Authors: John Speed

Tiger Claws (14 page)

BOOK: Tiger Claws

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To their left they pass goats and sheep grazing in meadows of dry grass; to their right, green shoots of
bakri,
bright green against the dark earth. The farmers have blocked off their fields into small squares bounded by low walls of soil, lined by trenches for routing water from a wide pond. Outside their low mud huts, the farmers’ wives cook chapatis for the evening meal on iron griddles heated by small dung fires. Children, nearly naked, toss rocks and sticks into the branches of the tamarind trees, hoping to knock down the tasty seedpods.

Tanaji and Shahu ride into the dharmsala’s serene courtyard, refreshed by the fragrance of flowers and moist, shaded earth. The sun that blazed on their heads all day now drifts, huge and red, behind the cone-shaped hill.

Shahu stretches as he swings from his saddle; his muscled form bends like a young tree. His turban is still tightly wound despite a day’s riding. Though dusty, he still looks well groomed: his eyebrows trimmed and neat; his beard shaped and oiled; his cheeks carefully shaved where they peep over the edge of his beard. His tunic and jama robes of ivory-colored damask are simple in design but precise in detail, embroidered with thread of that same fine ivory color; his sandals shine. Even his hands are fine: long-boned fingers and well shaped nails, trimmed precisely. He has that cultivated look that men of action detest, and women notice.

Tanaji grunts as the blood returns to his butt. Making a big show of ignoring Shahu, he loops the reins of each horse over his elbow, and leads them to a watering trough. Tanaji’s legs are bowed. His wife can’t stop him
from dressing like a bachelor. His simple clothes and rolling walk give him an informal, affable air. As the horses drink, Tanaji dips his kerchief in the water and wipes it on his dusty neck.

When the horses have had their fill, he leads them to the dharmsala stables. Tanaji doesn’t like dharmsalas—he tries to avoid anything run by the government. But even though most are plain, even uncomfortable, merchants traveling with goods prefer dharmsalas to private inns because they provide safe lodging, guaranteed by the shah.

This dharmsala is one of Ahmednagar’s oldest. Once the new road was built, it became a quiet place, frequented only by merchants who appreciated its privacy and beauty. Though more comfortable than most dharmsalas, it still falls to its guests to provide for themselves.

When Tanaji enters the stables he finds a groom caring for some tired horses. The two men nod at each other, wary but polite. After a while they fall into the easy conversation of servants at work away from their masters. Tanaji notices three small dots in a line along the crease of the man’s elbow. Probably a caste mark, he thinks, but he doesn’t recognize the symbol.

Just as Tanaji is finishing up, Shahu appears in the courtyard, accompanied by the dharmsala’s caretaker: a small dark man in cotton jamas that probably were once white. He walks with an exaggerated limp from a short left leg. He talks as he bobs along, trying to keep pace with Shahu’s effortless strides. In front of the guesthouse sits a palanquin, and a bored guard rests against a nearby wall, a bare sword across his knees.

Tanaji meets them in the middle of the courtyard, the packs slung across his back and under his arms. Shahu makes no move to help. “You’ll be Master Bhisma’s servant,” the caretaker says. Tanaji blinks at the name but notices Shahu’s fierce look and says nothing.

As they walk together, the caretaker chatters on about his miserable life: “Always there are too many guests or none at all, sir. And now here comes this
farang
big shot, and all his guards, I tell you.
Farangs!
You never know with those devils, sir.” The caretaker’s head bobs between them as they pass the foreigner’s guard sitting by the guesthouse door. “Look, sir. An armed guard sitting there just like that, sir! I am appalled to see such a thing in my dharmsala! Who will hurt him at my place, I ask you?”

The caretaker leads them across the courtyard to another building opposite the guest quarters. “The guesthouse is already full,” he explains, “and these quarters are reserved for the arrival of government officials.”

