Tiger Claws (13 page)
Authors: John Speed
Spies like Basant.
The giant Karm hauls Basant along the plinth for several steps and then stops. Without letting go of the eunuch, he bends down and scoops up the vial that has rolled along the tiles. He drops it into the pocket of his tunic and then lugs Basant like a sack to the circle of conspirators.
They are all standing now, all except Master Hing, who is still struggling to his feet. Every eye watches as Karm lugs him into their midst and sets him down a few feet from Alu.
Basant’s eyes flick from face to face: the dubious, uncertain faces of the generals who have never seen him before; Shaista Khan, who stands with sword drawn, wishing he had killed Basant last night; Alu, disappointed but curious; and Hing, who gives up his struggle to stand, and sits like an old, old man, shaking his head. Basant then looks at Aurangzeb, and finally, hesitantly, to Roshanara. “Oh, Basant,” he hears her say.
The words strike his heart, filling Basant with a righteous courage. Now that he is hopeless and helpless he sees his path clearly. I may be dead, he thinks, but not yet in the grave. “He asked me to kill you,” Basant tells Roshanara. “Your saintly brother.” He turns to the circle. “This prince you all think should be king? He’s a murderer.” It seems to him that his little boy’s voice is at that moment commanding and strong.
“And what did you answer when I asked you this favor, Basant?” Aurangzeb asks quietly, looking beyond Basant, at the crescent moon.
“I refused!” Basant cries out. “I refused,” he whispers.
Master Hing raises his hands to his ears to shut out the sound of Basant’s words. He lifts his head and Basant sees the watery, fishlike glistening of Hing’s eyes in the moonlight. “You fool, you young fool,” Master Hing mutters. “I am sorry, highness, so sorry.”
Aurangzeb nods at Karm. The giant moves to Basant, but the eunuch shies away. “I can walk,” he says. Karm points toward the orchard gardens, and Basant, taking one last look into Roshanara’s exquisite eyes, goes where he is told.
With Karm following, Basant walks blindly into the shadows, stepping
off the sandstone pathways and onto the orchard grass now damp with dew. He barks his shins against low bushes hidden in the darkness. Why don’t you lead, you big oaf, Basant thinks. On he wanders deeper into the gardens, until sick of it all, he simply stops. He faces the giant, who stands away from him, a vague shape in the shadows, lit only by the bitter light of moonrise. The silver tip of the crescent moon trace the round fullness of the white dome of the Taj, and Basant thinks, Whatever is going to be done to me will be done soon.
off the sandstone pathways and onto the orchard grass now damp with dew. He barks his shins against low bushes hidden in the darkness. Why don’t you lead, you big oaf, Basant thinks. On he wanders deeper into the gardens, until sick of it all, he simply stops. He faces the giant, who stands away from him, a vague shape in the shadows, lit only by the bitter light of moonrise. The silver tip of the crescent moon trace the round fullness of the white dome of the Taj, and Basant thinks, Whatever is going to be done to me will be done soon.
Basant’s eyes return to the giant, still standing a little way off. Karm doesn’t carry a sword or even a knife. His weapons, Basant supposes, are those enormous hands.
Basant can imagine the crushing power of one of those fists. And worse, much worse. As he imagines horror after horror, Basant falls to his knees. “Whatever did I‘do to deserve this?” he wails. “I beg you, let me go!”
As Basant faces him, crying with his woman’s voice, Karm’s great eyebrows work up and down, he opens his mouth, but only strangled grunts emerge. At last he crouches and rests a heavy arm across Basant’s fleshy shoulders, his big eyes filled with concern.
“Are you going to hurt me?” Basant whispers. The big dark eyes of the giant stare steadily at the eunuch. “You will hurt me, won’t you? You will if they make you. That’s why they keep you around. You’re here only to crush and kill, just like I’m here only to flatter and lick. Oh, we are pitiful, you and I!”
