Tiger Claws (39 page)

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Authors: John Speed

BOOK: Tiger Claws
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“I missed you,” Jyoti replies, gliding toward him.
“Jyoti,” Hanuman whispers as her graceful form emerges from the fog. “You’re drunk,” he laughs as she comes closer.
“Not so drunk,” she answers.
She places her hand against him, tracing a soft trail down his chest. His
skin seems to vibrate along her finger’s path. Then she turns away, stepping slowly into the silver fog. She walks as though she knows just where she wants to go; he can sense her hips shifting with each step.
Amidst the roses and night-blooming jasmine grows an enormous mango tree, its fog-wet foliage spreading over the garden like a canopy. Jyoti steps onto a wide board swing, its long ropes tied to a high branch. She flexes like a reed, pushing the swing into a slow arc .
“Swing me,” she says to Hanuman.
In the dark he finds the pulling line attached to the seat, and he tugs. She begins to giggle. He pulls harder, and she starts to moan, and now as she sweeps past him in a breathless arc, she shrieks out his name with terror and delight, begging him to stop. He has her flying now; soaring up till her face nearly presses against the sky, weightless, suspended; then a sudden backward dive, swinging until she stops in midair, staring straight down into emptiness; then plummeting forward again.
“You like it!” he says as she swings past him.
“Yes!” she laughs, abandoning herself. That word explodes in Hanuman’s ears. He leaps up on the swing himself, standing with her face-to-face, pressed against her.
She laughs, and then with unexpected boldness lifts her face to quickly brush his lips with hers. Before he can react, she leans back and begins to pump the swing. “Don’t just stand there,” she teases. His hands press against hers on the soft ropes. The swing is soaring. Above them the great branch groans against the ropes. Water shakes from the rain-soaked leaves, sprinkling them and the ground below. “Stop,” Jyoti cries at last, her face just inches from his.
Before they stop, she has wrapped one of her legs around him, and he has pressed one hand against her breast. She grazes his chest and neck and ears with her soft lips. Her breath stirs against his skin. The swing twists slowly underneath them.
As she feels him press against her, as she feels his urgent breath against her ear, as she shivers when he pulls aside her blouse and traces the soft flesh of her shoulders with his tongue, as she holds him close and whispers to him “yes,” she thinks she sees—amidst all this, she thinks she sees—a shadow in the fog.
Like a black wolf, she thinks, or a wild dog.
A strange dog. A dog with one eye only; one eye gleaming in the dark; one eye shining in the mist; one eye hidden in the shadows.
But maybe it is nothing, she thinks. Soon she is too absorbed to care.
 
 
Shivaji wakes with a start, his heart pounding. Something’s near him, close. In the darkness he can hear breathing, not the warm long breath of the animals; softer, shallower. Closer. He reaches for his
katar
. It’s gone! And his belt, gone! “Who’s there? Speak!” he croaks out.
An old man, naked but for a gunny rag hanging from his shoulder, peers from the shadows. “Ram Das?” Shivaji asks.
“You remembered! How auspicious!” the old man says.
“Am I dreaming?”
“The exact question you should ask! Are you dreaming? Exactly!” This strikes Ram Das as hilarious. He cackles, until he begins to cough. “They’re celebrating your victory, lord.” Ram Das continues, “I’ve come to add my congratulations. I have a present for you.” Ram Das leans close to Shivaji, and taking one of his hands in his dry, knotted fingers, presses something into his palm.
“What is it? Tiger claws?”
Ram Das cackles again. “No, not tiger claws; not
wagnak,
lord, not yet. Not yet. Not yet, but soon. Not tiger claws just yet. What do you think it is? Humor your child! Guess again!”
Shivaji tries to think what’s in his hand. “It’s something hard.”
“Sometimes hope is hard, lord. Yes, that’s my gift: hope. Hope in the palm of your hand.” Ram Das folds Shivaji’s fist tight with his dry old fingers. “Don’t look until tomorrow. Promise me that.”
“Why?”
“Maybe the gift will disappear if you disobey. Maybe it’s the silly request of an old man. Maybe it’s your duty to humor your servant. Maybe it’s the way of the gods.”
“Maybe I’m dreaming.”
“Maybe,” Ram Das says. “But soon those dreams will end.”
The light gutters out suddenly, and just as suddenly Shivaji feels only emptiness where Ram Das was standing.
 