The special quarters look similar to the guesthouse, but there’s no covered verandah, just a slate patio in front. As in the guesthouse, each room has a narrow double door. These doors can be locked on the outside or on the inside, by a bolt that slides from one door to a fastener on the other

The caretaker slides his hip up to the lock so his long key can reach without having to remove the key ring from his belt. The bolt sticks, squeaking noisily, and finally opens with a
bang
that echoes in the empty room. Inside, the rooms are dark and cool. Thick whitewashed walls reach up to a soaring thatched roof with a high window for ventilation; the furnishings: a low wooden bed, and a bedside table with a single oil lamp.

“These rooms, of course, are just the same as the guest quarters across the way,” the caretaker says. He ignores Tanaji. “But it is a special building, actually, sir, designed for privacy. Very quiet, sir, away from all the snoring, and only opened for dignitaries so that they can sleep in peace, and also for newlyweds so everyone else can sleep in peace.”

“Why didn’t you give it to that
farang
big shot, then?” Shahu asks. Don’t egg him on, thinks Tanaji.

“I tell you, that fellow is a prick, sir!
Farangs
are not gentlemen, I tell you. They demanded that room on the end. Do I run this dharmsala or not, I ask you, sir? Am I the shah’s servant or theirs?”

“Well, I hope they give you something for all your trouble. You may be certain I appreciate your courtesy,” Shahu says, handing the man a few coins. “I would be grateful if you could give my servant a room.”

“I suppose he might be allowed to sleep in the next room,” the caretaker replies, scowling at Tanaji.

After many more compliments and bows, the caretaker at last bobs out of the room. He doesn’t look at the coins immediately, but Tanaji can see his fingers in his pocket, testing their heft.

Tanaji sets the saddlebags on the floor. “Who’s Master Bhisma?” he asks.

“It’s how they know me here,” Shahu replies casually. He stretches on the low bed. Its mattress is a thick cotton pad resting on a net of stout ropes. The pad has a musty smell, as though the room had been shut up for too long. “What did you find out?” he asks.

“The groom says they’ve come from Nagpur. One of the
farangs
rides in that covered palki. He wears a big veil that hangs on his hat. None of the guards have ever seen his face. The other
farangs
never go near the palki. When he takes a shit, the whole caravan must turn its back. The
farangs
keep their pistols out in case anyone wants to take a look.”

“Who needs a guard to take a shit?”

Tanaji nods. “Also the guards have too much money—they’re overpaid. You’re sure this is the right caravan?”

“Yes. And the caretaker told me they’d paid with gold. Did you hear anything about the cargo?”

“Sure, I heard. The groom said they’re carrying prayer rugs to Surat. A groom, four guards, a captain, and three
farangs,
all for prayer rugs.”

“They must be impressive rugs,” Shahu says. “What do you think?”

“Jewels, probably. There’s no indication they’ve got anything heavy.”

Shahu looks pleased. “Fine. Easy for us to steal. We’ll get a good sleep, leave early, and waylay them on the other side of town tomorrow morning.” Tanaji nods. “Did you learn anything else, uncle?”

“I’ve learned your bags are too damned heavy. I’m sick of carrying them. Maybe I should be the master again.” As Tanaji complains, Shahu takes his bedroll and flips it onto the bed. The roll opens to reveal a fierce-looking sword that Shahu quickly hides beneath the bedclothes. “Don’t wear your weapons here. Keep them hidden tonight,” he says quietly to Tanaji. Shahu looks at Tanaji’s expression and adds, “I mean it.”

“Why?” asks Tanaji, annoyed. Shahu looks at him but says nothing. For Tanaji, these unexplained orders are one of the more unpleasant aspects of his recent life with Shahu. He remembers the old days, when he gave the orders. “Then if you have nothing further for me, sir, I’ll go to my own room now, sir, if you don’t mind, sir.”

“Keep your mace under your blanket,” Shahu insists.

“All right, all right,” Tanaji replies. “Don’t forget: that mace has saved your life more than once.” He drags his bags outside, to the room next door.

Shahu closes the door. By the dim light of the high windows, Shahu examines his sword. The blade of dark steel has been sharpened until the razor edge glistens like a bright silver thread.

