Tiger Claws (15 page)
Authors: John Speed
Tanaji examines the
farangs
. They’re about the same age, and bigger than most Hindis, more dense and fleshy. Both wear loose white shirts, dark sleeveless tunics fastened by small silver disks, dark trousers that cling tightly to their legs, fastened along the outside edge with disks of bone, and heavy boots that come up to their knees. Tanaji imagines they would be very difficult to walk in. Deoga’s hair is dark brown, but Onil’s is that odd coppery-golden color that some
farangs
have, and he has the ghostly blue eyes that go with it. Both have beards and pale, pasty skin, and Onil’s skin is blotchy with small orange patches and lumps.
farangs
. They’re about the same age, and bigger than most Hindis, more dense and fleshy. Both wear loose white shirts, dark sleeveless tunics fastened by small silver disks, dark trousers that cling tightly to their legs, fastened along the outside edge with disks of bone, and heavy boots that come up to their knees. Tanaji imagines they would be very difficult to walk in. Deoga’s hair is dark brown, but Onil’s is that odd coppery-golden color that some
farangs
have, and he has the ghostly blue eyes that go with it. Both have beards and pale, pasty skin, and Onil’s skin is blotchy with small orange patches and lumps.
But Tanaji senses something else in these men, an agitated air that clings to them like an odor. Deoga impresses Tanaji as a typical
farang
: open, loutish, overbearing, pushy. He acts as if he doesn’t realize how loud he talks, or doesn’t care. Onil, on the other hand, seems careful, reserved. He hangs back at every moment, watching, waiting, considering his next move. Tanaji doesn’t trust him.
farang
: open, loutish, overbearing, pushy. He acts as if he doesn’t realize how loud he talks, or doesn’t care. Onil, on the other hand, seems careful, reserved. He hangs back at every moment, watching, waiting, considering his next move. Tanaji doesn’t trust him.
Shahu returns to his seat near Tanaji, looking relieved to put some space between himself and the
farangs
. The guards chuckle; it’s clear they think the
farangs
are a fine joke.
farangs
. The guards chuckle; it’s clear they think the
farangs
are a fine joke.
At that moment the caravan captain walks up, looking very ill humored. “All right boys,” he says, “eat up. Then draw lots for watch. First watch starts in an hour. Questions? None? Good.”
Tanaji approves of his style: quick and direct, the captain acts like a professional. Like all good captains, he strides off confidently the moment
he stops speaking, his orders still ringing in the air, hoping to give his men the impression that the orders came from God’s own voice, and those with questions or doubts are fools.
he stops speaking, his orders still ringing in the air, hoping to give his men the impression that the orders came from God’s own voice, and those with questions or doubts are fools.
The caretaker, meanwhile, limps to the gate of the dharmsala. Two bars of iron hang from a tree near the gate; he vigorously strikes one against the other, setting up a terrific
clang
.
clang
.
As the ringing fades, his thin voice shouts the official formula, “In the name of Allah the Munificent and his excellence the Nizam Shah of Ahmednagar, may he live forever, the gates of this dharmsala are about to close.” With these words, he swings shut the iron gates with a
boom
. Then he resumes shouting, “Let all who remain sleep in peace! Look to your possessions!” With that the caretaker locks the gate with a long iron lock. This ritual over, life in the courtyard returns to normal.
boom
. Then he resumes shouting, “Let all who remain sleep in peace! Look to your possessions!” With that the caretaker locks the gate with a long iron lock. This ritual over, life in the courtyard returns to normal.
While they argue over their watch assignments, the guards are cooking vegetables in big iron pots. The hot oil and smoky spices fill the air with fragrance. The
farangs
are talking, sounding to Tanaji like bleating goats.
farangs
are talking, sounding to Tanaji like bleating goats.
As he stretches his arm, Tanaji notices three black dots in the crease of his elbow.
One of the guards is laying out banana leaves. Soon warm and fragrant food has been piled on each of the leaves. As if at a silent signal, the guards move to seat themselves; Shahu and the
farangs
come when Tanaji calls them to eat.
farangs
come when Tanaji calls them to eat.
