their youthful clientele wanted them to offer new, exciting fusion food. 

And so, in a bid to keep their customers happy, they hired Devika Reddy, a pastry chef from ITC Kohenur, a luxury five-star hotel in Hyderabad. It took an arm and a leg and both kidneys of Holly’s owner to convince Chef Reddy to leave her coveted position at the ITC and join this small, historic café in Nainital. But it was worth it. Her chocolate-hazelnut eclairs, almond croissants, spanakopita, and quiches quickly became the most-ordered items on the menu. 

And strangely enough, she was happy doing this. The money was great, the stress levels were low, the air was clean, and the customer feedback was warm and genuine. 

But she had not met her match yet. 

The students of Montgomery College also heard of this new chef and her culinary wizardry. But thanks to the midterms, they had no chance to go and sample her fancy creations. Also, the only teacher who could drive them back and forth was Sir Amresh, the fencing teacher. But he was really busy these days with the upcoming Asian Sports Meet. He was trying to get four of his students to compete in the under-15 category. And for that, they needed to train almost 10 hours a day. 

The girls in the 11th grade were so sick of being cooped up that they finally hatched a sneaky little plan to get their teacher out on the following Sunday. 

Harpriya, the petite army brat from Chandigarh was the mastermind and the chief executor of this scheme. At the end of Saturday’s morning exercises, she hung back at the edge of the basketball court with a sullen expression on her face. For almost 15 minutes, no one turned up. But then, there he came, in all his sweat-soaked glory with the fantastic four bringing up the rear. Harpriya kept her head down and tried her best to look utterly miserable. 

“Harpriya,” he called out to her. “Why are you sitting all by yourself. Where are your friends? And… um.. have you been crying?”

“No, everything is fine,” she answered. “I’m just trying to soak in some vitamin D.”

“Really?” There was amusement and disbelief in the teacher’s voice. “Did someone break your heart again? Did another Hollywood star get engaged”

“Sir Amresh,” she almost whined though she did not realize it. “This time I am sad for a real reason. It is my mom’s 50th birthday but I can’t be with her. Dad is posted in Tawang these days and the phone calls are restricted because it is so close to the China border.”

“That’s a pity,” Amresh nodded understandingly. “But why don’t you send her an email or a card. That way, she will know you were thinking of her on her special day. And in the meantime, we can celebrate her birthday here in Nainital.”

“How will we celebrate here?”

“Well, you gather some of your friends and classmates and I will drive you down to the mall road.”

“Oh wow,” She jumped up excitedly. “Sir Amresh, you’re the best.”  

XXXXX

He should have known they would pick Holly’s. Every Montgomerian loved that café and contributed thousands of rupees to its annual income every year. 

In fact, even he had to admit their iced coffee was to die for. As was the banoffee pie. Of course, he did not indulge too often but when he did, he preferred to come here as well… unless he was at the roadside Ramu Maggi stall near the boat club two streets away. 

As the students decided upon their orders, he took a moment to read the introduction to the new menu. 

‘Chef Devika Reddy brings the finesse of French patisseries and boulangeries to Nainital along with a sprinkling of spice and a dash of color from her home, the historic city of Hyderabad.’ 

A picture of the chef accompanied this little blurb. She looked immaculate in her white jacket and the checkered white and red beret that sat proudly on her head like a crown. 

A smile stole its way onto his lips. 

“So you finally learned to cook….” he thought but almost instantly, he wondered why he would think something like that. He didn’t even know this woman! Of course, she could cook. She’d probably been cooking since she was four. 

When the server came around to take their orders, for some inexplicable reason, he chose to play safe. “An iced cappuccino with a mini banoffee pie, please. Thanks.”

The students looked at him.

“You don’t want to try something from the new menu?” Harpriya asked. He only shook his head in response.

Unbeknownst to him, Chef Reddy was also intrigued that he did not order anything from the new menu.

Every returning customer (and even the new ones) had tried something from her recommendations. But not this patron. Curious, she peeked from the side window of the kitchen into the dining room. Only table 4 was occupied. A grown man and six teenage girls. 

Devika was almost certain it was indeed him who had refused to try her food.

“Male chauvinist pig,” she cursed under her breath. She had met plenty of men who did not trust a woman’s cooking and it incensed them even more to see accomplished women like her making a name for themselves in the culinary world. 

But she knew how to deal with his kind. 

Alongside the iced cappuccino and the banoffee pie, Amresh also received a chocolate-hazelnut éclair, a mini walnut tart, and a slice of angel food cake with the following words on it in bright pink icing. 

‘Chef’s special- Feminism. Deal with it!!!’

The girls saw it too and while they all laughed, Harpriya had a question. 

“So you didn’t order anything new because it’s a woman chef?”

“Of course not,” Amresh answered with a grin. “I just had a… a feeling that she… she didn’t always know how to cook.”

“Really?” Harpriya looked unimpressed. “She went to culinary school in Paris. If she can’t cook, no one can cook.” 

“Maybe she didn’t know how to cook in her previous life,” Amresh said without thinking. 

“Oh no! You’ve been watching too many Hindi serials with Mrs. Varma.”

“Yeah, in every Sanskrit class last year, she wanted to bore us with the latest happenings in Naagin…”

“Ai, I’ve not been watching any such serials.”

“Then why would you bring up past lives of all things.”

“Look, can we just forget I said that?” 

“Sure. But only if you say sorry to her.”

“Me? Say sorry? For what?”

“For being sexist, even if it was unintentional.”

“Oh come on!”

“Otherwise we’ll tell everyone that you watch Naagin and Sasural Simar Ka.”

“You girls are evil. You do remember I am still a teacher, right.”

“Yeah but none of us are in fencing. You can’t do anything to our grades.”

Amresh had to admit defeat at last. 

Grudgingly, he wrote a little apology note for Chef Reddy. 

“Dear Chef Reddy,

My deepest apologies if I made you feel bad by not ordering something from your menu. I’m a bit of a traditional guy and so, it was just easier to stick to what I usually get. However, thank you for the complimentary goodies and I have to say, I have never tasted such amazing eclairs. I will be back to pick up a dozen more of those later this evening. My number is– XXX XXX XXXX. My name is Amresh Balaraju. I am also originally from Hyderabad. Something about you makes me homesick. And I know I am being bold here, but why do I get the feeling I know you, that I have known you since I was very young. 

PS– I am not a creep. And this is not a proposal.”

“Wow… that was a LONG apology note,” Simran, Harpriya’s best friend remarked. “You must be feeling really guilty.”

But Amresh did not respond to her comment. 

“Time for us to head back to the school,” he said and stood up. The girls realized he was back in his Mr.-I-Am-A-Responsible-School-Teacher mode. 

The outing was over. 

XXXXX

Devika would have ignored the apology note but for some reason, it called to her. She didn’t know if it was wise to personally give him his one dozen eclairs but it was too late now. She had insisted on handling the bakery pickups this evening and he would be here any minute. 

And sure enough, exactly at 7:30 PM, he walked in. 

Damn, he was hot. Devika struggled to keep a professional smile on her face but oh, when he looked at her with those smoldering eyes of his, her resolve melted like a peanut butter and brownie sundae in the hot sun. 

“I am really sorry about this afternoon,” he said politely. “My intent was not to be a sexist or to insult your skills.”

“I… Um… yeah… your note cleared that up,” she managed to say. “Here are your eclairs.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you.”

“You said you’re from Hyderabad as well?”

“I am, but I grew up in Italy.”

“How cool! I did my apprenticeship in Italy. Learned to make all kinds of fresh pasta. It was fun. Wow, Italy and Hyderabad. What a coincidence. Um… why don’t we get dinner together? Yours was the last order. I can close up here and we can go out… you know!”

“I.. I don’t..” Amresh’s voice was uncertain and he was about to refuse but Devika was a step ahead of him. 

“This is not a date. And I don’t think you’re a creep.”

Amresh smiled with relief. “Okay, let’s grab dinner together then. Where would you like to go?”

“Actually, I’ve heard the local Maggi stalls are really good. I would love to try some of that fabled ‘mountain Maggi.”

“You’re in luck, Chef Reddy, because I know just the place.”

Ten minutes later, they were walking along the banks of the Naini lake with steaming cups of chai in their hands. Their dinner was being prepared by Ramu, the owner of Amresh’s favorite Maggi stall. 

Neither of them was able to pinpoint why it felt so right. But Nainital looked more beautiful than ever that evening as the moonlight from the full moon danced upon the shadowy waters of the lake. An owl hooted in the distance and Baahubali found his way back to Devasena over a bowl of instant noodles. 

Chapter Text

Contrary to popular belief, the younger prince of Mahishmati was not entirely innocent. Sure, he had never gone all the way with a woman, but he had experimented enough to know what turned him on and what didn’t. And like many other people with strange fetishes, his kink was also a source of embarrassment to him. 

And that was why, Devasena was beyond bewildered by his hesitation on their wedding night when she finally insisted that they make love. He had denied her even on the Hamsanava and frustrated, she had had no option but to wait for the official knot to be tied. After all, Prince Perfect was also Prince Prude. 

But now, in their dimly lit bedroom, she stood half naked in front of him wondering why he wouldn’t undress her any further. 

“Er… is something wrong with me?” she asked self-consciously. All her life, she had heard snide remarks about being on “the healthier side.” Maybe Baahu thought she was fat. The idea hurt her. But before she could go on, he was saying something. 

“Closeyoureyes,” he mumbled rather quickly. 

“Clozyo what?” she didn’t understand. 

He wasn’t sure how to say it but he wanted her to know before they went any further. Moreover, he wanted her to like it as much as he knew he would. He gathered his courage and spoke his mind. 

“Close your eyes,” he commanded gently. 

“Is that an order, Mr. Prince?” she asked. Her voice was teasing but she was not submissive and she hoped her husband knew it. Or else….

“Not an order…” he said as he slipped a silken scarf around her wrists and tied them together loosely. 

“I can easily slip out of that,” Devasena’s voice was a low moan. 

“I know you can… but do you want to?” He slipped a scarf over her eyes. “Now you can’t cheat.”

Devasena had heard of these games. But never in her wildest dreams, had she imagined that they would be the highlight of her wedding night. 

“This isn’t the highlight yet,” Amarendra whispered in her ear, as if reading her thoughts. And his teeth lightly nibbled at her earlobes while heat pooled in the pit of her stomach. 

“I… I… I wish I had something more witty to say,” she managed to gasp out but really, she just wanted to enjoy these delightful foreign sensations he was igniting in her.

“Relax and get ready for the best ride of your life,” his husky voice held promise. 

For several minutes, nothing happened. 

And then suddenly, Devasena couldn’t stop the shriek of laughter that burst forth from her lips. 

“Ow… ow.. stop that,” she gurgled as he mercilessly tickled the smooth curvature of her belly with a swan feather. 

“Not yet, Princess,” he said. “We must play a bit longer. This is battle, you see.”

Devasena wanted to respond to his implied challenge but helpless against his feathery attack, she could only laugh while he worked her over. Twice, she considered pulling her hands out of her silk ‘bondage.’ But she was also curious to see where he took her from there. 

A moment later, the feather was replaced by his hand. But there was something cool, wet, and sweet smelling on it. 

“And now, for the next stage,” he said. “Lie down please.” 

She did. 

He raised her tied arms high above her head and lowered his lips upon her own. 

“Is the tickle torture done?”

“For the time being,” he answered. “Now, it is time for the next rasa in my pancharasi premkala. Laughter was only the first.”

“What is the next one called?” Devasena asked, very aware of his excitement pulsing against her body. “And will you even last for the final three out of the five rasas? Or will you beg for forgiveness and get straight to business after this one?”

“Oh… You will be the one begging me first,”

“Mmmmm.”

And with that, Baahubali reached down to Devasena’s toes and the bottoms of her feet. The honey-scented oil would begin its magic there; the Rasa of lust.

Chapter Text

Since she was old enough to braid her own hair, all she could remember was training; training for battle, for that glorious moment when she and her comrades would liberate their Queen Devasena from the clutches of the evil king of Mahishmati. 

Nothing in Avanthika’s life had been about her joys and hopes. For that matter, she had been conditioned since childhood to pin all of herself on the singular goal of Devasena’s freedom. It had never occurred to her that she could want something else for herself, that maybe, she could have a different life than that of a rebel. 

A few times, stray thoughts of running away did cross her mind. When she saw beautifully dressed brides in the towns and villages, when she saw young women scholars teaching at ashrams, and when she saw dancers with anklets on their feet, she wondered longingly if she might have been someone else in a different lifetime or perhaps, a parallel universe. 

But she ruthlessly quashed these thoughts. Her goal was her sole raison d’etre. She had no right to think about material or bodily pleasures while the last of Kuntala’s children fought each day to free Devasena and rebuild their ruined kingdom with her blessings. 

However, there was one thing Avanthika refused to deny herself. The simple joy of eating. Naturally, as a fighter, she was offered the more nutritious food on the table but while such food nourished her body, it was bland and soulless. Hence, every time she was in a town or settlement, she took a calculated risk to grab a small snack from the streetside vendors. Her favorite was the phoolki or neer puri . Bite-sized, crispy, and hollow; these little balls of dough filled with chickpeas, potatoes, sweet chutney, and spicy mint water were the hallmark of Avanthika’s guilty pleasure. 

She could easily eat 20 of these flavor bombs and more if she was really hungry or if she had not had them for a long time. There was a vendor in Kunjanapuram who knew exactly how she liked her phoolki. 

“Come, child,” he would say to her, whenever she was in Kunjanapuram to shop for provisions. He would see her loaded down with shopping, visibly exhausted. Before serving her a plate of the phoolkis, he would offer her a drink. In the summer, it would vary between mint chhaas and cold mango panna . In the winter, it would always be hot milk with sugar or honey. And then, she would smile gratefully, fully aware of the treat that awaited her after the beverage.

Later on, when she was crowned Queen alongside her husband, Mahendra, she insisted on going back to find that vendor. And just like always, his cart stood right outside the ancient Krishna temple. He saw her and smiled at how different she looked in royal finery. But he did not forget his age-old custom. 

A glass of hot milk was in his hands before she knew it. And his next words were music to her ears. 

“Come, child. Have some milk first.”

Chapter Text

1. He was barely 14 or 15 when he heard it the first time. It was at his gurukulam. The boys in his class often gossiped about his supposed devotion to his mother. The general consensus was that he was only loyal to the throne of Mahishmati; because even though Sivagami had accepted him as her own son, in reality, he had been raised by Katappa. And he had to be bitter about it deep down. All his so-called love and regard for Sivagami Devi was just an act that he would keep up till it was time for him to ascend the throne. 

2. If there was a warrior as great as Arjuna in Mahishmati, it was Amarendra Baahubali. He was graceful and deadly on the battlefield; an angel of death. And like most people born into the warring classes of society, he relished the power he held when he decapitated enemies in war. He never showed it because it would be unbecoming of a prince to openly enjoy bloodshed. But one had to be more than a little bloodthirsty in order to kill with such fluid ease. Isn’t it?