 
The party is in tatters after the murder, and cannot be resurrected. Despite all of Iron’s shouted commands people leave. Trelochan, the
shastri
from Poona, finds himself walking to his room in the company of Jedhe, Bandal, and Tukoji. They had met at the party and discovered many mutual friends.
“You’ve known him a long time, Trelochan,” Jedhe says. “What do you think Shivaji will do, now he has a fort of his very own?”
“Well, he’s bound by his oath, isn’t he?” Trelochan replies.
“What oath?” Jedhe asks.
Trelochan realizes he has said too much. “Perhaps you should ask him yourself.”
But Tukoji stands stock still. “I would hear of this oath, brahmin.” The fog presses against them, damp and cool.
“It was a night much like this.” Gathering momentum as he speaks, Trelochan spins the tale: he was one of five: along with Shahu, Lakshman, Balaji, and Hanuman. One night seven years before Shivaji had led them to the edge of the campfires of a Mogul caravan. At midnight, beneath a crescent moon, a greenish fog appeared. Soon the whole camp fell into a deathlike sleep. The boys filled sack after sack with Mogul gold. Through it all the sleepers never moved. The green fog swirled around them.
At last they rode eastward in the dim light of the misty moon. At dawn they reached the Ganesha temple at Ranjangaon. Shivaji led them to the
murti
of the goddess. “Here is our benefactress,” he said at last. One by one they took Bhavani’s darshan, and placed their treasure at her feet. Then they lay prostrate before the
murti.
“Maybe I was tired, uncle,” Trelochan says, “maybe I had started to dream. He stood at the goddess’s right hand, and I thought I saw a crown of fire on Shahu’s head. I thought his hair was burning.”
Trelochan’s eyes are far away. “He held his naked sword. The morning sun poured down upon him. He bade us each stand up and grasp that sword with him. I thought the blade would cut me.”
Tukoji lifts his chin. “Is there a point to this story?”
Trelochan ignores him, lost in memory. “When we held the sword, Shahu called out an oath. It was glorious: to free our homeland from the Muslim kings, to live once more as free men in the land of our fathers.” Trelochan’s face fills with light. “One by one we took that oath, and kissed the hem of Bhavani’s garment. She wore green that day, light green, light as air, the color of the fog we’d seen by moonlight.”
Trelochan speaks softly. “Shahu’s sword was sharp. His hands were bleeding—you can still see the scars on his palms—white, like the scars that Indra gets from throwing lightning bolts. They still call Shahu ‘Master Bhisma’ at that temple, lord. After the great prince Bhisma, the one who took that terrible oath in ancient times. Remember him? The gods rained flowers on his head.”
“That oath, if I recall correctly,” Tukoji replies dryly, “was an oath of celibacy. Was it not? The name of Bhisma hardly suits Shivaji.” Tukoji frowns. “Why, Shivaji has done no more than swear revenge for his father’s failure. He’s wrapped his schemes in the skirts of the goddess. Hardly the sort of act the gods applauded by dropping flowers from heaven.”
“If you say so, lord,” Trelochan replies quietly.
 
 
Shivaji wakes again, but this time the stable is lit by the light of dawn. Hanuman leans against the wheel of the bullock cart, his head bare and his dark hair hanging around his shoulders. “Did you get a nice sleep, Shahu?” Hanuman asks.
“Yes, fine,” Shivaji answers. “I notice you got very little sleep.”
Hanuman turns away, embarrassed but pleased. “Go get some breakfast, Shahu. I’ll stand guard.” As he rises, Hanuman notices that Shivaji’s fingers are folded tight against his palm. “What’s in your hand, Shahu?”
“I don’t know,” Shivaji answers, extending his hand toward Hanuman. On his palm rest four small jagged rocks.
Hanuman shrugs. “Three rocks, cousin. This one is a just a clod of dried earth. You must have been sleepwalking. Where did you pick them up?” Hanuman nods to the stable around them. “There are no rocks around here like these. These are basalt, Shahu; like they use to build forts.”
“Are they?” Shivaji examines them. Three rocks and a clod of earth. His face looks resolute, as if he’s come to a great decision. “I’m going to Poona. Today. I have much work to do.”
“Today? Taking the gold, Shahu?”
“Oh, yes, Hanuman. And much more than the gold.” He stares fascinated at the stones in his hand. “This is a sign, cousin,” he whispers, as he clenches his hand so tightly his fist begins to shake. “I’m taking hope.”
 