There are many kinds of sword blade, each suited to a particular style of fighting, a particular temperament: blades narrow, long and flexible, with a needle-sharp point for stabbing from a distance; heavy, moon-shaped blades with a sweeping edge, designed for a rider to hack from above; blades thick and deep, like an elongated ax head.

The blade that whispers beneath Shahu’s thumbnail, however, is narrow, light, sharpened to glide smoothly through flesh and sinew. Every blade has drawbacks; this blade will snap if caught in live bone; the steel, designed for sharpness, is brittle. But for close-quarter fighting, for speed and quiet action, no blade could compare.

Hearing a knock, Shahu sheathes the sword and secretes it beneath his bedroll, then swings back the inner bolt to open the door. It’s the caretaker bringing pitchers of fresh water. As he places the pitcher on the bed table, Shahu asks casually about the guarded room. “I think that
farang
bastard may be sick,” the caretaker says. “I think maybe leprosy.”

Shahu straightens up, looking shocked. The caretaker’s face is shocked as well. Having said the words aloud, they no longer seem unreasonable to him; suddenly the caretaker thinks he may be right. “No one has seen him. He came in a closed palanquin. He ducked straight into his room. He was covered from top to toe—you couldn’t see his face, his hands, nothing. He wore one of those big hats—you know the kind
farangs
wear, sir, like a tray on the head? A veil on the brim—it looked like a big black sack over his head.”

They agree that it’s all very strange, and not like the old days. The caretaker limps to Tanaji’s room with the other pitcher.

Shahu takes up a towel and goes to the nearby well for a wash. Tanaji is already there bathing. “I don’t like it if he’s a leper,” Tanaji mutters as Shahu shares the news. “You can never go wrong keeping a big distance from a leper, that’s my view.”

“Fine,” Shahu says gently. “Then keep an eye on his guards and see what they’re up to. If he’s a leper, they’ll know.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“Look at those guards—do they seem worried?” Shahu dries his face. “We’ll stick to my plan, leper or no.”

The first bell of evening begins to ring and they head for the common area near the courtyard verandah. Shahu takes long, easy strides, and Tanaji must bustle on his stumpy legs just to keep up.

Among the blossoming bowers of roses, cloths and cushions have been set on the ground, where the guests of the dharmsala are gathering for supper. As they approach the courtyard, Tanaji and Shahu see two
farangs
in their bizarre costumes seated there.

Tanaji and Shahu find seats, trying not to stare at the foreigners, who sit on wooden chairs and talk among themselves.
Farangs
are still so few, so unusual, that they have a compelling novelty; it is all too easy to stare.

The guards, some of whom are playing cards, nod casually at the two new arrivals. From their belts hang swords, knives, and punch daggers. The
farangs
carry long straight swords and pistols tucked into their belts.

One of the
farangs
notices Tanaji eyeing his pistols. “Ever fired a
pistola,
captain?” he asks in heavily accented Marathi. Tanaji is too shocked to be addressed by a
farang
even to reply. The
farang
laughs, and then leans
back, poking the other
farang
in the arm, and they laugh together. Something about their laughter perturbs Tanaji.

“I am a Portuguese,” the
farang
says proudly. “My
farang
name is”—here he says some blather of syllables—“but my Hindi friends call me Deoga.” He nods to Shahu. “You must be Master Bhisma.”

Shahu
namskars
politely, folding his hands and bowing his head. Deoga
namskars
in reply. Then he pushes his hand forward as if reaching for Shahu. “This is how we greet each other as
farangs,
” he explains, grasping Shahu’s hand and swinging it up and down. “There now, we’ve met properly.” The guards are clearly amused.

“My friend is an English,” Deoga continues, pointing to the other
farang
. “His name is Onil. You want to greet Onil?” Shahu finally understands, and with some trepidation, pushes his hand forward.

“Other hand, captain,” Deoga whispers.

With a pleasant smile, Onil takes Shahu’s hand in his and squeezes it while moving it up and down. It is not so unpleasant when Onil does it.

BOOK: Tiger Claws

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