3. Bhalla could never forget what Sethupathy told him that night. Baahubali had actually slept with the manoharis from Singhapuram. And if the rumours were to be believed, he had the three women service him all at the same time. He wished he had some proof. Without proof, he could not use this to ruin his precious brother’s reputation. But boy, even if he had no proof, he secretly enjoyed the thought of how Amarendra was no better than any other man. In some sense, he was categorically worse. 

4. Baahubali definitely regretted marrying Devasena and were it not for his oath (and the need to keep up appearances), he would have relinquished her to Bhalla in an instant. The prime minister was greatly troubled when Sivagami Devi disowned Baahubali. Sometimes at night, he was unable to sleep because of it. And always, he wondered if the outcome of Devasena’s confrontation with the Queen Mother would have been different if it had taken place in a more private setting. Baahubali would not have felt so compelled to stand by her then. After all, he hadn’t really been in love. Had he? How could that be possible when he had only known her a few days before bringing her to Mahishmati? 

5. Baahubali’s last words were not “Look after mother.” This was a lie concocted by Katappa. In reality, his last words were filled with anger and bitterness. “I will never forgive you,” he had said. And in a bid to protect his sanity, Kattapa’s mind had blocked these words from his memory. Otherwise, they would have led him to suicide. 

The One Untruth He told about himself

“I have no anger against mother or anyone,” he told Devasena one night. They had just finished dinner and were lying in each other’s arms. Like the previous night, she was feeling anxious and guilty. Even though her husband smiled and laughed like before, she could tell how stressed he was. And there was grief too. And anger. He assured her that was not the case. Devasena was a smart woman. But she believed her husband completely. And if he said he was at peace with the situation, then he was. And with that thought, she drifted off to sleep.

But he lay awake, trying to come to grips with the fact that for the first time in his life, he had lied to someone he loved. 

He was angry. Instinct told him that as a son, he had every right to be angry with his mother. But a snide, little voice in his head chastised him for thinking of himself as her son. 

“You were never really her son, were you?” it taunted him. “One perceived infraction and she acts like you mean nothing to her. Would you do that your child? Would Devasena do that to the little one growing in her belly?”

A lone tear made its way down his left cheek. After all this time, he was nothing but an orphan. And in that moment, he loathed the 25 years of kindness Sivagami Devi had showed him. Maybe, he would have fared better if she had left him on the street to fend for himself. It would have saved her relationship with Uncle Bijjaladeva. And it would have spared him the agony of being ripped apart from the lie that had been his life all these years. 

Chapter Text

For years, the brother-in-law of Kuntala’s royal family considered himself weak and lazy. Of course, he pretended otherwise. After all, he was a rather talented actor. He had even perfected his arrogant manner in order to fit in with the rest of the royal family.

He had paintings made of himself in which he stood upon the carcasses of wild beasts like tigers and lions. He frequently regaled people with tales of his bravery. He made sure to always stand straight with his chest sticking out like a true warrior who was proud of his lineage and his deeds.

However, he suffered a great deal when he was forced to confront his imposter syndrome. 

“Strength will never be mine,” he often said to himself. But thanks to his good humor, he never stayed down too long. It was a good thing Kuntala was a peaceful, prosperous kingdom and he had never really been put to the test. A part of him was sure that if trouble ever knocked at the door, he would throw himself out of the nearest window. 

That changed with the bandit chief’s attack on Kuntala. Under Amarendra Baahubali’s guidance and with his blessings, Kumaravarma found out just what he was made of. For several weeks, he basked in the glow of his newfound valor. 

But destiny had more in store for him.

Fighting on the battlefield was a tiny measure of the vast reserves of strength needed to weather the storms of life. This realization came to him when he made the decision to follow his cousin Devasena and her husband into exile. He had been invited as a mere guest at the Princess’ Seemantham ceremony. But when she and Baahubali were thrown out of their home, he knew he could not simply return to Kuntala. 

Devasena and Baahubali were his family. They were strong and brave. But in this difficult time, they would need all the help they could get. And so, when the peasants welcomed them into their village, Kumara also joined them. They insisted that he should return to Kuntala. They told him he didn’t have to share their fate. 

But love is a rather strong motivator. Kumara stayed. 

The first night in the village was difficult. Mosquitoes buzzed around their ramshackle hut. They bit him on his arms and legs and he was forced to scratch himself till he was nearly raw and bloody. The earth was hard and unyielding under his back. While he slept, large black ants saw it fit to climb all over his feet. 

Baahubali stayed awake during the first two prahars and kept watch. He tried to make Devasena comfortable. A woman had given them a thin mattress but it was lumpy and uneven. 

The next morning, both he and Amarendra joined the men for work in the quarry. It was hard, grueling work. And the oppressive heat did not help matters. Kumara longed for a sip of the chilled water that was always readily available at the palace. For a moment, he considered giving up and going back to Kuntala. But he quashed that thought instantly.

Instead, he laid his tools on the ground and went to fetch water for everyone. 

While the water wasn’t as cold as he would have liked, he was glad to see how much his effort meant to everyone. He savored the sight of the tired men drinking the water. At first, they took small tentative sips but when they realized he had brought enough for all of them, they allowed themselves to quench their thirst freely. The small, grateful smile on Baahubali’s lips made Kumara giddy with joy. 

From that day onwards, Kumaravarma made it his life’s mission to be of service to Devasena and Amarendra. He loved them dearly and there was no river he wouldn’t cross for them. 

He helped out with the household chores– washing clothes, peeling vegetables, cleaning the floor etc.– and he was happy doing it. 

At night when he rested his back on the unrelenting, naked earth, sleep came to him easily. He reveled in his unique strength; the strength of devotion. 

Chapter Text

The night was cool. And it felt good to rest his head on his mother’s shoulder. 

“Ma, do you love Baahu more?” he asked her softly. The boys at the gurukulam often teased him that he was the adopted child and not Baahubali. Who could love someone as sour and arrogant as him when Baahubali was clearly the nicer, cleverer child. Even the teachers seemed to favor him. 

Sivagami Devi laughed. 

“Bhalla, do you love your right eye more or your left eye?” she asked. 

“I love both my eyes,” he answered. “Look, when I cover one, the other one has to work extra hard to see everything.” He placed his pudgy little hand over his left eye and blinked owlishly at his mother. 

“Then how can I love you less than Baahu?” she reasoned with the child. “You are my right eye and he is my left eye.”

“I know you don’t love me less,” Bhalla said slowly. “But… but do you love him more? Answer my question, ma.”

Sivagami sighed. Her 5-year-old son was really asking complicated questions tonight. The truth was, even she didn’t know if she was just a tiny bit partial towards Baahu. This thought had troubled her for years but she had never given it room to take root in her mind. 

But now that Bhalla wanted her to answer in plain words, she was not sure what to say. 

“Did your father say something to you,” she asked him gently. Bijjaladeve did not like Baahu and maybe he was poisoning her elder son against his younger brother. How cruel! 

But she could expect nothing better from a man so bitter that he never had a kind word to say about anyone, let alone the son of his dead brother whose mere memory was also a thorn in his side. 

“Father did not say anything,” Bhalla said quickly; perhaps a little too quickly. 

Sivagami Devi was a shrewd woman. No one dared to lie to her. She detested falsehoods and if she caught someone trying to pull wool over her eyes, she did not spare them. 

But this was her son– her innocent, unsullied child who lied only to protect his father. 

“I don’t love Baahu more than I love you,” she said to him at last. “I love you both equally; just as Mother Parvati loved both Ganesha and Kartikeya equally.”

“And Ashokasundari?” Bhalla quipped. 

“Oh yes, her too,” she smiled. “If I had a little daughter, I would have loved her just the same. A mother does not play favorites, my son.”

A fuzzy feeling came over Bhalla. He felt content to know that his mother loved him as much as she loved Baahu. The warmth of her lap felt even better as he snuggled closer to her. 

“Mmmmm, you are tired. Come, let us get you in bed,” she cooed at him. 

She patted his head and hummed an old lullaby she had heard only once in her childhood. 

Moments later, Bhalla was asleep. But Sivagami stayed awake, troubled beyond measure. 

Did she perhaps sense that this question would come back to haunt her 20 years later? 

Chapter Text

His birthday was, by far, his favorite day of the year. Every year, for one day, there was nothing he couldn’t have. And he was showered with presents and blessings and good things to eat. But of all his birthdays, the sixth one was the most memorable. 

Ma gave him new clothes and new jewelry– a red brocade jacket, a turban pin set with Thai rubies and Singhalese pearls, a necklace painstakingly crafted by filigree artists from Pataliputra, and a solid gold ring with a sapphire larger than his eyeball. Father gave him a purse full of money that was entirely his to spend; no questions asked. His younger brother gave him animal figurines carved out of marble. And several of the courtiers and ministers gave him new quills, bottles of perfumed oil, and toys made of brass and silver. 

The kitchens prepared a feast that consisted of all his favorite delicacies. The cook prepared laddoos with cashews and raisins, sweet banana halwa with desiccated coconut, rice fried with vegetables in ghee, and yam dumplings in a yogurt curry. 

However, all of this was no longer novel for him. It was still exciting and fun to be the center of attention, but he deserved something more now that he was a big boy… or at least bigger than he was last year. However, he wasn’t sure what that could be? What would be more special than such exquisite clothes, jewelry, money, and toys?

He didn’t know.

His friend, Sukundama, saw how crestfallen he was.

“Bhalla, today is such a special day,” he exclaimed. “Why are you sad?”

“I am bored,” the prince answered. “I get the same celebrations every year. There is nothing new to play with, explore, or enjoy.”

“Hmmmm,” Sukundama took a moment to think about Bhalla’s unique problem. “I don’t know how to help you, but I’ve heard the grownups talk about the magic of fresh hair. Let us go into the garden and see if we can think of something new to excite you.”

Bhalla would have refused but he was not doing very much by simply moping around. Maybe going out with Sukundama would be fun.

The two boys made their way to the garden behind the ruins of the old temple. Bhalla had never been there. That particular spot was somewhat remote from the palace and it was only visited when someone from the royal family wanted to take a long walk. The Rajmata often came there to clear her mind after a long day of meetings and policy discussions.

“Wow,” Bhalla gasped with delight.

His eyes took in the brilliant colors of the flowers as they hung in cascading bunches that climbed all over the walls. Rows upon rows of heavily laden berry bushes accentuated the kaleidoscope of brightness that was the garden.

But the best part was the small rose flower bed in the corner where roses of several hues shared space upon a single bush.

A gardener was watering the wild herbs surrounding the said bush.

“Good afternoon, your highness,” he man bowed deeply when he realized whose presence he was in.

“How do you make different types of roses grow on the same plant,” Bhalla asked him rather grandly.

“It is a process called grafting, my lord.”

“I have not seen such a plant anywhere else. Where did you learn this?”

“My father taught me. He was a gardener here as well before he passed away four years ago.”

“How come I have never seen you in any of the other gardens before?”

“I am content here, sir. There is a strange peace in this little place. Besides, the flowers and trees make me feel quite alive. I feel like a God.” He turned beet red as he said this. “My apologies, my prince. Forgive me for saying such improper things. I did not mean them.”

But Bhalla didn’t even register whatever the man was apologizing for. He was greatly intrigued.

“This rose bush with the different colored flowers; it makes you feel like a creator.”

The gardener looked up.

“Yes, sir,” he accepted.

“Teach me,” Bhalla said at once. “I want to be a creator too. Then I will create new plants for myself. Every birthday, I will have a new bush or tree of my own, created by my hands, alive by my grace, and mine to cut down if I so desire.”

“But you won’t want to cut them down, sir,” the gardener smiled gently at the little boy. “You will fall in love with each little sapling you plant.”

“Can I plant something now?”

“Indeed, your highness. Why don’t you begin with a mango plant? It is your birthday.”

“Perfect. I love mangoes. You are a smart man, gardener. I like you. I will ask mother to offer you a pay rise.”

The man couldn’t help but chuckle at the little prince’s cheekiness.

“May this tree bear you the sweetest fruits every year and fill your life with the nectar of happiness. Come, let us prepare the earth for it.”

***30 years later***

Maharaja Bhallaladeva was so unlike Sivagami Devi. He ruled with a cold, calculated brutality that was hard to understand but even harder to digest.

However, he was a lonely and bitter man as well. There were things that occupied and troubled his mind no end.

But he could not go back in time and change things. Maybe, if he had planned everything better, Devasena would have truly been his, Baahubali would have died sooner, and mother would have loved him completely.

He did not take long walks like Sivagami Devi but whenever he was troubled, he liked to visit his garden. No one was allowed to enter it. No gardener tended to it because the king liked to do everything by hand and he was not ready to share even the care and upkeep of his little sanctuary. It was his completely.

However, today, he had brought a visitor with him.

Bhadra, the apple of Bhallaladeva’s eye, sat comfortably in his father’s lap as he was carried to the garden.

“This is it, my son,” the king said. “This is our garden. My garden. I have had it since I was a mere boy.”

“I love it, father,” the child said. “But what will we do here?”

“I will teach you how to grow things,” Bhalla answered. “We will sit and read here. We will spend the summer here; all the sunny afternoons in the garden. And no one will disturb us.”

“Promise?” Bhadra asked. He loved to spend quality time with his father, but it was seldom that they truly had an opportunity to do so. This sounded too good to be true. But he trusted his father. And so, he was sure a promise would seal the deal.

“Promise,” Bhalla said with a smile. “Come, let me show you my favorite rose bush.”

Chapter Text

Motherhood was difficult. 26 years ago, she had thought the act of giving birth was the hardest thing a mother could do. Today, she was rethinking her supposition. 

She stood in the middle of her adoptive son’s bedchamber and watched as his things was removed from their proper places. On her orders. 

“Maharani,” one of the servants came to her. “Do you want this to be added to the pile as well?” 

In his hands, he held a heavy gold box inlaid with multicolored semi-precious gems. 

“Yes,” she answered sternly. “And don’t ask me this again. Every last thing has to go.”

She watched as his clothes were removed from the closet– the dark blue dhoti he had worn last Deepavali, the brown silk coat he had been given by Bhalla three winters ago, the pointed shoes he looked so good in but didn’t like wearing because they gave him shoe bites.

Next to go were his parchments, quills, and inkpots. 

At last, every nook and cranny of his rooms was stripped bare. In a few days, his lingering essence would also go stale and fade away. Or so she hoped. She had no desire to smell his unique fragrance when she came here. But she doubted she would come here again. These rooms would forever haunt her. And she would try her best to see as little of them as possible. 

In the evening, she had the pyre lit in the enclosed agnikunda. No priests were present and no prayers were recited as she performed the funerary rites of her relationship with her younger son. 

One by one, each of the items from the pile was tossed into the burning pit. The clothes quickly burned to cinders, the ink caused the flames to flare up momentarily, the quills disintegrated within moments. 

