In 'The Beginning,' each one of us was introduced, but the

"In 'The Beginning,' each one of us was introduced, but the audience didn't know our back stories and the drama. You wouldn't have known how deep Bhallaladeva's jealousy for Baahubali is." These words, spoken by Rana Daggubati, the actor who embodied the mighty Bhallaladeva in the epic Baahubali, carry more weight than a simple reflection on cinema. They are a meditation on the mystery of human nature, the unseen roots of emotion, and the hidden fire that shapes the choices of men. Beneath the surface of his statement lies an ancient truth: that every soul has a story untold, every heart a battle unseen, and every rivalry a depth that time alone reveals.

In Baahubali: The Beginning, the world saw a tale of two princes—Baahubali, the noble and selfless, and Bhallaladeva, the proud and envious. To the unknowing eye, they were simply heroes and villains, locked in a struggle for a throne. Yet as Rana Daggubati explains, the depth of Bhallaladeva’s jealousy was not yet revealed—it lived beneath the surface like a serpent beneath still water. The audience saw his power but not his pain, his ambition but not his insecurity. It was only later, in Baahubali: The Conclusion, that the curtain lifted to reveal the full storm within him—the jealousy that burned against his brother’s light, and the pride that led him to ruin. In this, Rana’s reflection reminds us that understanding comes not in the beginning, but through time, struggle, and revelation.

This truth is not confined to film—it is the story of mankind. From the dawn of time, the greatest conflicts have not been born of hatred, but of jealousy—that quiet, consuming fire that feeds on comparison. Consider Cain and Abel, the first brothers in Scripture. Cain, like Bhallaladeva, could not bear the favor shown to his brother. His heart, once filled with love, grew poisoned with envy until it led him to destruction. What was visible to the world was only the act—the murder, the downfall—but what brewed inside was unseen: the back story of a heart that desired recognition, yet could not find peace. Rana’s words echo this truth: what we see of others is but a fragment, a single page torn from the book of their soul.

In the same way, history is filled with men whose greatness or downfall cannot be understood without peering into their inner lives. Napoleon, the conqueror of Europe, was not driven only by ambition but by an unending thirst to prove himself worthy of a world that once scorned him. Alexander the Great, too, was not satisfied with mere conquest; his quest for immortality was born from the shadow of his father’s glory. Like Bhallaladeva, these men were not villains in their own minds, but seekers of greatness haunted by comparison. It is the hidden drama—the jealousy, the longing, the fear—that defines the course of history far more than the battles we record or the crowns we remember.

And yet, there is something profoundly human in this struggle. Jealousy, though destructive, springs from a wound we all share—the desire to be seen, to be valued, to matter. Bhallaladeva’s tragedy is not his strength, nor his cunning, but his blindness to love. He could not see that greatness is not measured by victory, but by virtue. In envying Baahubali’s light, he extinguished his own. Thus Rana’s reflection becomes a timeless lesson: to know another person—or even oneself—one must look beyond appearances, beyond the moment of introduction, into the back story of the heart. For no life is simple, and no emotion shallow.

In the ancient world, the poets and philosophers knew this well. Homer’s Achilles, though a hero, was consumed by pride and wounded by the loss of honor. Othello, in Shakespeare’s time, was destroyed not by hatred but by jealousy’s deceitful whisper. And in every age since, humanity has been both the author and the victim of these emotions. Rana’s insight bridges myth and modernity—it reminds us that behind every face, even the proud or the cruel, there lies a story waiting to be understood. The actor, like the sage, becomes a vessel of truth: that to judge a man without knowing his struggle is to mistake shadow for substance.

Let this, then, be the wisdom drawn from his words: do not be deceived by the surface of things. In every person you meet, there are depths you cannot yet see—wounds, fears, desires that shape their actions. Before you condemn, seek to understand; before you envy, seek to reflect. And within yourself, when jealousy stirs, do not let it become your master. Let it teach you where your insecurities lie, and transform that energy into growth, not destruction. For, as Rana Daggubati reminds us through his reflection on Bhallaladeva, every great story—on screen or in life—has a beginning, but the truth of the soul is revealed only in its journey. And the wise do not stop at the introduction—they seek the heart behind the role.