Tiger Claws (28 page)

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Authors: John Speed

BOOK: Tiger Claws
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“Yes, he told us. He sat there big as life with his sincere frown and told us.” Shaista Khan chews his lip. “So? Doesn’t Dara say the same?”
“Then whose side are you on, Shaista Khan?” Ibrahim whispers.
“I tell you, friends, I’m a fool. I lie, I pander, I conceal. Is it not so with you as well, my friends? Do you both dissemble as do I?” The other two hang their heads but do not answer. “This is how Jai Singh behaves as well,” Shaista Khan continues. “Now all we have is the word of Dara and the word of Aurangzeb. Of the two, I trust Aurangzeb—I’m sure he believes he has Jai Singh’s support. But what does Jai Singh really mean to do?”
Khurram shrugs. “Are you saying he is Dara’s man?”
“My friend, I’ve heard both those bastards claiming Jai Singh for an ally. Yet I haven’t heard a single word from Jai Singh. Have you?”
“So you think this assassination attempt—” Ibrahim begins to say.
“It could be Dara’s plot—just to let Jai Singh know who’s boss. That’d be like Dara. Maybe it’s Aurangzeb’s … Maybe Aurangzeb wants to cast suspicion on Dara; that’d be like Aurangzeb. Hell, maybe Jai Singh did it himself, just to get home for a few days.”
Khurram frowns. “You fear your own shadow, general.”
Shaista Khan’s eyes glitter. “We’ve pledged to support Dara and Aurangzeb—both of them, mind you—and join with them in taking down our living emperor. We are a fine bunch of loyal generals, are we not?”
Shaista Khan lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Let me speak for myself: When the smoke clears, I want to be sitting on the winning side. Which side will that be? Whichever side has Jai Singh!”
“What are you suggesting, Shaista Khan?” whispers Ibrahim.
“I’m watching Jai Singh. My eyes are on him. Where he goes, I go. I suggest you do the same.” Shaista Khan looks at them severely, as though he truly believes what he has just said and now dares anyone to challenge him. Lightning snaps across the sky, and soon thunder shakes the still night air. The men look up; they’ve become so engrossed that they haven’t noticed the figures strolling toward them, dressed in silks pale as moonlight.
“Hush,” whispers Khurram as the figures mount the steps. The men straighten and try to strike casual poses.
 
 
It is Prince Dara walking toward them. Beside him, holding his arm, is a woman. The generals cannot help staring. For the woman wears no veil. Her face is naked for all to see. “Your mouth,” Shaista Khan whispers, for Ibrahim’s jaw has nearly reached his chest.
The prince, resplendent in silks and lace, his turban decked with emerald peacock feathers, nods to the woman. She glances at the men for
a moment, then looks away. “Gentlemen,” Dara says with his sophisticated smile, “I think you know my wife, the princess Ranadil.”
One by one, the generals manage to steal their eyes from Ranadil’s pale, exquisite face, and bow, Ibrahim the deepest and longest of all. Shaista Khan sees that her fingers are curled so tight around Prince Dara’s arm that her nails are white. Dara nods, pats his wife’s anxious hand, and the two of them begin a slow stroll along the balcony.
“By the Almighty, she is lovely. I had no idea!” Khurram whispers.
“I can’t believe what I have seen,” Ibrahim gasps. “Do they have no shame?”
“Women—” Khurram starts to say, but Ibrahim interrupts.
“It wasn’t her idea! You could see that. He forced her! He put her on display! Naked! I have made up my mind, friends. I can’t bear the shame of having that depravity sitting on the Peacock Throne. Whatever may come, I will support Aurangzeb.”
“I hope for your sake Jai Singh feels the same,” Shaista Khan replies.
Ibrahim nods. “I agree, Shaista Khan. Jai Singh is key. But that makes me think: Why not Jai Singh for emperor? He at least has honor. He has dignity. And despite his religion, he is a moral man. His wives at least are covered. He understands such things. He has military power. And most important: as a politician he is a mere child. We would install him as a figurehead. The real power”—here Ibrahim glances to either side—“would be elsewhere.”
“I don’t like the idea of a Hindu emperor,” Khurram replies.
“What do you think Dara would be?” Shaista Khan snaps. “That whelp is more Hindu than Jai Singh.” He looks into Ibrahim’s dark face. “It’s time we generals did some thinking on our own.”
“Yes, I agree,” Khurram says. “Jai Singh then … Or maybe … one of us?”
“Not I,” Ibrahim says quickly.
“Nor I,” agrees Shaista Khan.
“I did not mean myself, my friends,” Khurram adds hurriedly, hoping that their memories are short.
 