The last to go were his jewelry pieces. He had had only a few but they had been crafted lovingly for him by some of the finest silversmiths in the city. 

Her hands shook as she threw his anklets into the fire. The solid silver anklets melted in the furnace. Slowly. It felt like an eternity by the time she could see nothing of them. 

She wished she would feel sick and pained. But a yawning emptiness in the pit of her belly said something else. 

She had completed the last rites of her motherhood, it seemed. 

And the pain of this void was far worse than the pain of pushing out a child. 

She now understood what she was about as she stared at her swollen, dry-eyed face in the mirror. She did not like what she saw. A murderess. And an unwilling goddess of destruction. 

Chapter Text

Every year, Katappa was allowed only one full day of leave. Other than that, the only times he was absent from the palace was when he was sick or injured. Thankfully, those occasions had been rare over the last several years.

The Mahalaya Amavasya of the second paksha of Bhadrapada, was his official yearly holiday for a very special reason. It was the last day of the annual Shraada period when he meditated upon the good names of his ancestors; the people whose blind devotion to Mahishmati had chained him to a life of misery and injustice.

A part of him had known since boyhood that there was something fundamentally wrong about slavery. However, he had never felt the need to question it. His formative years spent in the companionship of Prince Vikramadeva had made him feel almost like a free man, as if the tag of “slave” was simply a ceremonial one.

Later, his friendship with Amarendra Baahubali had solidified that feeling. And for a major chunk of his adult life, he had never wondered about his true status in Mahishmati’s society.

But in these twilight years of his life, his old bones screamed at him to rail against the unfairness of it all—the crimes he was forced to commit, participate in, and witness in silence—because if left to him, he would liberate Mahishmati and renounce the world for good. But, he was a condemned man, damned to be a slave to whichever tyrant occupied the throne of Mahishmati.

He had stood by and watched helplessly as people had been beaten and executed in the streets for minor infractions. He had held off rebelling hordes of starving people when the kingdom had been struck by famine a few years ago. He had allowed countless people to die when he could have saved them.

Lastly, and most importantly, every single waking moment of his, was tormented by the knowledge that he had murdered Baahu and his child and that he was the reason why Devasena was in chains.

Devasena.

He remembered his very first glimpse of her rather fondly.

The fiery Kuntala princess had stolen Baahu’s heart with her sharp, piercing eyes and her equally lethal sword. First, she had fought off six bandits singlehandedly and then she had admonished him and Baahu for standing meekly behind the ladies.

Katappa chuckled at the memory.

But he dared not think about what came afterwards.

The lullaby.

Only a few nights before, he had watched silently as Devasena patted the earth lovingly in her sleep, humming the refrain of the song which now haunted him like a restless spirit or ghost.

“Kanna Nidurinchara… naa Kanna nidurinchara…”

The words slurred in her drowsy, hoarse voice sounded all wrong. They no longer held the joy of new love nor the devotion to a beloved who was just waiting to embrace her.

No.

Now the melody held broken promises, a bittersweet reminder of the happiness she had once known, and the end she was waiting for, so she could finally reunite with him.

The only thing that kept Devasena alive through it all—the starvation, the humiliation, the cold, the filth, and the loneliness—was her faith that her son would return and avenge her husband’s death and her misery.

Katappa did not know if he shared her belief. But if he was honest with himself, he did not. His own hopelessness sometimes longed to coopt the fallen princess’ fanciful desire. But he was too battered and too heartsick for more false hope.

However, if—and it was never going to happen—Mahendra Baahubali did return, what would become of him? What would become of Bhallaladeva?

He smiled yet again at the tricks his mind wanted to play at him.

There would be no redemption. Not for them.

Bhallaladeva would burn on that pyre Devasena was building for him.

And he, the wretched slave, would rejoice before his inevitable execution by the noose.

The law of Mahishmati would reign supreme one last time in his life.

Then, he would be free to atone in peace. 

The shraada observances would finally mean something in the afterlife. 

Chapter Text

Dear Diary,

If this is what being king is about then I am glad I am going to be king. Mother has sent me to tour the entire kingdom with Mama. And I am in awe of everything I have seen so far. Did you know we have an entire trading port near Taskala that deals solely with the Singhala pearl trade? I had no idea. And from what I can tell, the traders don’t pay taxes on their earnings. Every single tax officer from this region has been forced to forge entries in the books all these years. And they do it! Out of fear. This is very bad for the economy. I will go back and see to it that stricter law enforcement is employed here so that tax collection can happen without a hitch.

In other news, I had no idea we had such a rich mango belt in the Kuntala valley. This has to be my greatest discovery so far. Granted, geography and agriculture have never been my favorite subjects but still! I should have known that this is where the best fruit in Mahishmati comes from. I am going to take some seeds with me and plant them in Bhalla’s personal garden. I can’t wait to see his expression when he sees the massive size of the mangoes. Of course, it will take five years before that can happen, but I say, it is worth the wait.

Or maybe he can be king, and I can just keep traveling. I feel so ill-equipped to take on such a huge responsibility. Jokes aside, this kingdom is indeed vast and its people, its culture, its fabric—nothing is uniform. In some sense, this variety, this diversity is perhaps our greatest strength. But it also tells me how much more I need to know. A king must keep learning. And for that, a king needs to constantly move among his people and hear from them. If he can’t, then someone else must do it for him. Maybe I can be that person if I do give up the throne. If I were being totally honest, I know Bhalla is upset that Ma chose me. And I love my brother dearly. I don’t want the throne to drive a wedge between us. However, I wonder if the damage has already been done. 

But wait, if I do become a full-time traveler, I will have to deal with the unsavory ways of the road. Ugh! Nope, I am not up for that. Mama has a cast iron stomach. I don’t. And the last two days have been hell in that regard. I think it’s best if I stick to being king. Maybe I will take back some mangoes and lure Bhalla to take up the traveling duties. Someone has to. Better him than me or some dishonest stranger. Besides, with his brand of discipline, Bhalla will surely make the pearl traders fall in line as well—don’t worry, he won’t chop them into little bits. I will make sure of it. My style of ruling will always have a system of checks and balances.

See, I knew I was smart!

Until next time,

Baahu 

Chapter Text

The kitchen at the Holly’s Café was littered with rainbow glitter, “unicorn” sprinkles, and an entire set of homemade herbal organic food coloring sat in seven different flour bowls, ready to whisked together with butter and sugar.

“Chef, the yeast has risen,” the pastry chef announced.

“Chef, the sugar is ready for pulling,” came the announcement from the garnish counter.

“Chef, do you need a cup of tea?” the low, comforting rumble came from the doorway.

Devika Reddy looked up from her heart-shaped cookie cutter to see Amresh smiling at her.

“You’ve been working too hard,” he said.

“Well, that I have,” she admitted. “I could use a cup of tea, actually. But who let you in? Café policy does not allow customers into the kitchen.”

“Well, let’s just say it comes in handy to be tall, dark, and handsome.”

“Vain much, mister?”

Amresh laughed at that remark and fetched her a small Styrofoam cup filled with tea from the kitchen’s instant coffee (and tea and soup) machine.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” she asked him as she inspected the multicolored dough that was now ready for braiding.

“I will get dressed once you’re done here.”

“I am going like this. In my uniform.”

“Oh come one. There is more to you than cooking.”

“Bold of you to assume that. Nope. Today is about celebrating love. And my first love happens to be food.”

“You’re such a spoilsport.”

“Oh, come on, Amresh. Just go and get ready already. I am sure your students are just dying to see what you come up with.”

“They sure are going to be disappointed.”

“Why?”

“Because I am not going shirtless even for this event.”

“That’s a good thing,” Devika muttered. “They are minors and we don’t want teenage girls to faint at the parade.”

“You have a point there,” Amresh winked. “As long as the one woman I’m interested in, faints at the sight of my fully clothed glory.”

“Haw! This is my workplace. Besides, what if it’s a man who ends up swooning over you.”

“Great. We can have a threesome then!”

“That’s it! You’re out. Out. Now.”

She practically pushed Amresh out of the kitchen and made sure that he left the premises.

Of course, she had been so engrossed in her exchange with him that she had totally missed the amused and embarrassed grins on the faces of the rest of her brigade.

“What are you smirking at, Deepak,” she admonished the pastry chef. “We still have three trays of muffins to go before we can call it a day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Deepak answered but the knowing smirk stayed on his face.

Two hours later, all the goodies had been baked, cooled, packed, and loaded into the truck that would deliver them to the site of the parade.

“I am going home now,” she told her staff. “You guys should also head out. We reopen only tomorrow.”

Once home, she did not take long to freshen up. A quick shower, a light layer of makeup, a button-down shirt, and a pair of ripped jeans. The only dash of color was her multicolored mirrorwork scarf. She wondered what her best friend (almost-boyfriend) was going to come up with.

After all, he was the reason they were attending pride.

She didn’t have to wait for long to find out.

The familiar honk of his car announced his arrival as she tied her shoelaces.

“Here goes nothing,” she whispered under her breath.

But not even her best poker face could hide her shock.

“What the…” she exclaimed. “Oh… My God!”

“Is… um… is something wrong?” he asked self-consciously. “It’s the glitter, right? I knew I overdid it.”

“No… not at all,” she said. “I am just, you know, surprised. I think you look great. Lose the sunglasses though!”

She went around the car and made herself comfortable in the passenger seat.

As they drove to the parade ground, she took a moment to look at him, to take in all of his loud finery for Nainital’s first ever Pride Parade.

The dark blue pants were nothing out of ordinary. Even the plain black shirt looked great as it hugged his chiseled muscles in all the right places.

But his rainbow-colored shoes with golden ribbons for laces and the glittering unicorn streaks in his hair and moustache—she kind of didn’t know what to say.

What could she say when she was torn so badly between the overwhelming urge to laugh and the insane desire to throw him on the backseat of the car and rip that black shirt to shreds with her teeth.

Her time with this fencing teacher was teaching her many things. Today’s lesson was self-control!

“So, what made you do this?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Bring Pride to Nainital. This is such a small town. Aren’t you worried that people will judge you and everyone else who’s taking part in it?”

“Just because they will judge us, doesn’t mean we should stop being who we are. I am a proudly bisexual man. I shouldn’t have to hide that for the delicate sensibilities of some retired uncle.”

“But… you haven’t actually ever dated a man, have you?”

“I have never truly dated anyone, not even a woman.”

“Then how do you know you are bi? Maybe you are straight.”

“I don’t think so,” he chuckled. “I have struggled with my identity for years. And after a lot of tears, prayers, and conversations with myself, I have come to accept myself as I am.”

“But you grew up in Italy, aren’t they more accepting than here?”

“They are… but my family isn’t so chilled out. Like my mom doesn’t think I am actually bi. In fact, one time, she said she was glad I identified as bi instead of gay because then there was still hope.”

“Hope that you’d bring home a daughter-in-law instead of a son-in-law?”

“Precisely. When I was a teenager, she insisted this was ‘just a phase.’ When we visited relatives, she would tell me to stay quiet about who I liked. I remember being at some cousin’s half-saree ceremony where all the youngsters were discussing their crushes. I was the only one who couldn’t say anything because my first crush was a male.”

“Ooooo… Who was your first crush?”

“The same dude who was the first crush of most straight women and most gay men who grew up in the nineties; Enrique ‘smoking hot’ Iglesias.”

At this, Devika laughed.

“True that,” she said. “I still have my poster of him from when he came to India for that tour with Pepsi.”

“Did you attend that concert?” Amresh asked.

“Of course not,” she answered. “I never had money for things like that. But my maths teacher knew someone in the marketing committee of the concert. He was able to get me a signed poster.”

“Sweet.”

For they next few minutes, they drove in silence.

“Who is your current crush?” she asked as he pulled into the parking lot of the parade ground.

“Crush? I think I am too old to have a crush now.”

“Okay… who are you romantically inclined towards at the present moment?”

“Now you sound like Spock… or maybe T’Pol.”

“Excuse me?”

“Spock… the Vulcan science officer from Star Trek. Talks like a computer. Has elf ears.”

“Er… he’s the same as Yoda, right?”

Amresh’s eyes widened as he heard this.

“Oh. My. God. You did not just say that!”

“What?” Devika was confused and annoyed. “Look, I don’t care about Star Wars fanboys. Just answer my question already.”

“Okay, my current ‘crush’ is the lady who cleans the trophy room at my school.”

“That can’t be right. She… how… I mean, how can she be your type?”

“Why can’t she be? Classist much?”

“I hate you sometimes.”

“Correction. You hate how I get on your nerves. You don’t hate me per se.”

“Listen, I know you aren’t into the trophy room lady.”

“Okay, you win. I will tell you who I like these days but after the parade.”

“No, that’s not fair!”

“It is. Now let’s get out there.”

As they walked right into the center of the parade, Devika couldn’t help but feel underdressed. Sleepy, old, seasonal, touristy Nainital had changed colors way before spring. Tibetan kids dressed in traditional garb stood with their musical instruments in a corner and played energetic, upbeat tunes while a tall, slim girl wearing a black saree with rainbow pleats danced in front of them.

“What are those instruments?” Devika asked.

“That drum is called the Madal,” Amresh answered. “It is actually a Nepalese instrument. “The lute is called the Damnyen and that fiddle is called the Piwang. Many people confuse it with the Erhu but that’s a totally different instrument.”

“How do you know this?” she was impressed by his knowledge.

“I know the musicians. We often smoked up together after their performances in the summer. They also have a rock band where they actually sing less of rock and more of pop.”

“Is there anyone in Nainital you don’t know?” Devika laughed.

“Yeah, I didn’t know you at first. And I still don’t know the owner of your café.”

“Big deal. And he doesn’t count. He doesn’t live in Nainital.”

“Sir Amresh, you are here,” a man with bright red highlights and glittery orange lipstick came running to greet them.

“Hi! Vinod, nice to see you too,” Amresh said as the man pulled him into a tight embrace. “Easy there. Don’t break my bones.”

Vinod snorted. “Break your bones? Not a chance. Those bones are made of titanium. Now have you brought your pointy stick with you?”

“It’s called a foil.”

“Yeah, the very same. And who is this lovely lady by your side. Is she my sister-in-law yet?”

Devika blushed.

“If there is one thing about you that will never change, it is the sheer amount of nonsense you talk,” Amresh’s words would have been rude in any other setting but Vinod took them in good spirit.

“I may talk nonsense, but you still need to tell me. Is she, or isn’t she?”

Devika waited with bated breath to see what he would say.

“Well,” he said dramatically. “She isn’t.” Devika sighed.

“Yet,” he finished.

She looked up.

He gave her a pointed look, and a mischievous smile.

“Oh good!” Vinod exclaimed. “Now, where were we? Ah yes, the foil.”

“Actually, I do have it,” Amresh said and opened his Prieur fencing kit that hung on his left shoulder.

“That’s your fencing stuff?” Devika asked. “I thought it was just one of your many designer backpacks.”

“It could double up as a backpack too. But this was custom-made for my equipment when I represented my high school at the European Sports Meet 10 years ago.”