 
Something was happening.
Something powerful hovered over the Rang Mahal, over the compound, over all the city of Poona. She could feel it, and long ago she had learned to trust her feelings.
Sai Bai had felt it ever since Shivaji had returned, driving into the compound seated on an old bullock cart, Trelochan in the back with Lakshman—poor Lakshman!—and Tanaji riding his pony behind them all, looking more anxious than she had ever seen.
Well, of course he would look anxious, wouldn’t he? Seeing his son’s face destroyed must have been hard enough—but now he would have to face Nirmala. How to tell his wife that her son had been hurt?
Nirmala, of course, had found out, and in the hardest of ways: she had run outside to greet them both and seen her son’s face covered by bandages. Then the wailing had started, and the weeping. Soon Nirmala’s cries had awakened the whole compound.
Sai Bai herself had raced across the courtyard barefoot. She had kissed his face right there in front of everyone. Let them talk. Let Jijabai scowl. I’m his wife! I’ll kiss him if I please. He had kissed her right back—how long had it been since that happened? She could feel his lips on her cheek. It had been worth it! The hell with them all!
That night he had come to her room—how long had it been since that had happened? Oh my, they had hardly slept. Wonderful, wonderful, she
thought. Later, while he snored, she wondered: What happened in Welhe? Maya had been there. Friend or no friend, she was a nautch girl. He was a man. And Sai Bai knows Shivaji’s nature all too well.
The next morning she first noticed that strange uneasy feeling. Like the breeze that comes hours before a storm: Shivaji’s talks with Dadaji that grew into arguments; Tanaji bursting from Shahu’s room, swearing as he stormed down the stairs. Others felt it, too. No one said hello anymore, or stopped to chat. Servants clutched their saris tight around them as they hurried past.
Messengers galloped off each day, secrets stuffed into their saddlebags. Where were they going? Then soldiers started to appear. Some she had seen before; when they had been dressed like farmers or goatherds and their smiles had been easy. But now they rode in looking grim, carrying weapons—swords and maces, spears and bows. Tanaji would greet them.
Just as suddenly as the soldiers began to arrive, the masons departed. The wall was done, the servants had told her, for now of course she scarcely saw her husband. All those months and now the wall was finished! Dadaji, grumbling all the while, had paid extra for early completion. Dozens of new masons had arrived from Rajastan to help complete the job.
Then she heard that the masons had come not simply to finish the wall, but for a different job entirely: on a mountain near Welhe, Shahu was rebuilding Bhatghar, an old fort, given by his cousin. Bhatghar and Torna. The servants said it had been in ruins, scarcely more than a clod of earth, but soon it would be grand again.
Torna. Bhatghar. Two forts, she thought. Her heart broke when she heard it. Two would only be a taste. He’d want more.
She came upon Jijabai one night, on the verandah, staring out at the moon. “You feel it, daughter, don’t you?” Jijabai had asked her. Calling her “daughter”—how long had it been since that had happened?
“I don’t know what I’m feeling, mother.”
Jijabai turned to her, and Sai Bai grew frightened to see the coldness in her eyes. “You feel war, Sai Bai, the coming of war. Just as you hear the drone of locusts before they hatch, you hear now the drone of coming sorrow. Death gathers in the sky like clouds. The scent of blood hangs in the air. Soon we shall be sad. Our hands will be red with the blood of our men.” The old woman stared at her for a while, until Sai Bai felt that Jijabai was staring through her, seeing the flames of war fires and bodies broken on the field, the air thick with smoke and the heavy stink of blood.
Back in her room Sai Bai, filled with dark thoughts, rocked on her bed until Shahu came. She forgot all her anguish in his arms. I must be fickle, Sai Bai thought, to be so easily distracted.
He had started coming to her every night. What had got into him?
When the dawn came, even though he was gone, she felt restored. But she hated seeing Jijabai. Instead of her tantrums, which Sai Bai had learned to bear, Jijabai bore those haunted, widow’s eyes.
The evil eye, a maid had told her. She gave Sai Bai an amulet and a mantra to whisper whenever Jijabai came by.
The city grew busier each day, drawing activity to its heart the way a carcass draws flies. Horses arrived and horsemen—Tanaji built hasty pens and stables near the palace—and with them came soldiers on foot, training loudly all day outside the compound walls.
And soon came cooks, and tailors, and tent-makers, and whores. And weapon makers too: smiths of all sorts, caravans of smiths. Hammers clanged all day and half the night, and the air stunk with the smoke from the forges. And farriers arrived, and fletchers, and armorers and saddle-makers and all the rest.
War.
War crept from the ground like locusts. Soon Sai Bai felt its terror continually—it only paused when Shivaji’s arms were wrapped around her. But even then she feared for his life, and for the life of her son; sometimes she feared even for her own.
And when he wore that sword—which now meant constantly—that gauntlet sword the nautch girl gave him, she wondered again about Welhe, what might have happened between them. She forced herself to imagine him and Maya twined in congress—then she would find a hidden place and weep.
Then one day he left. Gone on an errand so secret he could not tell even her. “But you told Tanaji,” she said, as tears spilled from her eyes. “You told Dadaji. You won’t tell me, your own wife? I may never see you again!”
“I will always return for you.”
“Someday you won’t return,” she cried. Later she regretted that those had been the last words she said as he rode away.
 
 
Later, Trelochan had come to see her. He told her that Shivaji had received a message from the gods. But he started talking about rocks and a clod of earth, and Sai Bai stopped listening.
 