Karm’s fingers gently squeeze Basant’s shoulder, and Basant, starting again to sob, places his own soft hand over the giant’s. “We’re not so different, you and I,” Basant sniffs, lifting his face to Karm’s. “They maimed us—they made us slaves. We’re like cattle to them—they just snip off the bits they don’t like. What choice did we have? No one ever asked me if I wanted this life.” He looks desperately at Karm. “I dreamed of vengeance. I dreamed of making them pay! But it’s no good! Listen to me! Forget vengeance! Be happy! There’s still time—do what you must to be happy!”
Alu approaches but looks only at Karm. “He’s to die. Drown him. Make it look accidental.” The words thud in Basant’s heart. Suddenly it occurs to Basant that his turban must look dreadful; he reaches up to fix it. It’s stupid, he knows, but he can’t stop himself.
“Don’t do that!” Alu hisses. “You’re going to die, you fool! What does your turban matter now? You were to be special, Basant. Aurangzeb’s
khaswajara
. It was yours for the taking. Only a fool would throw it away. You deserve this fate. You make us all look like fools.”
khaswajara
. It was yours for the taking. Only a fool would throw it away. You deserve this fate. You make us all look like fools.”
“Brother,” Basant whispers, not knowing what he else to say, but Alu glares at him, unconsciously swiping at his eyes. He’s crying.
“Master Hing sends this message,” Alu spits out. “You are no brother of his. He has forgotten your name.” Alu sobs, but controls himself. “And I too have forgotten you.”
But Basant barely hears him. He turns his eyes toward the magnificent onion dome, now silver in the moonlight, more brilliant than ever. He sees the play of shadows as the moonlight falls on the spires and domes, on the finials and minarets; he sees the vast yearning emptiness of the arches; he sees finally that the tomb of this dead queen is a poem written in marble: so glorious it seems now, so pathetic, so full of hope and of despair.
At that moment, Basant thinks, Ah, I understand.
He faces Karm. His heart is at ease, beyond good or evil. “I’m ready,” he says. He squares his shoulders, trying to look brave. They walk toward the river stairs. When he sees the place where Karm caught him, Basant looks at the giant as if they share a good joke. Then he walks toward the railing, with Karm beside him, like a huge and silent shadow.
She is still down there, Roshanara. He looks at her, and his chest heaves. She doesn’t see him, so he waves, but the shadows still hide him.
“Little Rose!” he calls. And again. She looks up, as do Alu, who stands beside her, and Hing, who is talking to Aurangzeb.
“I loved you!” he calls. “I would never hurt you!” Basant reaches into Karm’s pocket—the giant stares at him in surprise but does nothing—and takes out the glass vial. “Look!” Basant shouts, his piping voice echoing against the vast facade of the tomb. “I brought this! I was going to poison myself after I told you … After I told you about your brother. He’s evil, you know! He’s a very bad man!”
He starts to cry. He clutches the vial and shakes it at the princess, although in the darkness, it isn’t very likely that she can see it. “I was ready to die for you! Who else loved you so, Little Rose!” As his sobs overwhelm him, he sees Roshanara turn aside, and Alu leading her away
“Come on,” whispers Basant through his tears. “Lets get this over with.”
They come to the dark opening that yawns into the plinth, the stairs that lead down to the river. The way ahead is black, impenetrable except for a haze of silver at the bottom of the stairs: the door to the shore.
He almost tumbles on a broken step. He turns and starts to tell Karm to be careful, but then he thinks, Why should I warn him? Instead Basant goes outside, and hears with some satisfaction the surprised grunt of the giant as he comes down the last stairs.
Karm must lower his head carefully as he comes through the door, and Basant nearly laughs.
This is it, Basant thinks. This is it!
When Karm sees him, his heavy eyebrows shoot up. Suddenly Basant realizes that Karm is surprised that he did not run away. But where would he go, on his pudgy legs? Karm could catch him easily. Still the thought occurs to him that this play has not yet ended; maybe there is yet hope.
“I’m ready,” he tells the giant. “I’m ready to die. I’m not afraid.”