“Impressive!”

“Yeah… I’m still so proud of myself.”

“Ahem,” Vinod cleared his throat to redraw attention to himself.

“Oh, sorry. You were saying something.”

“Yes, I was. Are you willing to show us some moves… you know, just a fancy little educational show for everyone.”

“Do I look like a performing monkey to you?” Amresh sounded how he felt. Offended. But not really. “On second thoughts, this could be fun,” he added.

“Aha! You can never resist a chance to show off, can you?” Vinod said playfully. “Alright, you’re up in ten.”

Devika quickly bought herself an ice-cream before finding a prime spot to stand so she could watch the action from the frontlines.

Amresh took his position in the center of the circle. He stood with his back slightly arched and his hands paused for attack. His blade arm hung motionless in the air with the foil pointing upwards, ready to strike. His eyes remained steadily trained at the crowd and a self-conscious smirk completed his act.

He made the first move; a fluid figure of eight in the air. As if in a trance, his feet hardly touched the ground as his foil snipped up festoons and leaves and ribbons that the crowd threw at him. No piece was missed. And like the compass that always points north, his eyes never left her face.

Her ice-cream dripped down her fingers as it melted in the sun.

She was eons away, watching him perform his swordplay in full armor, complete with the shield of the Mahishmati empire.

His sword cut through the bodies of enemies, his arrows pierced their hearts, and before she knew it, his hands were guiding hers to join him in battle.

But someone was shouting. What was the commotion about? Was that Kumaravarma’s panicked voice?

“Devika? DEVIKA?” Amresh shook her hard. “What in the devil are you doing?”

“Huh..huh… wha.. what?” the front of her clothes was soiled with the syrupy, sticky remains of her strawberry ice-cream. His foil lay discarded on the ground.

“ARE YOU CRAZY?” He roared at her. “Do you know how badly you could have been hurt? That blade can be lethal.”

There was pin drop silence around her. Every face in the crowd seemed to judge her. Was she mad? Suicidal? Attention seeking?

“I… I don’t know what happened,” she managed to say at last.

Amresh did not say anything. He pulled her into a tight embrace.

“Don’t ever do that again. Please. Come, let’s get you home.”

Back in her living room, he made her a cup of hot, strong tea.

She allowed the warmth of the cup to calm her frazzled nerves.

“I… I am so sorry,” she said for the tenth time. “I don’t know what happened back there. One moment I was watching you. The next, you were not yourself.”

“Not myself?” Amresh chuckled. “What else would I be? A turnip?”

“No… no…. You were in different clothing. It was a different place. Different time.”

“Oh… and what did I say to you? Come walk directly into the pointy end of my foil?”

“No. You said ‘Na dve. Manibandhan bahirmukham.’”

At this, Amresh laughed. “What language is that even?”

“You tell me?”

“Sounds like Sanskrit. But could be anything. All I know is that I have no clue what that means.”

“Whatever.”

“I know what’s wrong though,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “You’ve been watching some drama again set in ancient India.”

“Excuse me?”

“I found your Hotstar list last week.”

“How dare you?” she stood up, aghast; not only at this invasion of privacy but also because he had discovered her guilty pleasure, her secret.

“I am sorry I was just trying to access Netflix. Your new smart TV ended up taking me to Hotstar cause apparently, that’s what you watch. And well, old OLED there, is indeed a smart TV. He wouldn’t really have that title if he didn’t know what its owner wants before you can press the buttons.”

“It is clearly too smart for its own good,” she pouted.

“So why are you watching Siya Ke Ram for the sixth time?” he asked casually. “And that never-ending show about Mahadev where people cry every four minutes and 22 seconds.”

“It is none of your business,” she snapped.

“Admit it, chef, you are human like the rest of us.”

“Well, you will be a wandering spirit in the next five minutes if you don’t stop making fun of me.”

“Death threats? Already? Hello! We haven’t even gone on our first date yet.”

“I don’t care. Out of my house now. I’d like some peace and quiet. And you are not helping.”

“You want the quiet so you can peacefully watch your serials.”

“Yes, and dream about your reincarnated form. As a wild boar. In your next life.”

“Wasn’t that something we hunted together?” the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Er… scratch that! Nothing, I really should be leaving now.”

“Good boy.” She walked him to the door.

“Please take care of yourself,” he said to her as he unlocked his car. “I’ll call in the evening to see if you need anything.”

She gave him a shy, tender smile.

“I will wait for your call. Maybe if I feeling decent later, we could go out for dinner.”

“A date?”

“Maybe”

He blushed and got into his car before she could see the silly grin that had found its way onto his lips.

As he drove away, she watched wistfully from her doorway. She wasn’t sure what her strange dreams and visions were about. But she secretly adored them. She only wished she knew why and what they meant.

Chapter Text

Chef Devika Reddy was glad to be in Nainital. When she had first accepted the job at the Holly’s Mountain Cafe and Pastry Shop, she had been unsure and scared. Having lived in big cities all her life, she had been uncomfortable with the idea of moving to such a tiny place and that too in the mountains. 

But now, three months into her job, she was happy. And part of the reason was her new friend, the school teacher from Montgomery College. A smile found its way onto her lips when she thought about him. She didn’t think she loved him; not yet at least. But she really did enjoy his company. Her evenings were filled with music and laughter when he was around. He played the harmonica beautifully and it was a talent most people didn’t know about– certainly not his cheeky female students. But Devika was sure that if those girls knew of it, they would again develop their little crushes on him. But she, the feisty pastry chef, was not interested in sharing him. And so, she had sort of let him know that their musical evenings were to remain special between them. 

Tonight, he was taking her out for a concert. Being a bustling tourist town, Nainital saw a ton of cultural events during the summer. However, most of these events were rooted in Indian art. This concert was special because a famous band from the UK was performing. It had been years since an international artist had performed in Nainital. And so, the air was heavy with excitement and almost everyone they knew had tickets to the concert. 

“My students will also be there,” he had told her. “But don’t worry. The hostel wardens will be responsible for them tonight. You and I can relax and enjoy the music.”

She took out three dresses from her closet– a backless black cocktail dress, a maroon maxi with sequins, and a pale blue low cut gown that would cling to her curves in all the right places. 

But this was after all a small town. What if she came across as overdressed? And what if she gave him the wrong idea. She was sure she would be safe with him but still! They were not dating and she didn’t want him to think she was desperate. 

Ultimately, she chose a white knee-length frock dress with a high collar and long sleeves. She paired her modest outfit with a pair of understated silver earrings and a Swarovski swan pendant that her mother had gifted her on her last birthday. 

Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail and she kept the makeup very light; just a hint of eyeliner, mascara, and a fruity transparent lip-gloss.  

The clock on the table struck 7. He would pick her up any minute. While she waited, she poured herself a glass of cold water. She checked her purse again for her wallet, an extra tampon, and an age proof. She didn’t think they would drink but one could never be too sure. And it had been ages since she had had a glass of good wine. Maybe they could go out for dinner after the concert. He, of course, wouldn’t drink because he he would be driving. But maybe she could. 

Just then, her phone rang. 

The number was unfamiliar to her. 

“Hello,” she answered the call at the second ring. 

“Hello,” an unfamiliar male voice spoke from the other end. “May I know who I am speaking with?”

“I am Chef Devika Reddy with the Holly’s Mountain Café,” she answered. “Who’s this?”

“Madam, I am Inspector Ramchand Negi,” the caller said. “And I am sorry to be calling at this hour but it is an important matter. There has been an accident near Vijay Chowk. The victim’s cell phone showed you as the last person he spoke to. We have not been able to ID him yet but because he is severely injured, we are taking him to the Naina Devi Hospital. Are you able to tell us his name?”

Devika was stunned. The ground seemed to be shaking under her feet. 

“Madam, madam,” the police officer’s voice sounded faraway and foggy. “Hello madam, are you there? I said, can you tell us his name.”

“Huh!” She managed to recover from the shock; enough to respond to the question. “Ye… ye..yes. His name is Amresh Balaraju. He is a teacher at Montgomery College.”

“Okay, we will inform the school authorities as well then,” the policeman said. 

“You said you are taking him to Naina Devi hospital, right?” Devika asked. 

“Yes, madam. But unless you are next of kin, you will not be allowed to see him.”

This put her in a quandary. She needed to see him. But what could she say? Who was she to him. 

“I… I am his fiancée,”  she lied. Her stomach twisted in knots as the words tumbled out of her mouth. 

“Oh.. oh, we are so sorry. You can come to the hospital then. Once again, our sincerest apologies for bearing such bad news.”

*****

She did not register the details of the cab ride from her apartment to the hospital. As if on autopilot, she paid the driver and did not remember to take back her change. She looked odd in her flattering evening dress and her blue, rubber flip flops. But she did not care. 

“I am here to see Amresh Balaraju,” she said to the plump, grey-haired lady sitting at the reception.

“Are you related to him?” the woman asked.

“Yes. I am his fiancée.” This time, the lie slipped out smoothly. 

“Please wait there on the bench,” the receptionist said. “He is currently in the trauma emergency. Because this is an accident case, the police will want to talk to you as well. I need to inform them you are here. They will be with you shortly.”

“Is he okay?” Devika asked. That was all she wanted to know. Everything else was immaterial in her current scheme of things. 

“Unfortunately, I cannot tell you anything just yet,” the receptionist smiled apologetically. “I wish I had something more for you. Please wait there. And here, please fill out this form.”

She handed her a pen and a clipboard with several sheets of paper stuck in it. 

The first form wanted her name, place of work, date of birth and other generic details. It took her less than two minutes to fill it. 

The second form wanted information about him. 

What allergies did he have? What was his blood group? Had he ever had any surgeries? Was he on any medication? Did he smoke? Did his family have a history of diabetes? heart disease? hypertension? Had he ever received a blood transfusion? Did he have any tattoos? Piercings? 

Devika didn’t have any answers and for several minutes, she simply stared at the sheet before turning the page over. 

She signed her name at the bottom of the undertaking, that indeed, she had filled the forms truthfully to the best of her knowledge. 

Half-an-hour later, Inspector Ramchand Negi came to talk to her. 

“So you are the one I spoke to,” he said kindly. He was a 50-something man with almost no hair on his head. Tall and thin, he gave off the impression of extreme sternness. But his tone was polite and considerate. 

“We believe his car was hit by a truck that was overspeeding,” he said to her. “The car is damaged beyond repair but we found some things that were meant for you, I think.”

He gave her a plastic bag which she opened with shaking fingers. 

A crumpled bouquet of yellow roses and white lilies. A small box of silver-coated green cardamoms. And a small stuffed Doraemon. 

An involuntary chuckle escaped her lips.

And then, she burst into tears. 

“Madam, please,” Inspector Negi said somewhat awkwardly. “You need to be strong.”

“How is he?” she asked through her tears, her voice thick and choked. 

“Honestly? We don’t know. He was injured pretty badly. But please stay hopeful.”

“Did you manage to inform the school authorities?”

“Yes. And they are also getting in touch with his family in Hyderabad.”

Devika nodded, not trusting herself to speak. 

“It will be okay, child,” the policeman reassured her. His voice was gentler than before. “Keep faith.

*****

Three hours later, a doctor came out to talk to her. 

“You are with Mr. Balaraju, right?”

Devika looked up. A young, female consultant stood in front of her. 

“Dr. Harveen Kaur,” she introduced herself. “I am the duty doctor tonight.”

“How is Amresh?” Devika asked without preamble.

“He is stable,” the young doctor answered with a small smile. “But the next 48 hours are critical. He is not out of the woods yet.”

“Can I see him?”

“Not yet but if the senior consultant permits, maybe you will be able to see him in the morning.”

“What… how… how badly is he hurt?”

“I will not lie to you,” Dr. Kaur said. “His injuries are severe but we are hopeful he will make a full recovery. He has three broken ribs and fractures in both legs. The bridge of his nose is broken as well. But the most worrying injury is in his abdomen. He lost a lot of blood due to the internal bleeding and he will probably require a surgery to repair the extensive damage. But he is too weak just yet for anything and so all we can do is wait for now. You should go home. It is rather late. Is someone else from the family here as well?”

“No, they will arrive tomorrow.”

“Then why don’t you come back with them. You must be tired as well.”

“I’d rather wait here.”

“It is not required.”

“I insist.” There was such an urgency in Devika’s voice that the doctor knew she had to back off. 

“Okay,” she said kindly. “If you need a cup of coffee or something to eat, the cafeteria is on the first floor.”

“Thank you.”

That night was the longest night of Devika’s night. All sorts of horrid scenarios crossed her mind. She knew she was being stupid but she constantly wondered if somehow, this could have been prevented. 

What if she had asked him to pick her up half-an-hour later? or earlier? What if she had offered to reach the concert venue herself? What if she had refused to go altogether when he had told her about his students attending as well?

But it was no use. 

It was almost dawn when she dozed off. 

Her dreams were strange. Filled with screams and fire and frightening images of him being killed by the silhouette of a bald man who looked too much like Inspector Negi. 

“Ma…ma…” Amresh gasped as the inspector ran him through with his sword and Devika woke up with a start. 

Her face was wet with tears. Her ruined eye makeup cascaded down her cheeks in two charcoal rivulets. Her neck hurt from falling asleep in such an uncomfortable posture. 

“You dare not die on me,” she hissed to no one in particular. Her hoarse whisper ended in a plea as a keen sense of loss filled her. An errant thought played like a broken record in her mind. 

“I will not lose him again.”

Cleary, her feelings for him ran way deeper than she had thought. 

She only wished this realization had come in a happier moment. 

Chapter Text

The flight from Hyderabad to Pantnagar was fraught with stress for Mr. and Mrs. Balaraju. Thankfully, one of their company’s distributers in Uttarakhand had organized a taxi for them from the airport. But even that 70 kilometer stretch to the hospital felt like forever. 

Swethambari tried to make conversation with her husband but Ajith was not in a frame of mind to talk about anything. Worry for their son outweighed all other concerns. But in the back of her mind, she did wonder who this mysterious fiancée was. Amresh had not mentioned her even once all these months. It was so unlike him to get so involved with someone and not share it with his mother. 

In any case, she would find out soon enough. 

*****

Devika washed her face in the ladies room and tried to finger comb her hair. Her eyes were mostly clean now but lingering smudges of the previous evening’s makeup made her look somewhat like a raccoon. She was sure the chemist shop outside would have a toothbrush and toothpaste but she was unwilling to leave Amresh alone in the hospital even for a moment.

Even though she had not been allowed to see him yet, she was sure he would want to see her when he woke up. And a part of her was certain it would happen soon. But she was a little apprehensive about meeting his parents. They were scheduled to arrive around 9 am according to Inspector Negi. It was already 9:05. They would be here any minute. 

Her wrinkled dress and messy hair would have to do. 

She made her way to the cafeteria on the first floor to grab a cup of hot, black coffee. Maybe that would help her look less like a zombie. 