 
On ponies they ride across the mountains, drenched by the elephant rains, twenty-five riders in a broken line: Jyoti and Maya in the middle; Hanuman behind them; Lakshman, Tanaji with others in front. Jyoti turns in her saddle to see Shivaji far to the rear. Beside her rides the
farang
from the temple, the one with the copper hair and those strange, catlike eyes.
Now as they reach the final pass, the rain subsides. The ponies, glad for the sudden break from the monsoon, shake their heads. Water droplets flip from their manes. The riders have packages wrapped in wax cloth tied to their saddles: flat, narrow, sharp at the ends. Bows, Jyoti realizes. Bows and arrows.
Just then Hanuman rides up. “That’s Poona back there,” he says. “You can just see the place the river bends—not much else … In front of us, that’s Welhe: that’s where we’re going. Well, not you two, I suppose.”
Jyoti notices that he is dripping from head to foot, and that there are tiny spots of mud on his nose, and she finds herself wondering how she must look to him. Frightful, she thinks. Her eyes linger on his face and she turns aside, embarrassed. Why hasn’t he married? she wonders, and finds herself looking at his profile instead of at the fort he is pointing to.
“That’s Torna.” He points to a ragged piece of stone on the knifelike edge of a mountain nearby. “A little fort, very pretty inside. A good place for picnics. But I wouldn’t want to be there in the rains.”
“Is it Shivaji’s fort?” Maya asks.
“Shivaji’s fort?” Hanuman frowns. “Sort of … it was Shahji’s; his father’s I mean. And Shivaji is Shahji’s heir, so … it’s complicated … .”
Maya asks, “How can everything about Shivaji be so complicated? Is it his fort? It’s a simple question.”
“Well, it’s supposed to be. That’s the treaty: Shivaji is to get back the forts when he comes of age. But what’s Shivaji supposed to do? Walk up to Torna gate and knock? Hello, may I now have my fort back, please?”
“What about Shahji? Can’t he do anything?”
“He lives in Bijapur and he’s married to the sultana’s niece. He’s a big general now—ten thousand horse, I hear. What’s he going to do? Shahji made his deal. Now he just wants a nice life.” All too soon the rain returns. Raindrops large as marbles, pounding them like hammers. Jyoti pulls a waxcloth cape around her, but it does no good.
Suddenly the road dives into the dense foliage of the mountain forest. The smell of wet ground and wet leaves hangs dense around them. Water pours down as if from buckets, collected into thick streams by the canopy of leaves above them. They ride in single file, and water sheets down the path so fast it looks like the rapids of a small river. Mud and pebbles mingle in the stream and rattle against the hooves of the ponies.
 