As he takes his place, Shahu glances over to the guarded door of the missing
farang
. Tanaji leans over to Shahu. “He has to come out sometime. Even if he doesn’t eat, he’s got to pee.”
farang
. Tanaji leans over to Shahu. “He has to come out sometime. Even if he doesn’t eat, he’s got to pee.”
“I wonder.” He glances at the
farangs,
who have left their wooden chairs to sit politely on the seating cloths set on the ground. Their stiff knees jut up into the air. Deoga uses his knife to probe at the vegetables he has been given; Onil uses his right hand like a civilized person, but is as clumsy as a child. Bits of food fall on his shirt just as his fingers reach his lips. The guards snigger.
farangs,
who have left their wooden chairs to sit politely on the seating cloths set on the ground. Their stiff knees jut up into the air. Deoga uses his knife to probe at the vegetables he has been given; Onil uses his right hand like a civilized person, but is as clumsy as a child. Bits of food fall on his shirt just as his fingers reach his lips. The guards snigger.
The captain dispatches a guard to bring food to the missing
farang.
“Have you boys got your schedule all set?” he asks brusquely, eating with quick motions. “All right. First watch in five minutes. No complaints!”
farang.
“Have you boys got your schedule all set?” he asks brusquely, eating with quick motions. “All right. First watch in five minutes. No complaints!”
The skies now are nearly dark: the last rosy glow of the setting sun has faded, and the crescent moon won’t rise until it’s nearly dawn.
“You expect trouble, captain?” Deoga asks. He has lifted the banana leaf and shovels the food into his mouth.
“Maybe,” he replies. “There are many robbers in these hills.”
The caretaker limps up. “Robbers indeed,” he sputters. “This dharmsala has never been robbed!”
“A first time for everything,” the captain replies.“You’ve got about ten bands of robbers in a thirty-mile radius of here. But most of them won’t bother us. We only need to worry about three: Kalidas, Shivaji, and Chandbibi. The rest are lazy scum. But those three show some initiative, and initiative is what you don’t want in your robbers.”
“No thief would dare enter this dharmsala!” the caretaker says.
“Better too careful, than not careful enough,” the dark
farang
says. “What concerns you about those three?”
farang
says. “What concerns you about those three?”
The captain seems pleased by the
farang
’s question. “First, Kalidas. He is crazy. The crescent moon tonight is sacred to his goddess Kali. He has been quiet lately. I’d bet his men are getting restless.
farang
’s question. “First, Kalidas. He is crazy. The crescent moon tonight is sacred to his goddess Kali. He has been quiet lately. I’d bet his men are getting restless.
“Next, Shivaji. Mostly he works the roads west of here. Attacking a dharmsala isn’t Shivaji’s style. He prefers the open road, but he likes surprise. So maybe he’ll surprise us. But he’s a coward—so if the guards stay awake, he’ll never come near. Still, men get weary, you know? Sometimes they’re paid to fall asleep.
“Last, Chandbibi. She could charm her way in here and never spill a drop of blood. Our guards have been away from their women too long. Let Chandbibi show a bit of thigh, and so much for discipline.” His eyes sparkle. “She has excellent thighs,” he adds, as if remembering.
“Most caravans are robbed by their own guards,” Shahu says. The captain responds with an icy stare. “So if there’s anyone to fear, captain, I’d say it’s your men. Or you.” The captain’s hand moves slowly toward his sword. Shahu, unarmed, stares back, stone still. The fire crackles.
Finally Deoga laughs. “God, you Hindis would murder each other over a penny!” He leans forward. “By God, captain, let’s not fight!” But no one speaks, and Shahu and the captain do not break their stare.
Then the caretaker pipes up loudly, “Sri Bhisma is a storyteller! Maybe you can tell us a story, sir?”
The
farang
forces another booming laugh, but his eyes are stern. “Yes, captain, tell us a story! Only go slow or my friend won’t know what you are saying.” He nods to Onil, who smiles politely, uncertain of the joke.
farang
forces another booming laugh, but his eyes are stern. “Yes, captain, tell us a story! Only go slow or my friend won’t know what you are saying.” He nods to Onil, who smiles politely, uncertain of the joke.