The cafeteria was mostly empty. A mother sat with her back to everyone as she discreetly breastfed her baby. A man balanced six cups of sweet, milky tea on a Styrofoam tray as he walked slowly towards the table where his family was sitting. Towards the back of the room, an old man sat with a rudraksha rosary; his lips moved soundlessly as he prayed for the wellbeing of his loved one, whoever it was. Something told Devika it was a sick child. 

“One black coffee please,” she requested at the order counter. 

“Sorry but we don’t have black coffee,” the young bespectacled server answered her. “We only have premixed coffee with milk and sugar.”

Devika hated coffee with milk and sugar but right now she needed a shot of caffeine. 

“I’ll take that,” she said. She waited impatiently as the coffee was boiled over and over in a milk-crusted pan that looked like it could use a wash… and a scrub and a steam-clean!

Ten minutes later, she paid 20 rupees for her beverage and found a place to sit as she nursed the hot cup of coffee in the folds of a napkin. 

She used this time to look around. She saw the man with rosary get up and leave. The lady with the small child was now eating a sandwich. Her baby was sleeping peacefully in her arms. 

The six cups of tea had been consumed. The empty containers sat on the table waiting to be cleared. 

She forced her mind to stop thinking about all these random things that were not important to her at all. But her mind did not wish to dwell upon the matters that were of concern to her. 

What was she going to do next? How was she going to explain who she was? She couldn’t introduce herself as his fiancée to his parents. And what were they going to think about her, considering how awful she looked. 

Well, the last thought sounded shallow and stupid even to her. They were not coming to meet her. They would be least interested in her. Their son was in the ICU, for God’s sake, and they would not care about anything else.

“Devika,” she admonished herself audibly. “Get a grip.”

She returned to the waiting area downstairs. Her spot on the hard, uncomfortable bench was still unclaimed. 

She sat and waited. She checked the time on her cellphone. It was 9:25 am. The battery signal glowed red; a warning that only 10% remained. She didn’t have a charger so she switched on the power saving mode and shut off her mobile data. 

Almost half-an-hour later, a middle-aged couple walked in. 

Devika’s heartbeat quickened. Was it them?

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, not unlike Amresh. His salt-and-pepper hair and rimless glasses made him look rather severe. The woman at his side was also tall but she was on the bigger side though she couldn’t be called fat. Her beige silk sari was simple but elegant and around her neck, she wore a diamond-studded thaali. Her hair was pinned up in a tight bun. The Kumkum between her eyes gave her a rather traditional appearance. However, the Louis Vuitton bag in her hand spoke of a well-traveled woman of taste. 

“Where is a dinosaur when you need one,” Devika groaned inwardly. These people were definitely his parents. And already, she was terrified of them. She wished the earth would open up and swallow her. 

But no such luck. 

The richly-dressed woman turned and looked directly at her. With a measured gait, she came close to her.

“Are you Devika Reddy?” she asked. Her voice was thick with worry but it held a hint of uncertainty… and did she hear gratitude there too?”

“I… I am Devika,” she managed to say. 

“I am so thankful that you were here for our son,” Swethambari said. “How is he?”

“He is hurt. Real bad.”

“Have you seen him yet?” Ajith joined the conversation. 

“No, they haven’t allowed me to go in yet. But I am hoping they will let us see him in a few hours.”

Just then, a young nurse came out of the doctor’s office on the other side of the hallway. 

“Are you Mr. Balaraju’s parents?” she asked. 

“Yes, we are,” Ajith answered, hopeful and worried at the same time.

“The doctor wants to talk to you.”

Devika wanted to ask if she could come too but then she forced herself to remember that she wasn’t really a part of the family and his parents would not appreciate an outsider butting in into what was definitely a private matter. 

“I… I will wait here for you,” she said, trying to fill in the awkward moment of silence though it wasn’t necessary. “And then I can fill you in on everything.”

Swethambari nodded and turned to follow her husband to the doctor’s office. Her thoughts were a jumble.

Something was incredibly familiar about Devika but she was sure she had never met her. The younger woman had been there for her son though and for that, Swathambari was immensely grateful. She was also curious about her and wanted to know more about the relationship between her and Amresh. 

However, that could all wait. For now, she prayed in her heart for positive news from the doctor’s office. And then, all would be well. 

Chapter Text

Swethambari and Ajith listened to the doctor’s report with undivided attention. Amresh was under the direct care of Dr. Karan Meghwal, a young physician with thinning hair and a rather abrupt manner. He minced no words and without wasting time, he told them the extent of their son’s injuries. He was indeed badly hurt, and it would be a while before they would be allowed to see him.

“Now, there is something I am concerned about,” the piercing gaze of the doctor bored into Ajith’s eyes. “This is something I would normally not discuss without a patient’s explicit consent but since you are his parents and he is incapable of giving consent right now, I am making an exception.”

Swethambari closed her eyes and sighed. She knew what was coming.

“He is about 27, am I right?” the doctor asked.

“He is,” Ajith answered.

“I wish there was a better way to ask this question but was he abused at some point during his childhood?”

“No.”

“How sure are you?”

“Very. 100 percent.”

“Okay, did he ever have a violent altercation with anyone? Has he ever been subjected to a violent crime? Like stabbing or shooting?”

“No,” this time, Swethambari answered. Ajith looked troubled but he didn’t know what to say.

“He is a fencing teacher, I am told. Did he ever sustain serious injuries during a tournament or practice?”

“No. Nothing more serious than a few scrapes and bruises here and there.”

“How sure are you?”

“Very. We are his parents. We would have known if something like this had happened to him. But why are you asking this?”

Dr. Meghwal stood up and brought out a manila folder from the cabinet behind his desk.

“Look at these photos. Please tell me what they mean. Or what you think they indicate.”

Swethambari and Ajith leaned in to look at the photos contained in the folder.

These were close ups of Amresh’s torso and back. Numerous scars marked the otherwise healthy, blemish-free skin. The marks looked old and it was hard to say what might have caused them. But if one were to hazard a guess, only two kinds of weapons could create injuries like these—a broadsword and an arrow. A large, thick wound on his back was matched exactly with a similar one just below his ribs.

An entry wound and an exit wound.

They could not bear to look at the fresh injuries that surrounded these old scars. It was horrifying to even think what this accident had done to their son.

“Doctor,” Swethambari looked up bravely, wondering if she should tell him the truth. But it was so strange, there was no way he would believe her.

“Yes,” the physician responded coldly. “Do you have an explanation for me? The police have these photos as well. But we did not wish to come to any conclusions without talking to you. There will be no legal trouble regarding these old scars, if that’s what you are worried about. But since this accident is a police case, the more information we have, the better it will be for everyone.”

“Well,” Swethambari continued. “He… he has had these scars since birth. I know this is very hard to believe but the very first time I held him, I saw these scars. In fact, I can prove it you. I have his medical file somewhere at home where the attending gynecologist and pediatrician noted that he was born with these unusual marks.”

“Okay,” Dr. Meghwal said. “I am not sure I believe you but if you say you have this on record, you might want to have a copy of that post-natal file ready for inspection. I am almost certain you will be asked for it.”

“We will arrange for it,” Ajith said. “When… when will we be able to see him?”

“In about two hours, we will allow you to visit one at a time. After that, he will be taken for surgery. Meanwhile, you should submit his insurance information to the office and also take care of the payments so far.”

*****

Devika waited impatiently for Amresh’s parents to come out of the doctor’s office.

She stared unseeingly at the TV screen mounted high up on the wall. A glammed up Raveena Tandon danced around the city with Govinda who was dressed in an outrageous pink and yellow tuxedo. The volume had been turned down to mute, so she could not hear the song. But she reasoned that like most 90s Bollywood music, it was probably trashy and hence, nothing worth paying attention to.

After almost 20 minutes, Mr. and Mrs. Balaraju came out. They looked weary and worried, even more so than before.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. He is still under observation. They will let us see him in two hours.” Ajith tried to smile reassuringly but only managed a grimace. “Why don’t you go home and change into something more comfortable? You have been here for almost 14-15 hours.”

Devika opened her mouth to say she didn’t need to go home but a giant yawn gave her away.

“See, you do need to sleep,” Swethambari said. “Give us your number. We will call you when the doctors say we can see Amresh.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, we are. Please go home and take rest.”

“You must have a lot of questions for me.”

“We do, but they can wait. You were here for our son. We are very grateful to you.”

“There is no need to be grateful. I will come back in two hours.”

*****

Once back home, Devika headed straight to the shower. Within thirty seconds, she was standing under the warm, soothing spray of the water. She took her time lathering up her hair, gently scrubbing off the makeup residue from her face, and as her hands moved on autopilot, she allowed herself to think about the last few hours.

So, she had finally met his parents. The strict mom who, like most Indian moms, had wanted him to become an engineer (duh!) or a doctor. The perfectionist dad who had expected him to join the family business straight after college.

Amresh was nothing like his parents. He had an open, easygoing manner. They were polite but aloof. He was so warm and extroverted. They were rather reserved.

They definitely would not eat at the Ramu Maggi stall!

How had their son turned out so different than them?

She also wondered why they had looked so shaken after coming out of the doctor’s office.

Surely, they would have told her if they had new information. But then again, who was she to them? Why would they tell her anything?

A new fear gripped her. What if they had sent her away because something had indeed gone wrong?

She quickly rinsed off the soap, brushed her teeth and sprinted out of the bathroom. She picked out the first kurta she saw in her closet along with a pair of blue jeans.

There was still an hour and a half to go before she needed to be back at the hospital. But her heart wouldn’t allow it.

“Something is not right,” she muttered under her breath as she took out her car and hit the road. Her gut feeling was sending shivers down her spine and the sooner she could know what was wrong, the better it would be.

It took her less than 15 minutes to reach the hospital.

The atmosphere in the waiting area was tense. The terrible gut feeling returned with a vengeance.

Swethambari’s head was covered with a shawl. Eyes closed, head bowed, and hands folded in her lap, she was praying. Ajith was on his cellphone.

“Please let me know as soon as you have someone,” he said to whoever was on the other end. “Thank you so much. This means a lot.”

“What is happening,” Devika asked without preamble.

“He needs blood,” Ajith answered. “And the hospital does not have any more O- Negative type in store. Swetha and I are both A-Negative so he can’t receive a donation from us. I am trying to see if someone else can arrange for the blood.”

“But why does he need blood? Wasn’t he in observation? I thought the surgery was scheduled for later today.”

“Yes, but minutes after you left, he started worsening. They have rushed him into surgery now.”

“Oh God. I knew I shouldn’t have left.”

Devika knew time was of the essence. She quickly pulled out her cellphone and sent an SOS request for O-Negative blood to everyone she knew. She also sent several messages to different people at Amresh’s school.

Someone would come to their aid. She was hopeful.

And sure enough, five minutes later, the phone rang.

“Devika, hi,” it was Angira, a local resident who was originally from Vizag. They had met her at a Mukkanuma event a few months ago. “My brother is posted in Ranikhet these days,” she said. “It isn’t very far, and he is also O-Negative. I have asked him to come. He should be here within an hour. He will directly come to the hospital. I would have come as well but Bittoo is not well and I can’t leave him alone at home.”

“Thank you so much,” Devika said, relief palpable in her voice. She looked at Ajith and nodded.

“One hour,” she mouthed to him.

He understood and left to inform the duty doctor. They had a donor who would reach in less than an hour.

Swethambari, did not open her eyes or move, but she heard everything. She sent a quick thank you prayer to whoever had listened to her up there.

“So who is this donor,” she asked, removing the shawl from her head. “Is it a friend of Amresh’s?”

“No,” Devika answered. “This is the brother of someone we met last Makar Sankranti. Her name is Angira. Her brother’s name is Bhargav. She is married here and has a 4-year-old son. Bhargav is a captain in the army. She just told me he is posted in Ranikhet, which is really close. He is the one coming to donate blood.”

“God bless your friend and her brother,” Swethambari said. “I have been so worried.”

“Why didn’t you call me the moment this happened,” Devika’s tone was accusatory.

As she looked into the older woman’s eyes, a powerful sense of déjà vu came over her. This confrontation had happened earlier as well.

And it had ended badly. He had died.

But how did she know this?

Chapter Text

Swethambari did not have an answer for Devika’s question. But she was grateful that the young woman had found a donor so quickly.

They waited impatiently for Captain Bhargav Nair’s arrival.

Devika checked her messages. Several people had responded to her SOS request.

“Mrs. Kumar is O-Negative. This is her number. Have sent her a message. Please call her.”

“Hi, Anuradha. frm Physics. Amresh knws me. I can give bld. Whr shud I cme?”

“Have you found a donor? I am contacting the blood bank in Haldwani.”

“I am so sorry this has happened. Keeping him in our prayers. Please let us know if we can help in any other way.”

“The school has contacted his parents.”

“Where are you? Which hospital?”

She responded with a thank you to all of them and told them which hospital they were in. But she also requested them to stay where they were, for now. Overcrowding would only be counterproductive. The only person who received a slightly different response was the physics teacher. A single donor could not donate more than one unit of blood. So she thought it wise to ask her to come and donate as well.

“I have one more donor,” Devika said, turning to Amresh’s mother. “She is a colleague of his from the school. She will be here soon as well.”

Swethambari nodded in gratitude.

“I am sorry,” She said at last. “We should have called you as soon as he started worsening.”

“Why didn’t you, though?”

“We don’t know you and we didn’t want to bother you.”

Devika laughed.

“Seriously? I was here with him the entire night. And you thought I would be bothered if you called me because he was getting worse? Can you hear yourself?”

“Are you really his fiancée?” Swethambari asked.

That stopped Devika in her tracks.

“I… no. I am not.”

“Then, why did you lie to the police?”

“They wouldn’t have allowed me to stay here otherwise and I couldn’t have left just like that. He is hurt so badly and it all happened while he was on his way to pick me up.”

“Do you love my son?”

“I… I think I do.”

“And does he love you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, he shares everything with me. So you can imagine how surprised I was when I was told his fiancée would meet us at the hospital. He never mentioned even a girlfriend!”

“He didn’t tell you anything about me?” something yelped inside Devika as she realized that he probably did not feel for her the way she felt for him.

“No. He did say he had a new friend who was a chef. But he never mentioned you by name; at least I don’t remember him doing so.”

“Well, that changes things, I guess,” the young woman held back her tears. Swethambari could say nothing to her that would comfort her.

A few minutes later, Ajith came back to the waiting room.

“The donor is here,” he announced. “He is asking for you, Devika.”

Outside, still in his army fatigues, Bhargav was filling out a form detailing his entire medical history.

“Namasthe,” he greeted the two women. “Angira called me and told me what happened. I am so sorry. Ajith Garu told me that he’s pretty badly hurt. I wish I could have been here sooner.”

“You are here now, son,” Swethambari said. “And that’s what matters.”

It took him ten more minutes to fill out the form. In the meantime, Anuradha, the other donor, also arrived. She was given the donor’s form as well.

“Please come this way,” the nurse asked Bhargav to follow her to the phlebotomy department which was in the next room.