 
God, I’d give anything for a map, thinks O’Neil. What had Da Gama told him? There’s not a map to be found in Hindustan unless a
farang
draws it. And never has O’Neil wanted a map more than today.
O’Neil remembers him often these days: Da Gama, his mentor, now dead, that the Hindis called Deoga. Hindustan is paradise and Hindustan is hell, Da Gama had told him. O’Neil is still waiting to find paradise. He had always imagined hell as a place of fire and heat, but perhaps hell is a mud-slick mountainside beaten with rain, where you ride a feeble pony that seems ready to somersault down the side.
Through the rain, O’Neil sees Bala riding just ahead. What a treasure Bala is, he thinks. To have found a man such as Bala in Maharashtra: one with connections, intelligence, humor, and best of all, a man who speaks Persian.
If what Bala had told O’Neil were true, there is a very different situation in Hindustan than the picture painted by the Moguls.
At the dharmsala—the night Da Gama died, he reminds himself, the night his life changed utterly—O’Neil had begun to puzzle over Shivaji’s
story. Da Gama had scoffed at him: “For Hindi there’s no difference between the truth and a lie. Never believe anything they say.”
But he had heard something momentous. A Hindu general. Hindu tribes arming themselves and rebelling. Taking forts and raising armies.
In the pictures drawn by the Persian-speaking Mogul tradewallahs, no such conflicts were revealed. Oh, there were hints of difficulties between the Moguls and Bijapur and Golconda, but the tradewallahs acted as though such conflicts were the minor adjustments required when great nations danced in exquisite unison.
But with Bala’s help, O’Neil was learning that the tradewallahs from these different groups were colluding: presenting a unified front to the
farangs,
setting high prices and miserable terms.
What O’Neil has learned may make him rich.
He understands much better the importance of those forts around him. He must have seen half a dozen in the fifty miles between Ahmednagar and Poona. Bala says that there are a dozen more in these hills as well.
Control those forts and you control the trade routes to the sea.
That was why Bijapur was so ready to negotiate with an upstart Hindu chieftain: By taking just a few forts, Shahji had a stranglehold on Bijapur.
Also Bala told him that although Bijapur has manned those forts, their garrisons are dwindling and complacent.
O’Neil looks at the riders around him. He has seen the vast armies of Bijapur: the war elephants, the camels and the horses, the hordes of Abyssinian mercenaries. Hard to believe that Shahji had taken riders like these up against such forces, harder still to believe that they had won.
What stops from Shivaji from doing the same? What does he need—money? Guns? The factors in Surat can provide these things and more. Confidence? Perhaps O’Neil can provide that, too.
For there is treasure to be had here. Treasure that the tradewallahs don’t even realize they own, like those vast forests of teak on the road to Poona.
Though the factors had asked about teak—the best wood for building boats and worth a fortune—the tradewallahs said they had none; not even the Bijapuris had mentioned those forests. Thanks to Bala, O’Neil now begins to understand: these teak forests officially still belong to Shahji. Or perhaps Shivaji. In any case, no one now has outright title.
Perhaps it’s time for Shivaji to stake his claim.
He peers through the misty shadow to the tall form of Shivaji riding at the rear. He might do it, O’Neil thinks. With my help, he might.
God, I’d give anything for a map!
 