“All right,” Shahu says. “What shall I tell?”
“Tell us the story of Shivaji,” the captain says coldly. “You’re from his part of the country, I think.”
“Suppose instead I tell you the story of Shivaji’s grandfather,” Shahu
replies. “That story is more interesting. It so happened that a poor farmer called Maloji lived in a village called Khed.”
replies. “That story is more interesting. It so happened that a poor farmer called Maloji lived in a village called Khed.”
“Maloji had been plowing one day when a glittering green snake coiled at his feet, looked up at him with golden eyes, and then slithered down into a nearby hole, like a rope of emeralds. The next day, from that same hole, Maloji saw a woman’s hand emerge, green as a shoot of
bakri,
long and graceful as a snake, the hand of a goddess living in the the soil, beckoning, beckoning.
bakri,
long and graceful as a snake, the hand of a goddess living in the the soil, beckoning, beckoning.
“He dug where the goddess showed him: deeper, deeper, deep as a well, a well so deep he could not see the sky, but found nothing. Exhausted, miserable, about to give up, he suddenly found, wrapped in a snake-green cloth, a treasure: a trove of weapons and gold.
“Maloji took these blessings, put on armor and bought a horse. Risking all, he rode fully armed to the court of the Nizam Shah of Ahmednagar. The Nizam Shah, impressed by his audacity, made him a
mandsabdar
of a thousand men and a hundred horses.
mandsabdar
of a thousand men and a hundred horses.
“Maloji used his wealth to build an army: the bravest men and the strongest horses the shah had ever seen. He rode at the vanguard of the shah’s battles, gaining glory.
“Maloji then sought a wife for his only son, Shahji: One day he rode into the midst of the
swayamvara
of a princess, and in the face of all her suitors hauled her on his horse, and rode away.
swayamvara
of a princess, and in the face of all her suitors hauled her on his horse, and rode away.
“When the kidnapped princess saw Shahji, her intended groom, she fell in love at once and married him and they lived in joy. The Nizam Shah gave the newlyweds a glorious kingdom, if Maloji could conquer it. So Maloji led his army, and took those lands. With those battles the Sultan of Bijapur became Maloji’s enemy forever, and his son Shahji’s enemy as well.”
“Wait, no more!” interrupts the captain. “Bijapur was Shahji’s savior, not his enemy!” He grows agitated. “When Shahji couldn’t beat old Wagnak, he ran to Bijapur to hide. On his knees, like a woman! Shahji begged for Bijapur to save him.”
The captain frowns at Shahu. “That farmer Maloji was tough—a real man. Took what he wanted. Chewed up his enemies and spat out the bones. Not like his son. The blood was weak in Shahji. Wagnak pushed him and he collapsed. So the Bijapuris made him a deal: just give us everything. Shahji so feared Wagnak that he surrendered all his lands, the coward.”
“Who is Wagnak?” asks the dark
farang
.
farang
.
“The name means ‘tiger claws’. It’s the Marathi name for Aurangzeb,” the captain answers.
“You mean Viceroy Aurangzeb? The emperor’s son? Why call him that?”
The captain spits. “Aurangzeb—Wagnak—what’s the difference? He was the best general I’ve ever seen. I mean the worst. His attacks were like the mouth of hell.” The captain stares at the fire, as if ghosts surround him. “Not long ago, these lands were stained red. The coward Shahji couldn’t face Wagnak. He lost and lost, and then he ran and ran, the shit.”
“That’s not true,” Tanaji breaks in. “Shahji was a hero. He fought well—he had the Moguls on the run.”
“Shahji just sat in his fort and let his armies bleed,” the captain fires back. “And I should know. I was one who bled.