“Are you his parents,” Anuradha asked. “He talks a lot about you. It is a pity we are meeting under such circumstances.”

It was almost 20 minutes before Anuradha was called in for her donation.

“Did the doctors say how much blood is required?” Devika asked.

“They have two units from the local blood bank. And they have two more now. Hopefully, this will be enough.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then, they will let us know. Plus they have alerted the blood bank in Haldwani as well that more units of type O-Negative could be needed here.“

Nobody talked while they waited for Bhargav and Anuradha to come out.

The lobby was no longer empty. Families of patients milled out. Nurses, doctors, and other staff strode purposely from one end of the corridor to another.

An hour later, the two donors were finally led out.

“I didn’t know it takes that long to donate,” Devika said.

“You’ve never given blood?” Bhargav asked as he sipped his Frooti.

“No, I am thalassemia minor. They never allowed me to donate.”

“Well, the actual act of giving blood doesn’t take so long. But they ask you to lie down or sit for over 20 minutes. And they insist you eat a bite and drink something while you’re recovering.”

“I always hated Frooti after blood donation but here I am, drinking Frooti after blood donation yet again,” Anuradha exclaimed and made a face. “Who decided to make processed mango juice the recovery food after blood donation? Ugh.”

“The mango juice lobby,” Devika answered seriously.

“You’re kidding.”

“Well, of course I am.”

Bhargav smiled. His eyes met the shadowed gaze of Amresh’s parents.

“Uncle, aunty, just stay hopeful,” he said. “He will be just fine.”

“We are hopeful,” Ajith said. "Thank you so much for coming so quickly. We are so grateful to you.” He folded his hands and his eyes turned moist.

“Please, uncle,” Bhargav stood up and cupped Ajith’s hands with his own. “I did nothing great. You don’t have to fold your hands in front of me.”

“God bless you, son. May you live long.”

The young captain bowed and touched his feet before turning to Devika.

“Okay, I must leave now. I will quickly go see Angira and Bittoo and then head back.”

“So soon? At least rest a little,” Swethambari said.

“I wish I could,” he smiled apologetically. “But I am not on leave. I came because it was an emergency and my CO is a good man. I don’t want to take advantage of his niceness.”

“Can you drop me off as well,” Anuradha asked. “I live just a little off the Mall road, not very far from here.”

“Sure. We will drop you ma’am.” He said. Then, to Devika, “Please keep us posted on his condition. We are all praying for him.”

Devika could only nod. She was unbelievably exhausted and did not trust herself to speak.  

After the goodbyes were done, the painful cycle of waiting began yet again.

This time, she didn’t engage in small talk with his parents.

Her own thoughts were a jumbled mess and would remain so until she could have a clear conversation with Amresh. But before that, he had to come out of this.

For hours, they waited in silence. Other than offering her the occasional cup of tea, the only other thing Swethambari asked Devika, was the time.

It was almost 8:30 in the evening when Dr. Meghwal came out to talk to them.

“He is finally stable,” he said tiredly. “And improving as far as we can tell. His vitals are within normal parameters and if all goes well, we will take him out of sedation after 24 hours.”

“Thank you, Doctor Sahib,” Ajith said.

“Thank the two donors and the blood bank in Haldwani. We required more than the 4 units we had at hand. They sent more in less than two hours.”

“Is anything else needed?” Devika asked.

“Yes but Mr. and Mrs. Balaraju already know about it. The police will want to see what you have. I am not joking.”

“We have already asked our family to send us scanned copies of those reports.”

“Good.”

The doctor left.

But Devika was puzzled by this exchange.

“What report was he talking about?”

Ajith looked at his wife, as if seeking her approval. He did not mind sharing anything about Amresh with this young woman. But he deferred to his wife in almost all such matters.

This one was no different.

Swethambari nodded reluctantly.

And over the next 20 minutes, Ajith filled Devika in on the conversation they had had with Dr. Meghwal in the morning.

“Wait, so he has these… these… big, ugly scars for birthmarks?”

“Yes.”

“That is… wow… I don’t know how to react.”

“Believe me, we don’t understand either,” Ajith’s voice was a hoarse whispe, as if this conversation drained the energy from his very bones.

“We also faced a lot of trouble in Italy from Child Services because they too assumed he had been abused at home,” Swethambari added. “They even tried to take him away from us. But since he was legally still an Indian citizen and old enough to throw a hissy fit, they allowed him to stay at home. But every other week, we had unexpected visits from the counselor, the school nurse, and one of the social workers. It was a nightmare.”

“Is that why you moved back to India?”

“Partially. Amresh said he hated living like a freak and the unwarranted pity was maddening. Besides, it was better for his education and for our business to shift back home.”

“He would have done better in fencing there, though.”

“Yes, but no one can seriously make a career in fencing.”

“He is a teacher. He is making enough to support himself.”

“You have no idea of the kind of lifestyle he was used to. He has had to change a lot in order to survive on his teacher’s salary.”

That got Devika interested.

“Really? What kind of changes?”

“His love for cars. We gifted him a Lamborghini Aventador for his 22nd birthday. He had credit cards whose limits he never had to worry about. His clothing was tailor made by Salvatori Mariano, our tailor from Florence who also stitches custom-made clothing for Monaco’s royal family. And the food; he had no idea what processed cheese tasted like before he started living on his own. How would he, when we had only introduced him to aged gourmet cheeses from a select few vendors since childhood.”

“Oh.” Devika did not know how to respond to that. She had known Amresh was rich. But this was way out of her league.

“Does he also have an island of his own?” she joked.

But the look on his mother’s face made her rethink her rhetorical question.

“Wait, he doesn’t have an island, not really? That only happens on Gossip Girl.”

“He does have a small island but it’s nothing fancy. Just one vacation home and farmhouse on the St. Lawrence River in the Thousand Island region of Canada.”

“Incredible.”

“Yes, so he is not exactly the middle-class, boy-next-door he would like to be.”

“Well, he has adapted really nicely all things considered. What’s his favorite cheese, by the way?”

“Ambra Di Talamello. It is also my favorite cheese.”

“Ah, so he gets the fanciness from his mom,” Devika chuckled.

“Pretty much,” Ajith agreed. “I am a poor clerk’s son. Swethambari is the wife of a business tycoon and Amresh is her son.”

“Oh my God. So, this business was built entirely by you?”

“Indeed.”

“I am so impressed.”

“Enough about us,” Swethambari said. “We would love to know more about you. You are a chef, right?”

“I am,” Devika smiled. She told them about her very first meeting with him—the way he made a fool of himself, the free goodies she gave him, and the primer on Feminism that she iced on his Angel food cake.

“My boy has a way of creating bad first impressions,” Swethambari laughed.

“Well, he is equally good at charming his way out of tight spots.”

“He always has been,” Ajith said. “When he was a child, he often skipped his history class at school to go play football with the older boys. And every single time, he got away with it because his teacher could not get over his dimpled cheeks and curly hair.”

“How did you find out then?”

“When he let it slip at the dinner table one evening,” Swethambari chuckled. "I am sure he remembers this story.”

Just then, Ajith yawned.

“Do you have a hotel room or a guest house?” Devika asked. “You must be tired too. You have been here the whole day.”

“We do have a place, but I am afraid of leaving,” the older woman answered. “But I would like to grab a bite. I am a diabetic, so I really should eat something.”

Devika smiled. “Come, let me show you where the cafeteria is.”

Chapter Text

It was early morning by the time Devika managed to convince Mr. and Mrs. Balaraju to go to their hotel for a short while. She didn’t ask why they hadn’t chosen to stay at their son’s house even though it seemed rather odd to her.

Chapter Text

He was on the phone with his mother when she again brought up his upcoming interview.

“Ma, I know what I need to do,” he reassured her. “This isn’t the first time I’m applying for a teaching job.”

“Yes, and they will reject you because you don’t have an MA in your subject. A mere one year of B.Ed. won’t get you a high school job. You will get stuck with primary classes and trust me when I say this, they pay very less. It won’t even cover your rent.”

There was a lot of truth in Swethambari’s words.

Amresh sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was back on his feet now. His life was back on track for the most part.

But his fencing job was gone for good. The doctors didn’t know when or if his limp would heal. The stiffness in his hand would likely trouble him for the rest of his life. These facts would carry little weight in a regular person’s life but for a sports teacher, they were devastating, life altering pieces of his new reality. And Montgomery college had already given him his first dose. They had offered him two months of salary as his severance.

“We wish it could have been different,” had been the only words from the headmaster.

In the meantime, Devika had been offered a higher-paying job and a prestigious executive chef position at The Lalit in New Delhi. They wanted her for her expertise in French cuisine. They wanted her for their new restaurant, La Comtesse. Her name had been recommended personally by Chef Antoine Pergolesi, the half-French, half-Italian master of Escoffier’s traditional methods.

“I don’t mind my job at Holly’s” she had said to him. But he had seen through her brave façade. Getting the position of an executive chef at such a young age was practically unheard of—especially for a woman whose recent assignments had included only pastry chef positions.

“We will go,” he had said. “Delhi is a big place. I am sure I will find something. You can’t let go of such a big opportunity.”

“I can,” she had countered. “For you, I can let go of anything.” And then she had lowered her eyes. “But you are right. I don’t want to. Chef Pergolesi actually asked for me. That is such a huge honor.”

“I know it is,” he had kissed the top of her forehead. “And you have no idea of how proud I am.”

Her official job offer had arrived three weeks ago. She was expected to join in four days.

A month ago, he had finally applied to 14 Delhi schools for a teaching position in their history department. But so far, he had heard back only refusals from everywhere.

Tomorrow was his last interview.

And like his mother, he knew he probably wouldn’t get the job here as well.

“You can always come back and join the business, son,” Swethambari tried to coax him again. “This business empire is for you, no one else. Why must you struggle as a school teacher when you can own a 3,500-crore business.”

“You don’t understand, ma.”

“Then explain to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

“I… can we just let this go. It’s okay. You are right. I should apply for an MA.”

It was Swethambari’s turn to sigh. She could not understand her son’s aversion to the business. Why did he run away from it? What was so bad about inheriting Maia Foods?

“The entrance season begins in less than two months. You want me to fill the forms for you?” She didn’t agree with her son’s decisions but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to support him.

“Oh, could you do that?” Amresh couldn’t believe his ears. “That would be so helpful, ma.”

“I still think you should come back to Hyderabad, but I also know it has to be your decision. I will fill up the forms for you. You start studying.”

After hanging up, Amresh grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.

He was 27! Most of his friends were settled in their careers. Some were even married. Others were engaged and would be married soon.

He had not even discussed marriage with Devika. Sure, they were dating. But he couldn’t ask her to marry him when his own professional situation was nowhere close to secure.

Was he being stupid after all? Was his mother right? Why did he want to slave over some underpaid high school job when he could be a part of his parents’ thriving business?

Don’t fall into that trap again.

Again, the niggling thought in the back of his head—that somehow, he had no right to the business, that even though his dad had built it rupee by rupee for the last 30 years, he was not meant to inherit it.

It was best to look into MA courses and improve his qualification.

He opened the course material. He enjoyed modern history and world history. Ancient and medieval Indian history bored him to tears. But he couldn’t hide from those topics anymore.

He pulled out the readings about the empires of the western deccan. He might as well start from the ancient origins of his own native place.

He read about the origin of the Mahishmati empire, the dynasties preceding it, the vassal kingdoms around it, and the monarchs who ruled under the banner of the famous Sarvasteera family. But it was a single passage in one of the readings that caught his eye.

The Deccan empires and their ill-fated queens: A critique by Shobha Kumar

One of the most intriguing aspects of Bhallaladeva’s 26-year reign was his obsession with the princess of a local vassal kingdom called Kuntala. Modern historical analysis carries little to no record of Kuntala’s polity or society, except for their sophisticated irrigation systems which were destroyed by the seemingly deliberate release of Airavatha dam’s waters (Goldson and Das, 2015). The daughter of a smalltime nobleman, Devasena was also the widow of Amarendra Baahubali, Bhallaladeva’s cousin and the son of the previous Sarvasteera king. Due to reasons that are unclear, she was imprisoned for 25 years until the successful coup led by her son Mahendra Baahubali, who also ascended the throne in 1129 AD.

Some surviving literature from 12th century Mahishmati details the ordeal of Devasena’s captivity. It is believed that she was captured and imprisoned merely hours after childbirth. However, there is no archival material to corroborate this account. In the same vein, her slain husband’s biography, penned by Divyaguptam Charandas, comes across as a highly biased and possibly fictionalized account of his life (Srinivasan and Jain, 2006).

Amresh didn’t bother reading the rest of the reading. He was greatly disturbed by the story of the princess. And he didn’t like the casual, cold manner in which these writers had dismissed the veracity of their sources.

He opened Jstor and downloaded a translated copy of Divyaguptam Charandas’ Amarendram Jeevakrutih.

Unsurprisingly, the text was in verse form. And like every other work of biography from that era, the first 35 stanzas merely listed the qualities of the protagonist.

“…And the trees bowed down before him

The mountains and seas sang his glory,

Nothing moved his mother’s stone heart,

The beginnings of this ill-omened story.

His blade was raised one last time,

Sethupathy’s evil would not live,

his head rolled at Devasena’s feet,

But justice, Sivagami wouldn’t give.”

For the next several stanzas, the poem talked about the exile of the two disgraced royals—their difficulties in the face of the approaching winter, the way he worked tirelessly to help the villagers, his wife’s unexpressed discomfort in her final month of pregnancy, and the horrible end he was sentenced to at the hands of his closest friend and confidante.

Amresh expected the poem to end there. But clearly, the piece had been written several decades after the original chain of events. The next few stanzas were brutal in their openness about Devasena’s continued humiliation at the hands of her cruel brother-in-law.

“The rains poured down on the goddess,

Defiling her peace and her serenity,

He gloated at her wretched misery,

He gloated in victory and vanity.

She smiled through dirt-stained teeth,

Her laughter punctured his sleep.

She built his pyre, twig by little twig,

His screams of agony would be hers to keep.

Her hair billowed unkempt in the wind,

Old bones aged brittle and weak,

But her spirit hardened anew each day,

Her silence knew someday she would speak.”

On and on the poem went, describing the intimate details of the princess’ fall from grace. Amresh lost the track of time as he found himself transported to an era long gone by. His eyes moistened as he wondered about the life, the routine of this woman who now only lived in the speculations of historians and these pages of ancient poems which were accessed for nothing but homework these days.

What must she have thought while undergoing those daily humiliations? Had she perhaps hoped that someday, the world would know her sorrow and take care to never repeat it? Or had the return of her son been enough for her?

He knew he should study more but he couldn’t bring himself to.

He put the readings away and made his way to the kitchen. Even though Devika had left a few days ago, her scent lingered in the doorway.

He didn’t know why but he had an overpowering urge to see her. For some odd reason, the princess from the poem carried the face of his beloved. It was a terrifying prospect, but he couldn’t help the image that had firmly taken root in his mind and refused to leave.