 
By the time they reach the temple gates there is hardly light enough to see. The temple wall, covered by dense, big-leafed vines, looks to Jyoti like a shaggy shadow. Beyond it, she can see the dark suggestions of temple domes rising into the air.
A man in a dark cloak, comes up to Jyoti, takes the pony’s bridle, and leads her up to the temple. Another man from the temple is guiding Maya the same way. While the riders dismount, their guides lead Maya and Jyoti toward some nearby buildings. Four tall temples stand there, with a stone platform connecting them; raised above the platform is a makeshift canopy made from long bolts of waxcloth. The cloth slaps in the wet breeze, but most of the platform is dry.
While Jyoti and Maya dismount, a big, burly man with a wide nose and a gray-flecked mustache, stands up from the small dung fire. He
namskars
long and low, as though they are royalty, and looks out at them with eyes serious and sad. “We heard you two were coming. Well, now you’re here. We’ll find the
shastri
and get you settled. Was the ride hard?”
Jyoti and Maya look at each other in some confusion. The man is strong, tough, his turban messy. Something about him reminds Jyoti of Tanaji. “It was very wet, sir. Two days ride in constant rain, sir,” Jyoti replies.
“Two days, eh? Then you made good time, across those hills in this weather.” With this observation the man has apparently run out of things to say. His face begins to sag with the strain of being polite. It strikes Jyoti why this man reminds her of Tanaji: He’s a warrior, she thinks.
Then Jyoti becomes aware of a familiar sound coming from one of the temples: drumbeats, and the shaking of dozens of tiny bells.
“Do you hear it?” Maya asks Jyoti. Jyoti nods.
The man waves toward one of the temples behind them. “Oh, that racket goes on all day. It should stop soon, gods be praised.”
“Dancing?” Maya asks softly.
“Yes, yes. Bloody dancing. Damned girls racing everywhere.” Maya is about to speak when the man looks up and begins to curse. “Who let you in here!” he shouts. “This means your death, you bastard!”
“My death! Shit! It’s I who have come to finish you off, captain!”
Jyoti huddles against Maya as the men square off.
“Iron!” says Tanaji, grasping his shoulders and laughing. “You’ve gotten old and flabby. Maybe I should start to call you Rust now, instead of Iron.”
“I can still take you, any time, captain. Just try me.” Laughing, Iron looks at the others. “Who is this? It can’t be Shahu?”
“Yes, uncle. It is good to see you once more.”
Iron shakes his head. “You were this big. How’s your father?”
“I don’t see him, uncle,” Shivaji replies without a hint of emotion.
Iron blinks, then shrugs. “No, no, of course not. He was a great man.”
Iron studies Shivaji’s face as if he is looking for something, some mark, some sign. It’s not clear whether he sees it. “That new dancing guru keeps making a fuss about your coming. Says you’re a marked man, Shahu. Said I could see it for myself.” He frowns. “I don’t see anything.”
While Iron greets Hanuman and Lakshman, and is just telling Tanaji how big those sons of his have grown, a shout goes up from one of the temples—a chorus of high-pitched children’s voices. “Oh, gods,” Iron groans. “Lesson’s over. Here they come.” From behind the farthest temple a stream of girls in bright dresses comes running. Iron shakes his head resignedly.
“Is that the dancing school, then?” Tanaji asks.
Maya follows the girls with her eyes until every one of them has ducked into a doorway. Then she sees one last form emerge—but as Maya watches through the veils of rain, she sees that this one wears a sari instead of a dress, and moves with labored steps, and her long hair is white. Maya’s eyes grow wide, and she lifts her hand to her mouth as though she fears to speak.
A gray-haired woman appears, wearing a dark wax cloth cloak. “The guru has sent me to fetch the women,” she says.
The woman nods impatiently for them to follow and leads them toward a low house full of lights. Jyoti looks back. Hanuman smiles at her as if to say goodbye.
“Tell me, sister,” Maya whispers to their guide. “What is the guru’s name?”
“You don’t know?” the woman sneers. “Her name is Gungama.”
“Mother!” Maya gasps.
 
 
“Where is everyone, Iron?” Tanaji asks. “The place seems deserted. Where are the
shastri
and the brahmins? Isn’t there some sort of dancing school? All I see around here are your people.”
“Ah, the dancing school. Those girls will be the death of me! All day long, it’s all you can hear, the
clack
of their drums, and that damned guru yelling. Then when they stop it’s worse! Little girls, running around, running and shouting and never a moment’s peace!”
“You never married, did you, Iron?” Tanaji asks, his eyes sparkling.
“Eh? What about it?” He glares at Tanaji. “It’s a festival, that’s where they all are. The festival of the mother, so naturally those girls will make a big deal about it, here at a Bhavani temple. Running around, doing heaven knows what. They’ll be in the main temple soon, I suppose. It’s
purnima
, the full moon, so they’ll be singing
kirtan
all night.”
“The crow’s baby is a big deal to the crow,” Tanaji agrees.
“I don’t mean to make it sound so bad,” Iron says, looking embarrassed. “It’s nice, if you don’t mind a little noise. People like dancing, right?” He says this as though such a thought would never cross a soldier’s mind. “Even so, it hurts me to bring you to this place, but under the circumstances it seemed best. I didn’t know where else to put you.”
The flames of the dung fire glint golden on the dark faces of the tired men. “I thought I’d bring you to my place in Welhe,” Iron continues. “It’s just a run-down shack compared to yours, Shahu.” This raises a few chuckles; Iron’s compound is elegant. “The rains started a week ago. After the rains had fallen for five days and nights without stopping, I heard a pounding on my gates, a big ruckus. When I got to the door, what did I see?
“There in my courtyard was Hamzadin, the captain of the garrison at Torna fort, and around him maybe thirty men, the bunch of them looking like drowned rats. He was polite, but his eyes were crazy.
“He wanted me to put them up! Him and his men! So much rain up there on the mountain they couldn’t stand it anymore! He had a near mutiny, so Hamzadin decided to bring everyone to town where there maybe was a dry blanket and a dry floor.”

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