Instead of walking along the pier, Karm leads Basant to the edge of the bank, to the shore, to the dhobi stones where the women wash their clothes in the river. Basant’s pace slows. At last he wades in—another step, and another. The water is cold, colder than he thought water could be; as it laps around his ankles, he trembles. Karm’s hand still holds him fast.
“No!” Basant says, trying to pull away. “Not this way!” His feet slip on the slick round stones of the river bottom and he pitches into the water, landing on his hands and knees.
Karm pulls him out, standing him on his feet. How odd, thinks Basant, he could just have pushed me down. So he stands, cold and dripping; the water comes up to his groin, and chills the opening where his lingam used to be; his cloak, now heavy with water, clings to him. His turban falls off, and he watches it uncoil and tumble over the surface of the river like a dark snake.
“I don’t want to die this way,” he tells the giant through chattering teeth. “Please don’t make me die this way. I can’t stand it! I’m so cold.”
Karm of course says nothing, the expression on his face a mystery.
“You’re not a bad man,” Basant says, shivering. “Let me take this.” With a trembling hand, he holds up the vial of poison for Karm to see. “It was always my plan to use this. Don’t drown me.”
Karm shakes his head, but Basant pays no attention. He struggles to break the wax and pull the stopper, but his hands are numb and trembling. No good. He starts to place the glass between his teeth. Why not chew it open, he thinks, swallow it all, even the glass—what difference does it make?
Karm howls and grabs at his hand.
The vial flies off into the river.
Gone.
Basant’s mouth opens, lips quivering, teeth chattering, but no words come out this time, only a strangled groan. He falls to his knees in the water, half laughing, half sobbing. Then suddenly, vehemently, Basant thrusts his head beneath the water and tries to inhale.
Instead of holding him down, Basant feels Karm’s enormous hand pull him from the water. “Why?” Basant cries. “Why?”
Karm places his great hands on Basant’s shoulders, and lowers his heavy shaggy head as though he were about to kiss him. Basant feels his body being tilted backward into the water.
Basant thinks: This is my last breath!
The eunuch’s eyes dart in every direction: he sees the cold stars, the thumbnail moon, the firelight flickering through the trees, the haze of dawn along the river’s edge. He glances one last time at the dome of the tomb. On the plinth a shadow stares toward him. Somehow he knows it is Aurangzeb, come to watch him die. Watch then, he thinks, watch and be damned.
As Karm leans him backward into the water, Basant’s consciousness floats from his body, from the space behind his eyes to some great height where there is no cold.
I can see everything from here!
He sees the endless, sacred river flowing gently to the sea far away.
Life is wonderful!
He sees Aurangzeb staring from the plinth and traces each pathetic feature of the prince’s face—the weakness of his eyes, the fear that plays along his lips.
You are pitiful!
He watches a giant gently lower a trembling eunuch into the cold river.
How funny!
He sees one final time the brilliant horns of the crescent moon as it rises above the silvering sky.
I always loved you!
And suddenly he is back, trapped inside his horrible, choking body, gasping as his head is thrust into the water.
He sputters and churns and refuses to drown.
Through the water that laps over his eyes he sees the giant’s anguished, determined face. He feels the water bubble into his ears and the cold, stinging burn as it fills his lungs. Finally he feels the giant’s thumbs upon his windpipe like weights, and hears a crunching crack.
And then all is light.
Tanaji sleeps in the manger.
Or rather he does not sleep. He barely fits: one rail digs into his thick shoulder, and his sandals hang in the air. But at least the manger is clean—uncomfortable, but not dirty like the fouled straw of the stable floor. A man my age needs a bed, Tanaji thinks; a man of my position should not sleep in dung.
This, thinks Tanaji, is what comes from keeping promises.
At first it was fun, watching young Shahu use his charm to beguile information from a merchant’s wife. Later Tanaji and Shahu would lie in wait by a roadside, knowing exactly when the caravan would pass, how much gold the merchant carried in his purse. But now—now Shahu must have more; he must sleep in the merchant’s bed, cuckold the husband and steal the wife’s jewels, while Tanaji, old uncle Tanaji, keeps watch in the stables.