Just then, his phone rang.

It was her.

“Hey,” her cheerful voice came from the other end, calming him down instantly.

“Hey, what’s up?” he was glad that his voice was steady.

“I feel like baking a casserole. But I can’t bake just for one person. Why don’t you join me for dinner?”

“What kind of casserole?”

“Spinach and broccoli with aged cheddar and asiago.”

“You keep feeding me like this and I will get fat. I am ready 4 kilos heavier than usual.”

“Are you saying no to my food?” There was a semi-dangerous edge to her tone.

“Of course not! Who cares about a couple extra kilos when one is dating a chef!”

“Superb. See you at 7.”

The sound of Devika’s exuberance brought him back to the present. It was only 4:00 pm. Plenty of time to do something special at his end too.

He wondered if he should go buy her flowers. No, that would be too mainstream. Maybe he could pick out a nice movie for them to watch after dinner? Nah! He had an early start tomorrow. Perhaps… perhaps… he could bring dessert!

Now that was a thought.

Buying something from another bakery was out of the question. He couldn’t possibly pick something from Holly’s.

What if he made something! Yep, that was the thing to do.

Now Amresh considered himself a decent cook even though he had no fancy recipes in his kitty. But rava kesari was too traditional to accompany a casserole. As was payasam. And he had no idea how to bake a cake or brownies or even something as simple as apple pie.

In the end, like a true bachelor, he opened a packet of Polson’s instant strawberry custard. It was one of the few things he could manage without getting tied up in knots. While the custard thickened in the saucepan, he wiped a new ceramic dish for it and chopped up fresh strawberries and cashews for garnish.

After 25 minutes of constant stirring and straining, he was happy with the consistency of the custard. Now it just needed to chill and set in the fridge.

Meanwhile, he decided to continue studying. But this time, he stayed away from medieval Deccan and chose the much safer topic of the Delhi Sultanate.

Chapter Text

She liked to think of Time as her best friend. Who, but a best friend, would keep her company every hour of the day and every moment of the night? Who, but a best friend, would be so overwhelming in its presence, that its towering existence would dwarf everything else. Time. Time was all Devasena had. All the time in the world– to think about everything that had been taken from her, everything she would never experience, and everything she had hoped for but would dare not expect to get. 

Time was essentially her enemy. But she wouldn’t concede yet. It was easier to befriend something that was only an innocent instrument in her tormentor’s hand. And the good thing about instruments, was that their purpose changed when they changed hands. Time would change for her. It wouldn’t bend backwards to return her lost possessions to her. But it would turn towards the sun, towards a happier future for her; where she would know her child again, and where Bhallaladeva would burn to death on the pyre she was preparing for him. 

But that day was still far. 

Mahendra would be 7? Maybe 8 years old now. She wished she had counted better in the beginning. Another regret. 

She pushed herself up a little and found the set of marbles she had hidden in the earth. Bhadra had given these to her a few weeks ago. 

“Pinni,” he had hissed to her. “Pinni, keep these safe for me. I think my cousin would like them when I see him. But father hates it when I play with marbles. So it is better you keep them.”

Bhadra. How unlike his father he was. Devasena was able to see him only rarely but when she did, she was always sweet to him. And he, unlike the adults, never saw her dirty sari, her wild hair, or her sunburnt skin. Katappa had told him that she was his pinni, his father’s younger brother’s wife. She had shared with him that he had a cousin somewhere far away, a cousin who was being raised by relatives and who would return to Mahishmati soon. 

“Will I get to play with him?” Bhadra had jumped up at the idea of having another child in the palace. “Wow, we will be the best of friends.”

And she had only been able to smile. 

In another lifetime, Bhadra’s desire for a playmate would have come true. She would have actually been his pinni. But alas, this lifetime had taken all that from this cursed family. 

Mahendra would return. But not as a child. He would return. But not to play marbles. And there would be no laughter, no merrymaking. Only revenge. Only destruction. 

She was glad that Bhallaladeva did not know of his son’s interactions with her. They shone a beacon of childlike hope into her cage. And every tiny bit of conversation with him filled her with joy and a bittersweet sense of longing. 

Did Mahendra enjoy playing with marbles too? Was he short and pudgy like Bhadra? Did he excel at numbers like his father? Was he an atrocious dancer like her? Did he play the flute like her beloved Kanha? 

There were other questions too. It bothered her that she didn’t know what his favorite foods were. It pained her that she did not know who pulled his ears when he got into trouble. 

She could only hope and pray that her child was happy and cared for, wherever he was. 

There would be time to build memories with him later. Even as a man, he wouldn’t mind her lullabies and her doting on him. She would feed him payasam and burelu and kobbari undalu. She would tell him all the stories she had heard from the bards of Kuntala. And later, he would bring home a bride and give her a grandchild. 

All her lost years would be made up for in those final years of her life. Oh, yes, these were fanciful thoughts. But Devasena held onto them just as Time held onto her chains. The good days would come. She was waiting for them. How could the Gods deny her when she was honoring this penance with her dignified silence and her unflinching devotion to her dead husband. 

“Are you listening, my love?” she whispered to the air. “Now that you are up there, you can see everything, can’t you? Keep an eye on Mahendra. And let me know him before I die. Please.”

The day passed slowly. Guards and soldiers milled about. Servants and slaves carried out their tasks like they always did. And everyone who entered or exited the palace spared her a passing glance before quickly lowering their gaze when they saw her looking at them too. 

Sometimes, she saw contempt in their eyes. Sometimes, she saw pity. But mostly, she saw guilt… and shame. They hated what she had been reduced to. And they hated the part they played in her debasement each day. Every rupiah given in tax, every supplication made to the king, and every act of cooperation with the kingdom, was also an added link in her unforgiving chains. 

They expected her to be equally unforgiving to them. 

She wished they wouldn’t lower their eyes so fast. There was a reason she looked at them. The eyes have a language of their own; much more powerful than any words ever written. She wanted them to hold her gaze and see the hope in her pupils, the fire in her irises, and the gentle assurance of her half-smile– that all was forgiven, that all would be forgiven in the future as well. 

Mahendra would cut away her chains just as he would cut away their fetters of fear and helpless cowardice. 

Time needed to be their best friend too. Time was all that stood between them and their salvation. 

Chapter Text

Amresh reached Devika’s house a little after dark. The custard was securely wrapped in tin foil and he was glad he had remembered to buy a bunch of yellow roses this time.

He rang the bell and waited for her to answer the door.

“Hi, you’re early?” Devika said as she opened the door. She surveyed him head to toe. “Mmmmm… nice! And what cologne are you wearing?”

“Won’t you ask me in?” Amresh smirked. “Or has my cologne distracted you such that you’ve forgotten your manners. By the way, it is just your basic Old Spice.”

“Oh. Come in, I guess.”

The house smelled strongly of roasting garlic and fresh basil.

“Mmmmm, something smells nice,” Amresh remarked as he placed the flowers on the table and put his dessert in the fridge. “That’s your casserole?”

“Er… no,” Devika went back to the pan on the stove without noticing either of the things in his hands. “I decided to make something else when you said I am making you fat.”

“Hey, hey, hey, that’s not what I said.” Amresh was a bit disappointed that she hadn’t commented on the roses nor had she asked about the foil-wrapped package.

“Well, you implied it! Anyway, that’s not important. We are having homemade pesto-filled tortellini for dinner.”

“That sounds tasty. What is the sauce in them?”

“Just olive oil and a hint of parmesan cheese. Nothing else.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nope.”

“Um, are you sure?”

Devika, who was just about to drop the prepared tortellinis into boiling water, turned around and gave Amresh one of her famous ‘who-do-you-think-you-are’ looks.

“Do you honestly believe I don’t know what I’m doing?”

Amresh had the good sense to look ashamed. “I am sorry. I was just trying to…”

“Trying to what? Show me some Italian superiority?” Devika’s words were hostile but the flirty smile at the corner of her lips gave her away.

Ah! Two could play this game.

“Well, of course,” Amresh said. “I grew up in Italy. I know all there is to know about pasta. We had it every other day for lunch or dinner.”

“Seriously? Your mum made pasta? Not Indian food?”

“Actually, my mum didn’t cook very much. Our chefs did and they made whatever they fancied that day.”

Amresh left out the part that as a fairly fussy child, his meals were indeed prepared by Swethambari herself.

As Devika drained her cooked tortellini, he wondered if he could make himself useful somehow. He felt rather like an idiot standing in the middle of her kitchen with nothing to do.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked her.

“Sure,” she said, without looking up from her bowl of mixed fresh herbs. “You can pick us a wine from my wine cabinet. I have nothing fancy like what you’re used to. But I’m sure you’ll find something that doesn’t taste like ink to your refined taste buds?”

“When will you let that ink joke go? It is starting to go stale?”

“The day you get used to Minchy’s apple wine, I will toss that joke out.”

“I’d sooner shoot myself,” Amresh murmured.

“Did you say something?” she called out while he surveyed the wines.

“No, I didn’t. How does Sula’s Sauvignon Blanc sound?”

“I’ll drink anything. You’re the picky one between us.”

Amresh shook his head at her cheekiness and poured out the wine into a decanter for “breathing.” Typically, white wines did not benefit greatly from aerating, but he personally felt that every improvement, no matter how insignificant, to an inferior wine was worth it.

Ten minutes later, Devika served the food on the table. True to her nature and training, she brought out a basket of freshly baked ciabatta rolls and a large antipasto salad.

“Let’s eat,” she announced.

Like an obedient schoolboy, Amresh took a seat at once. “Wow, this looks great. I can’t believe I am eating a proper Italian meal in India.”

“You should get used to it,” Devika smiled and covered his hand with hers. “I can’t wait to live with you in Delhi. I will make perfect Italian meals for you every day.”

Amresh looked away as she said this. The topic of moving to Delhi brought back the unpleasantness of reading that poem earlier in the day and the fact that his job prospects looked rather bleak even in the capital.

Devika sensed the shift in his mood.

“You are okay with moving, right?” she asked softly. “I can still refuse the job. It is not more important than your happiness.”

Amresh looked at her. Really looked at her. His eyes traced the sharp arch of her eyebrows, the gentle curve of her nostrils, the tiny brown mole just below her lower lip, her unblemished cheeks, her smooth lips, and her eyes that glowed with health and hope.

“I want us to move to Delhi,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

“Then why are you upset?”

“I am not.”

“Don’t like to me. You can reserve your fake smile for someone else.”

This time, he flashed a real smile.

“I love you. There is nothing I want more than your happiness. And if I can be a part of it, bask in it for every day of my life; I will die a happy man.”

“Shhhh,” She covered his mouth with her hand. “Don’t talk of dying. We are here to live.”

“Let us eat then,” he brought them back to planet earth. “I am starving.”

“Yes, Mr. Smartypants!”

Devika served out a portion of the pasta, the bread, and the salad for him.

She waited for him to take his first bite. Contrary to her behavior, she was rather scared of what he might say. After all, he had lived in Italy. She, on the other hand, had only studied there.

Amresh felt the weight of her eyes on him.

He took his first bite.

“It’s very good,” he said, instantly allaying all her fears. “Wow, you cook just like the Italian chefs I knew back in Florence. Amazing, ra. This is fantastic.”

Devika visibly sighed in relief and proceeded to prepare a plate for herself.

She didn’t notice him adding a sprinkle of pepper to his pasta. Nor did she think anything when he refused a second helping.

“Gotta lose some weight,” he laughed. “And keep space for dessert.”

“Oh Sh*t,” Devika gasped. “I didn’t make any dessert. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Amresh rolled his eyes.

“And this is why you should pay attention to your guests when you open the door.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dodo, I brought dessert. That foil-wrapped pie plate in your fridge is dessert.”

“Wait, you made dessert?” Devika couldn’t believe her ears. “I didn’t think you could cook.”

“That’s such a sexist thing to say,” Amresh said smugly.

“Okay, sorry. So, what did you bring?”

“Open it and see.”

Devika pulled out the pie plate from the fridge and ripped the foil off.

“Super,” she exclaimed. “Crustless custard tart. Awwwww, you’re the sweetest.”

Amresh was amused to hear his simple, boring custard labelled a “crustless custard tart,” but hey, he wasn’t going to correct her. Her chosen name for his dessert sounded far better than “Dabbe wala sasta jugaad.”

They didn’t bother with bowls for the dessert. Two spoons and a glass each of wine were enough to help them devour the entire thing in less than 15 minutes.

“That was very impressive,” Devika cooed.

“Naw, it was no big deal,” Amresh tried being modest but failed miserably.

“So what brand was it? Polson’s or Tops?”

“What?”

“I mean, which brand of instant custard did you use to create this masterpiece?”

“Instant custard?” Amresh feigned surprise and outrage. “I would never do such a thing. I made it from scratch.”

“Wanna tell me the recipe?” There was a micheivious glint in Devika’s eyes and a look that screamed ‘aha! I’ve got you.’

Amresh knew he was cornered.

“Alright, it was Polson’s,” he grinned sheepishly. “But it wasn’t bad, was it?”

“No,” Devika stood up and came close to him. “It wasn’t bad at all. In fact, it was amazing.”

Before he could say anything, she lowered her lips to his and kissed him. For a long moment, the outside world tuned itself out. All he knew then, was the softness of her lips, the hint of strawberry on her tongue, and the bliss of finally being her chosen one.

She pulled away and looked at his slightly sweaty, awed face.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?”

“I… I… don’t think ‘nice’ quite describes it.”

“Good. Now help me clear the table. And then we can watch the next episode of Jane, The Virgin.”

*****

Three hours later, they were tucked under a single blanket on the couch as the fourth episode credits rolled on the screen.

“I’m sleepy,” Devika murmured and snuggled close to him.

“You want to go to the bedroom?” he asked her. “Your couch isn’t very comfortable.”

“Maybe,” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I need to use the washroom. See you in the bedroom?”

“Actually, I should be carrying on. It is almost 1 am.”

“Stay here only, na,” Devika insisted. “Go in the morning. Please.”

Amresh couldn’t say no to her.

“Er… okay,” he said. “I will take the couch then.”

“No, man. Ugh, don’t be such a prude. You just said my couch is uncomfortable. Just sleep on the bed. Take the other side. I won’t do anything to you.”

Amresh’s face reddened at her words.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, one more question.”

“Shoot,” Devika stifled a yawn.

“I am hungry. Can I raid your fridge for a midnight snack?”

“Yeah, there is some tortellini left over. Feel free to heat it in the microwave. Or use the stove. That’s actually better.”

Devika went to change into her nightclothes while Amresh found the bowl of the leftover tortellini. He had indeed enjoyed them in the evening but despite his insistence that he was a true lover of Italian food, he preferred his pasta a little different.

He placed a frying pan on the stove and opened Devika’s spice rack.

Meanwhile, she brushed her hair, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and applied her aloevera skin cream. She waited for Amresh to come to the bedroom. But when even after a good 10 minutes, he didn’t make an appearance, she got a little worried.