“A real man would have died fighting. All those forts! The trade routes to the sea! They all were Shahji’s. A real man would have attacked. But Shahji ran, throwing everything away, his forts, his lands. His men, abandoned in battle, dying and bleeding. But maybe you already know this.” The captain turns to the
farang,
nodding toward Tanaji, “I think maybe this man is a Malve. Malves thought Shahji’s shit didn’t stink.” He fixes his eyes on Tanaji. “A Malve would suck Shahji’s prick like a eunuch.”
farang,
nodding toward Tanaji, “I think maybe this man is a Malve. Malves thought Shahji’s shit didn’t stink.” He fixes his eyes on Tanaji. “A Malve would suck Shahji’s prick like a eunuch.”
Tanaji’s black eyes blaze. But Shahu reaches out a hand to Tanaji’s shoulder.
The captain turns away, and now faces the
farang
. “Shahji got a sweet deal, all right. He got rich, got a place at the Bijapuri court, and a nice new wife, soft, young and tight as a glove. All this for running away. So he gives up his army! So what? And his forts! So what? And also his wife. So what? She was God’s own bitch! And to top it off, his own child, his little rat-boy son”—the captain pretends he’s still talking to the
farang
—“he gave up his only son so he could live like a
padshah
in Bijapur. The wife gets shit and the brat gets shit. So what? It’s only his wife! It’s only his son! Why, any damned Malve would sell his wife and son for a couple of annas!”
farang
. “Shahji got a sweet deal, all right. He got rich, got a place at the Bijapuri court, and a nice new wife, soft, young and tight as a glove. All this for running away. So he gives up his army! So what? And his forts! So what? And also his wife. So what? She was God’s own bitch! And to top it off, his own child, his little rat-boy son”—the captain pretends he’s still talking to the
farang
—“he gave up his only son so he could live like a
padshah
in Bijapur. The wife gets shit and the brat gets shit. So what? It’s only his wife! It’s only his son! Why, any damned Malve would sell his wife and son for a couple of annas!”
“But this sounds like too much, captain!” the Deoga protests. “Why do they offer him so much?”
“Don’t you see? Those forts … Shahji’s forts … They were like gold to Bijapur! Add Shahji’s forts to Bijapur’s and they form an unbroken line: they cover every mountain pass to the coast. What made Bijapur so rich? It’s because every ounce of ocean trade must cross through Bijapur. Think of the taxes! Even a haji on his way to Mecca must pay his toll to Bijapur! So Bijapur threw the coward a bone, and Shahji, the dog, licked their hands.”
“You’re telling lies!” Tanaji blurts out. “Shahji was no coward. He saw he couldn’t beat the Moguls. He’d sacrificed too many men already. So he
allied with Bijapur … That’s leadership, not cowardice! And he’s a commander for Bijapur now—their best general!”
allied with Bijapur … That’s leadership, not cowardice! And he’s a commander for Bijapur now—their best general!”
The captain smirks. “He left his wife and son in a garbage dump, where nothing prowled but wolves. That’s your man, sir. I spit on a man with no honor. No wonder his son Shivaji is a thief: What else should become of that dog’s pup, stuck in a hole like Poona with no one but his mother for comfort, and her a queen bitch?”
The captain bows to Shahu. “I apologize, storyteller. You touched a nerve. I never knew Maloji, but I knew Shahji, the shit. Sorry if I disturbed your story.” He strides off.
A long quiet moment follows. Finally the caretaker speaks: “It was here, you know. In this dharmsala Shahji signed his treaty with Bijapur. He stood right there.” The caretaker nods to a spot a few yards away. “Wali Khan stood there beside him,” the caretaker whispers. “Many other nobles, too. And that monster, Afzul Khan. Do you know him, sir?”
“We ran into him last night,” Tanaji mutters. “Sri Bhisma stole his gold.”
The caretaker grins. “Your servant likes jokes, I see. Anyway, I thought it was a good story, sir,” he says. “I always like your stories, sir.”
“You can’t please everyone; a storyteller learns that early on.” The caretaker lights a couple of tapers, and Shahu and Tanaji head for their rooms.
“Why did you tell that story?” Tanaji grumbles. “Anyway, you know it’s a lie.”
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