Well, he thinks, maybe old uncle Tanaji has had enough.
He hunches some straw to form a pillow. Even through his turban, the straw scratches. Slowly his breathing attunes to the snores of the horses and his limbs grow heavy in the breath-warmed air.
Then Tanaji sits up with a start, his hand on the hilt of his
katar
. What woke him, he wonders. Then he realizes—the
clip
of horses’ hooves on the cobbled courtyard.
katar
. What woke him, he wonders. Then he realizes—the
clip
of horses’ hooves on the cobbled courtyard.
No, no, no! Tomorrow! he thinks. You’re not to come home until tomorrow!
In the pale light of the crescent moon he sees two riders: the merchant-husband
followed by his servant. Except it isn’t the merchant after all: from the glitter of his jewels under the silver moon, Tanaji sees that it’s a nobleman, a Bijapuri from the look of him, man big as a mountain.
followed by his servant. Except it isn’t the merchant after all: from the glitter of his jewels under the silver moon, Tanaji sees that it’s a nobleman, a Bijapuri from the look of him, man big as a mountain.
Gods help us, thinks Tanaji, it can’t be. Not him!
As the men dismount, Tanaji gathers his wits. Through the shadows, huddling in a crouch, he races to the nearby guesthouse. As the riders fuss with their horses, he silently opens the narrow door and steals inside.
Somewhere, somewhere in this house Shahu is staying, and Tanaji must find him, and fast. Then get out, fast. For Khirki is a Muslim town, and if he finds them, a Muslim will be within his rights to kill Shahu, and the cheating wife. And Tanaji for good measure. But if the rider is Afzul Khan, as Tanaji fears, quick death would be the best of outcomes. By the thin light of the moon through a window, Tanaji sees Shahu’s form sprawled across the bed, naked, legs and arms intertwined with a woman’s. He kicks the bed. “Shahu! Wake up! He’s back!”
The pretty wife, not Shahu, blinks awake. Her arms are pinned under Shahu’s muscled shoulders and her face registers increasing panic until, with some effort, she tugs free. As she slides from the bed Tanaji catches a glimpse of warm skin, of firm breasts and a shapely belly. She hears the noise outside.
Shahu yawns and stretches. The woman scowls as she rushes to her own room, pretending to cover her creamy nakedness by hugging herself. “Get up!” Tanaji barks, no longer caring if anyone hears. Shahu looks up dazed. His clothes are scattered in a trail to the bed. Tanaji throws Shahu his pants. As he pulls them on, Tanaji scoops up everything he can find; they’ll sort things out later. Meanwhile Shahu unbolts the window shutter. Alert now, he grabs the clothes from Tanaji and tosses them outside.
“I’ll never make it,” Tanaji mutters, and Shahu laughs. Scowling, Tanaji slides out, scraping his belly, squeezing his shoulders. He feels with his toes, but he can’t find the ground, so he simply hopes for the best and drops. The fall is only a couple of feet. Through the window he can hear the angry cries of the husband. “Hurry, Shahu!” Tanaji whispers.
There’s a loud bang, and suddenly Shahu pitches headfirst through the bedroom window, somersaulting as he lands on the ground. “Come on!” he shouts, running barefoot into the night. Tanaji frowns and scoops up the clothes. He curses his short legs, and the pile of clothes he clutches to his chest; he’s slow enough without them. He turns to see the Bijapuri squeezing through the same window, his legs kicking in frustration.
Shahu reaches the courtyard wall. “Where?” he calls to Tanaji.
“Horses! Other side of the wall. There!” Tanaji is running so hard that
the effort of shouting winds him. Shahu shuffles backward, waving for Tanaji to hurry, while looking for a place to crawl over the wall.
the effort of shouting winds him. Shahu shuffles backward, waving for Tanaji to hurry, while looking for a place to crawl over the wall.