Her feet carried her to the kitchen only for her nose to twitch at the strong smell of burnt garlic with chilies and a host of Indian spices.

“Amresh,” she began slowly. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just heating up some tortellini for myself.”

“No, you are mutilating my tortellini.” Her eyes took in the spices open on the counter. “Coriander powder, Kashmiri chilies, Garam masala? Are you nuts? Or wait? If you hated the tortellini so much, you should have told me so. I would have made us something else.”

Devika sounded close to tears.

Amresh turned around. “Hey, hey, hey, nothing like that. I just like my food a bit spicier. That’s all. Your tortellini was perfect.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Devika countered. “If it was, you wouldn’t have felt the need to make all these additions. Plus, we are dating. You don’t have to eat things you don’t like just because I cooked it.”

Amresh felt helpless. He didn’t know how to respond.

“Look, you’re getting this all wrong,” He said. “See, even in Italy, my mom made all these additions to whatever our cooks made. I essentially grew up ruining perfect, traditional pastas.”

Devika didn’t say anything.

“Come to the bedroom when you’re done.”

Dejected at how he had hurt his girlfriend, suddenly, his spicy twist on the tortellini didn’t feel so appetizing. Instead of transferring it to a bowl, he emptied it into a Tupperware and kept it back in the fridge.

When he came to the bedroom, Devika looked at him and asked, “Where’s your food?”

“In the fridge,” he said. “It’s not good to eat carbs at night. I will take it with me in the morning.”

“One day of eating carbs at night won’t harm you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not hungry. Let’s sleep.”

“But I am hungry,” Devika put down the magazine she’d been reading. “I want to try your desified tortellini.”

“No, you don’t,” Amresh smiled. “You eat good stuff. The desified stuff I eat is not meant for you.”

“Oh come on, don’t be such a jerk!”

Without waiting for a response, she went to the fridge and brought back the tortellini.

She sat in front of him and took a big bite. She took a long moment to chew it, savor it, and really feel its altered flavor.

“It is different,” she agreed. “But it is good. Quirky. Whimsical. Just like the man I love.”

Amresh kept his eyes down.

She used the fork to lift his chin up. “Mister Smartypants, it is going to take a lot more than masala pasta to change how I feel about you.”

The next morning, as she had promised, she baked the broccoli and cheese casserole. But for the first time, she seasoned it with red chilies and cilantro.

The result was as one would expect; different but unique. Not everyone’s cup of tea but possessively her own. Forever.

Chapter Text

The crackling bonfire danced merrily in the courtyard. Baahubali’s eyes burned due to his proximity to the flames and the smoke. The smell of cindering cloth and disintegrating parchment filled his nose. He sneezed. And his eyes continued to water incessantly.

Only Katappa saw that the moisture in his eyes wasn’t just his body’s involuntary response to stimulus.

It was strange that after losing so much, the loss of these inanimate objects should hurt him so. Was he really that shallow? How was it that the thought of Devasena’s passing had not forced tears out of his eyes but the sight of her blackened hair ornaments threatened to overwhelm him? How was it that his son’s unseen face didn’t tear his heart to shreds but Kumara Varma’s tiger skin baby blanket gnawed at his very soul?

He looked down to see the exit wound made by Katappa’s sword on mother’s orders. Its edges oozed pus mingled with blood. The heat surrounding out indicated that it wasn’t healing as well as it should.

Baahubali sighed and waited for the pyre to extinguish. He wished he could jump into it with all those things and burn his own cursed existence to ashes as well. But alas, the bars of his cage would see to it that he remained at Bhallaladeva’s mercy for at least some more time.

Perhaps the infected wound would take pity on him and grant him this small, pathetic wish.

The soldiers gathered around the courtyard and watched in silence as the precious possessions of their fallen hero were dangled in front of him before being tossed into the flames. They determinedly avoided looking at his face. But eventually, despite their shame and pain, they left the premises and continued about their day.

Baahubali was left alone with the charred remains of the sum total of his life.

*****

Bijjaladeva called for a special wine in the evening.

“And serve it with roast quail and saffron rice while you’re at it,” Bhallaladeva told the attendant. “Today is a big day. Isn’t it, father?”

The old cripple laughed. “Of course, my son. You have finally given me the moment I had been waiting for all these years.”

The king smirked a took a large sip from his goblet.

“This is not all, father,” he put down his glass and pulled out a small velvet pouch from his pocket. “I have something more for you.”

Intrigued, Bijjaladeva put his glass down as well and took the tiny pouch from his son’s hand.

“What is this?”

“Remember what you told me on my eighth birthday?” Bhalla answered.

“What did I tell you on your eighth birthday?”

“You told me about the pendant… the pendant of Suryavardhan… do you not remember?”

Bijjaladeva’s expressioned darkened.

“Ah yes,” he whispered and carefully undid the drawstring of the little bag.

Maharaj Somadeva was a partial fool in his elder son’s opinion. Vikramadeva was a buffoon, an imbecile—and yet, it was his kindness, his so-called gentleness that was considered the higher virtue. He, Bijjala, could never match up to dear Vikrama’s standards, not even when he singlehandedly humbled 4 four wrestlers easily twice his own size.

His very soul burned with envy as his father showered praises upon his younger brother.

“Bravo, Vikrama,” Somadeva said. “You have won your old man’s heart today. The prime minister told me you saved the life of that poor farmer’s bulls at personal peril. And you are but a child. My son, I have great hopes from you.”

And like a sick little puppy, Vikrama basked in the king’s attention. “It was no big deal father,” he tried to be modest, but the grin on his face gave away his sense of pride.

Later that evening, Somadeva literally sprinkled salt all over young Bijjala’s soul by presenting the pendant of Suryavardhana to Vikrama in front of the entire court.

“This has been in our family for generations, my boys,” the king said to them both.

He addressed Bijjala first. “You are my firstborn. It is likely that you will ascend the throne. This pendant has historically belonged to the crown prince. However, since your little brother displayed extraordinary courage today, I think he deserves it.”

“And I don’t,” Bijjala dared to ask. But then he realized they were in the presence of outsiders and officials. “Sorry, father. That was out of line.”

Somedeva smiled.

“You deserve this and more, my child. And you will have it. Remember when I presented you with your grandfather’s sword two winters ago for slaying a cheetah with your bare hands? I am doing something similar today for your brother. The honor of this kingdom, this family, is not a competition. In fact, you should rejoice that your brother is also a capable and strong prince.”

“How could I ever forget?” Bijjaladeva’s eyes were years away. “And then Sivagami hid this pendant from me after Vikrama’s death. Your mother was a royal bitch; she knew who it truly belonged to. But she wanted her precious Baahu to have it. It was indeed your eighth birthday, but it was that piece of garbage who was given this coveted heirloom. Indeed, I remember.”

He dangled the tiny emerald-studded pendant in front of his eyes. The light from the torches bounced off of its polished stones and cast brilliant motifs on the wall in front.

“It belongs to you, Bhalla,” Bijjala fastened the pendant around his son’s neck. “Where did you get it?’

“Where do you think?”

“Baahubali let you take it without a fight?”

“He fainted last evening after the 57th strike; the whipmaster poured a bucketful of water on him but he wouldn’t rouse. I noticed that he still had this around his neck. It didn’t look right on a weakling like him. So, I took it.”

“You did the right thing.”

Just then, the chief attendant rang the bell outside to announce the arrival of their meal.

Father and san sat down to eat. As they had ordered, platters of perfect coal-roasted quail and saffron rice were placed before them, in addition to a plethora of sauces and vegetables.

While they dug in, less than 200 yards away, their prisoner placed his aching body on the ground to try and sleep. His tear-soaked cheeks were testimony to his insomnia and the surety that there would be no rest for him even though he needed it.

But even as he mourned the loss of his wife, his child, his mother, and all the possessions he had ever owned, he did not grieve for the pendant that had been stolen from around his neck.

That piece of jewelry was a memory from history—cold, distant, legendary. And he could not mourn for a lost trinket—no matter how precious or significant– when his humanity, his whole being had been ripped from him so violently.

Theft had been committed upon his person. That pendant was just a symbol of everything else that would be taken from him as the years would go by.

Chapter Text

1

When I was a young man, I believed in removing obstacles permanently. Anything that didn’t fit in my scheme of things, was destroyed. Why should my dear pompous cousin have been any different? Today is the 6th anniversary of that fateful night. The very night that also saw the last of my foolish mother; I mourned her passing with the music of chains—by shackling that bitch, Devasena. After all, wasn’t she exactly like mother? Didn’t she too choose Baahu when she could have had me? Too bad I couldn’t have mother pay for her sins. But at least I have Devasena. Of course, it would have been a lot sweeter to have Baahubali here too—under these same chains, forced to witness what I have reduced his precious princess too.

2

Why does my son not understand the basic things I try to teach him? His mother is still in the royal infirmary, weakened by the blood loss that accompanied this miscarriage. Unlike the previous two times, the healers are unsure if she will survive. My son is understandably upset. His mother, unlike mine, loves him completely. But while his worry for her is natural, I do not understand his grief for the dead child. Though of course, a biological brother is infinitely better than a parasitic orphan forcibly thrust into the family. I should know. I lived with one for 25 long years. I was forced to kill him just to claim what should have rightfully been mine since birth. I do wonder sometimes if things would have turned out different had Baahu and I been born of the same mother? Would I have loved him? Would he have cared enough to give up the throne which he clearly did not deserve? Perhaps not. Father still hates his dead brother after all these years. And they were truly of the same blood. Maybe, just maybe, I should have kept Baahu alive; as a lesson for Bhadra, to make him see how treacherous a brother can be… and how lucky he is to have no one to steal the love and respect that has until now been solely his to command.

3

Not a single soul in this soulless palace understands the cold weight of Mahishmati’s crown. Baahubali never knew it. He escaped it. I will never be able to rid myself of it. Who are these people begging for my time? What do I care if the harvests failed this year? Why should I worry about the worsening condition of the peasants? Why is a sovereign obliged to listen to the insufferable sufferings of vermin? No wonder they rallied around Baahubali. He was wretched like them. Rotten and insignificant. He should have been here to listen to their pathetic pleas. Not me. That is not the mandate of a powerful ruler. In my book, if you cannot sail by yourself, you deserve to sink. Katappa will not like my orders. But he will have them carried out. The next person who refuses to pay the taxes, will pay them with his head. Baahubali, I almost wish you were here. I am spoiling for a fight! Something tells me you would have given me one on behalf of these people. Pity you are dead. Pity they are too weak without you.

4

Devasena’s chains once carried a hint of melancholy to them. Now they are a part of the routine—like the platter of breakfast served in the mornings, like the daily court meetings, and the like the stale air of Mahishmati that smells of dust and grime. I long to talk to her. I am, after all, a man. And men must speak of things that bother them. I may be cruel, but it is not without reason. She can be free. All I ask is for her to say my name once. And she refuses. Her saari’s green sheen has faded to a dull grey in these 17 years. Her hair has lost its lustrous fineness. Her skin is hard and red; a brick forgotten in the kiln for good. And yet, the promise of a bath, a bed, and hot food does nothing to sway her. She continues her penance and devotion. He is her God. And she is hopeful that someday, her extreme austerities will please him and bring him down to her. I was such a fool to think that killing him would also undo his so-called divinity. But no, it has only been sanctified further. Perhaps I should have saved his death for Devasena to see. Perhaps I should have butchered him in front of her eyes. Slowly. Inch by gory inch. With whimpers turning into full-throated screams of agony… Before falling silent for good. Maybe the sight of his guts spilling out of his body would have given her a better grip on the truth.

5

I wipe my hands on the silken towel. My lover of last night is sprawled on the bed, still panting in pain and pleasure. “Quit whining,” I bark at him. His high-pitched tenor is physically painful to my ears. And it disturbs the lulling image in my mind—of Him. There is a reason why I chose this 6-foot-2 piece of meat. With his thick hair and beard, I can pretend he is someone else. But his voice… ah! What a turn off. Perhaps I will have his tongue cut off. If he can’t sound like Baahubali, he will not sound like himself—or anyone else—either. Yet again, I wonder if I did the wrong thing. In all this time, I have not once touched Devasena. Her flesh is repulsive to me. But He… I can feel Him here, inside. I wish to be inside Him. And I cannot. I killed Him. Why did I hurry? Why did I destroy the one obstacle I could have broken to my will without breaking it apart?

+1

The fire… this glow is the fire. The screams in the back of my throat are my own. And I can see nothing but red. Devasena’s rage. Her son’s cold, dispassionate eyes. “Devasena, come join me,” I cry out. “We will die together.” Do I truly want her even as the flesh on my bones is slowly melting and roasting? No. I sense her disappointment despite seeing me burn as she had fantasized for so long. The son is not the father. I see it too. The son is a killer. The father was not. The son is a man. The father was a God. And here I am, after everything, at the mercy of a man when I had already crushed a God beneath my feet. For the first and final time in my 50 years, I feel the hot wetness of tears on my cheeks. And it has nothing to do with the horrible pain I am in. I made a grave mistake. I built this pyre long ago when I murdered the one person who had ever loved me, the one person who would have forgiven all my wrongs. He wouldn’t have tossed me on this pile of inflammables. Gods forgive. Alas, men don’t. Like all things though, this realization has come too late. I can feel my heart slowing. Peace. Sweet respite at last.

Chapter Text

Warning- NSFW, not meant for people under 18 years of age 

Time is relative. Space, not so much. 

There were days when he could persuade his mind to conjure up elaborate fantasies of escape and freedom. In each one of them, he saw himself wake up peacefully on cool earth, free of pain, and always, next to his beloved wife. 

But when he looked around, the bars of the cage would still be there. Around him. Around them. His fantasy would dissolve into a nightmare and he would beg her sleeping form to leave before Bhallaladeva could see her. But she would never move. Finally, the stench of decomposing flesh would enter his nose. 

He would wake up with a start, to his stark reality-- to the fetid smell of spilled seed and the uncomfortable sensation of his half-rigid organ straining against the soiled fabric of his only loincloth. 

Of all the things he hated about himself now, none was more despicable than this last, lingering animal instinct that mocked his quashed masculinity. 

He had often been threatened with castration. Of course, the fear of its physical pain made him nauseous. But sometimes, he couldn’t help but hope for it.

What use was his so-called virility? What use was his manhood? 

He was no longer a human being in Mahishmati’s eyes. Where was the need to retain this mark of his maleness, this treacherous organ that played cruel tricks on him with images of his long lost wife. 

It almost felt like a defilement of her memory. 

Almost always, he would spend the rest of the night in a deliberately uncomfortable position, to ward off sleep.

But on a few rare occasions, he allowed himself a small measure of relief.

Through a combination of courage, shame, love, and longing, he would remind himself that he had once known the softness of his beloved’s touch, the heat of her golden skin upon his own.

With a whispered apology to her memory, and an ode of adoration to wherever she was, he would welcome his own arousal and cherish the release that came with its climax.