When he catches up, Shahu jerks the clothes from Tanaji’s arms and paws through them. Rising triumphantly, he waves a small cloth sack under Tanaji’s nose. “Great!” he grins, and then tosses the clothing over the wall.
He cups his hands together to give Tanaji a leg up. Tanaji is about to object—he should be helping Shahu, he thinks, but Shahu is the stronger man now. Shahu nearly tosses him over the wall. Tanaji reaches back to Shahu. He sees the Bijapuri charging at them.
Shahu scrambles over the wall; Tanaji barely has time to pull his hand back as the nobleman hacks at it with his sword. “Do you know who that is?” Tanaji shouts. Shahu laughs. Again he shakes the sack, letting Tanaji hear the heavy clunk of the gold coins.
The horses are around the back, where Tanaji hid them as a precaution against just this sort of escapade. Shahu hears the whinny of his Bedouin mare. He laughs again, and snatching shoes from the clothes scattered at his feet, runs toward the sound, hopping madly as he slips on his sandals.
Tanaji follows. In a moment he reaches his sturdy Marathi pony and heaves himself on the saddle. Shahu, already mounted on his tall Bedouin mare, grins at Tanaji, and spurs away. Tanaji gallops after him.
They dash through Khirki, twisting through a narrow maze of alleys and walkways. At last they see the West Gate; beyond lies Poona, and in Poona they will be safe. The elephant door of Khirki’s West Gate is bolted shut; only the smaller horse door is open, but a guard sits beside it. Tanaji reins in his horse, thinking Shahu will do the same, but Shahu lowers his head and spurs forward with a great shout, galloping through the horse door like thread through a needle. The guard leaps to his feet.
Tanaji sizes up his options. Spurring his pony so fiercely it rears, he races to the gate. He is shorter than Shahu, but wider, so the cloth of his pant legs clips the sides of the door. The guard spins around just in time to see the pony about to run him down; he scrambles away as the pony’s hoofs splinter his spear into the dust.
The Bedouin’s long strides easily outpace Tanaji’s pony with its stubby legs. With each mile, Shahu’s mare moves farther into the distance, and with each mile, Tanaji’s irritation grows.
Seven miles beyond Khirki he finds Shahu waiting for him by a tall tree near a crossroad. The soft light of dawn filters through the mists, and
warms the damp air, painting the horizon with a gleaming silver glow. They have seen no pursuit: no sound of hooves, no clouds of dust. And once they pass these crossroads, any pursuers can’t know which way they went.
warms the damp air, painting the horizon with a gleaming silver glow. They have seen no pursuit: no sound of hooves, no clouds of dust. And once they pass these crossroads, any pursuers can’t know which way they went.
Tanaji rides up, scowling. “What were you thinking, Shahu! We could have been killed! What the hell were you doing? That was Afzul Khan!”
“What if it was, uncle? He’s only a man, and he has things to steal.”
“You don’t trifle with men like Afzul Khan! What would your father say?”
“How would I know?” Shahu answers. “My father made his choices. Now I make mine.”
Tanaji says no more. They turn their horses down the southern road, toward Poona, toward home. The safety of this road, the gentle pace of his pony’s stubby legs, the soft light of morning and the scent of flowers and smoke on the breeze combine to calm Tanaji, and to clear his mind.
Promise or no promise, Tanaji again decides that he has finally had it with Shahu. It galls him that Shahu has not only changed his clothes, but has even wound his turban in the tight, complex folds that he prefers. How did he manage that? Tanaji wonders.
Shahu looks fresh, as if their escape had been some fine adventure.
Tanaji looks like he slept in a stable.
What the hell am I doing? he wonders.
By the time they reach the fords of the Godavari, the sun has reached its zenith. Tanaji spurs his pony into the shallows. He looks back to see Shahu’s tall Bedouin mare crabbing skittishly along the bank. Shahu reins the mare skillfully, but she won’t be calmed. Shahu shortens up her reins, pressing her flanks hard as the mare snorts and whistles.
In the midst of this commotion, Tanaji sees one of Shahu’s saddlebags splash into the water, where the current catches it and tumbles it downstream. Alarmed, Tanaji clumsily fishes the bag from the river.
It’s the cloth sack Tanaji retrieved from the bedroom, the sack that Shahu waved, laughing with triumph. Tanaji slogs back to Shahu. “Isn’t this your money?” he shouts. “Didn’t you even notice when it fell?” He shakes the dripping bag under Shahu’s nose.
Shahu, trying to calm his horse, answers in a soft voice. “Hold it for me, please, uncle. You’re right—I must be more careful.”
“You’ll never grow up so long as I’m around!” Tanaji slumps back to
his pony and ties the wet cloth saddlebag to the horn of his wooden saddle. As he spurs his pony up the steps of the temple ghats on the far bank, he makes up his mind. He is tired of adventures, tired of escapes. Tired of his promise. Enough, he decides, is enough.
his pony and ties the wet cloth saddlebag to the horn of his wooden saddle. As he spurs his pony up the steps of the temple ghats on the far bank, he makes up his mind. He is tired of adventures, tired of escapes. Tired of his promise. Enough, he decides, is enough.
He’s just about to speak his mind when he turns and looks back. Shahu, dressed in white silk, framed against the misty shadows of the mango trees on the far bank, sits handsome and proud on his elegant mare. The river light glints and sparkles like jewels. Then a flock of river cranes bursts from the water; they soar past like white-winged
asparas
.
asparas
.
Tanaji is not a man with words to tell his feelings. Seeing this he remembers Shahu’s stories, the ancient tales where gods are born as men and live among us. And like river cranes rising effortlessly into a cloudless sky, Tanaji’s resolution begins to dissolve. This is what always happens: He loves Shahu so much that he can’t bear to be parted from him, even if it seems right that he should go.
Once they get to the far bank, they find a quiet grove near a deserted temple. Hobbling their horses and letting them graze, Shahu and Tanaji open their packs and eat, and before long both fall asleep.
Later as they ride west into the glaring sun. Tanaji considers how the gods mock men’s intentions. Look at him, he thinks, eyeing Shahu on his prancing mare. I promised his father I’d raise him in the ways of peace. But he was his father’s son: once Shahu tasted danger, he craved more, as a drunkard craves wine though it kills him. He is reckless and rash, thinks Tanaji. He’s a thief and a fool, and despite Tanaji’s efforts, he’s going to end up hanging from a tree, his hands cut off and strung around his neck as a warning to others. My promise ruined him, Tanaji thinks.
He spurs his pony to catch up. “We’ve got to hurry if we want to make Ahmednagar by sundown.”
“We’re not going to Ahmednagar,” Shahu answers. “We’re going to that old dharmsala in Pimpalgaon.”
“That old place? What for?”
“The Bijapuris are sending some sort of treasure to Surat. The caravan will stay there tonight.”
“Is that what the woman told you?” Tanaji takes Shahu’s silence for a yes. “Did she say what the treasure was?” This time he takes the silence for a no. “It’s not worth it, Shahu. What if it’s a trap?” Shahu rides on in silence. “So, what’s your plan?”
“Scout things out at the dharmsala. If anything looks promising, catch up with them on the road tomorrow.”
Tanaji sighs. “Let’s go into town, Shahu. Get a bed and a hot meal.”
Shahu turns. “She’s probably dead, uncle. Do you think she’s dead?”
“Probably. If it was Afzul Khan we saw, probably. He’s a killer.”
“Then it’s the least we can do, uncle.”
“That makes no sense!” Tanaji exclaims. But by that time Shahu has spurred his horse to an angry gallop, and is too far away to hear.
As the sun drops in the western sky, they see the green gates of the old dharmsala, and beyond, a glimpse of its quiet courtyard planted with roses, and grapes, and flowering trees. After riding all day, the dust has dried in Tanaji’s nostrils; his lips are chapped; his clothing sticks to his skin. The soft breeze, cool and perfumed with the smell of blossoms and water, refreshes him. He and Shahu coax their tired horses to a trot.
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