 
Three days later, Shivaji rides into the courtyard. Sai Bai runs out, her sandals splashing in puddles. She doesn’t care. He’s back.
While she serves him breakfast, he tells her how the monsoon rains still pour in the western ghats; how the birds flop on the wet ground of the forests with wings too wet to fly; how clouds billow and fall down the mountainsides obscuring everything.
As he says all this, she nods as if she’s happy to hear more, but she longs for him to cease. His words trouble her, and there are better uses for his lips. She takes a deep breath and makes up her mind to tell him this, when Dadaji steps in. “Ah, Shahu, you’ve come back! What news?”
Too late. He’s gone now. And all day long she’ll only have her yearning for the night to come.
 
 
Tanaji looks around the circle of men seated in Dadaji’s room. He can’t believe that things have come to this.
Tanaji scowls as once again the young
shastri
Trelochan gazes moon-eyed at Shivaji. Since Shivaji’s return from Welhe, with his story of the holy man and his gift of pebbles, Trelochan has gone mad. Trelochan thinks the story proves Shivaji’s destiny. And now even Shivaji appears to believe it.
Shivaji has brought them here to listen to his latest fantasy. Something about bribing a Bijapuri commander to hand over Singhaghad fort. He wants to use the Bijapuri gold to buy the fort. Of course Trelochan laps it up. It all adds up to a pile of horseshit. “You can’t trust a Bijapuri, Shahu! Especially not a Bijapuri traitor!”
“You can when the price is right, Tanaji,” Dadaji says. “This commander has been offering us Singhaghad fort for many months. He’s serious. For one lakh hun, I think he may be trusted.” Tanaji scowls, but before he can speak, Dadaji dives back in: “I’ve never known a Bijapuri to walk away from a deal when actual gold was involved.”
“But the transfer! The transfer is dangerous! What’s to stop him from taking the money and then refusing to hand over the fort?” asks Tanaji.
Shivaji shrugs. “I don’t think he’s smart enough to be dangerous.”
“Hell, I’m not smart, but I’m dangerous. If that commander’s not smart, that’s all the more reason for concern—ask yourself: How did a stupid man come to be commander of Singhaghad?”
“Tanaji is right. The transfer is the moment of danger. The method must be foolproof,” Dadaji says. “But what about the price? Is it worth one lakh hun to get Singhaghad?”
“Without a drop of blood, yes!” Trelochan pipes up. Tanaji rolls his eyes. Now brahmins have military opinions.
“We don’t need another fort!” Tanaji bursts out. “Why do you suddenly need forts, Shahu?”
“You heard Shahu’s story, uncle,” Trelochan says, practically bubbling. “Four stones, four forts—”
“I know, I know, I know,” Tanaji interrupts. “And one of them needs repair, and one of the stones was a clod of earth, and on and on and on.” He pulls on his mustache for fear he’ll start to scream. “I can’t believe we’re basing policy on some stones Shahu found in his hand!”
But Trelochan can’t contain himself. “Four stones, uncle! Each stone represents a fort. The clod of earth is for Bhatghar, which Shivaji is fortifying even now. It is a sacred sign! When the gods speak …”
“Four forts?” Tanaji glares from face to face, making sure he gets each man’s attention. “So where’s fort number four, eh,
shastri
? We’re about to pay a fortune for a fort, and now you’re practically guaranteeing that we’ll attack yet another fort, just to make the prophecy come true!” Tanaji lifts his hands, appealing to Dadaji. “Is this how we make policy these days, Dada? Some crazy man shits in my hand, and therefore I need to attack Agra?”
“It’s Shahu’s gold, Tanaji. He must decide how to use it, not I,” Dadaji replies.
Tanaji bristles. “Let’s talk about whose gold it is. Who found it, eh? Who bled for it?”
“Shahu bled as much as anybody, uncle,” Trelochan answers, for Shivaji again is looking down, his hands open, palms in his lap.
“Lost an eye, did he? Nearly get himself strangled, did he?”
“Shahu was shot, wasn’t he? Doesn’t that count for something, uncle?”
“If you want the money, Tanaji, take it,” Shivaji says softly.
“Fine!” Tanaji replies angrily. “Fine! I will take it!”
Dadaji clucks his tongue. “There, there, Tanaji; control yourself. Shivaji, this does not become you.”
“It’s not your money, Shahu!” Trelochan insists. “It’s a gift from the gods! You are only its caretaker!”
“Those huns came from Bijapur, not from the gods,” Tanaji scowls.
“How can you be so blind, old fool,” Trelochan shouts back. “The gods are here among us—they are shaping our destinies!” He is too caught
up in his fervor to see the frowns of the others. “Why did Shahu succeed at Torna? The goddess sent him a sign, a dream! Five men, taking Torna? Don’t you see that was divine intervention? With no deaths … with only a little blood …”
“More than a little,” Tanaji growls.
“And then the gold, appearing out of nowhere!” Tanaji gasps, but Trelochan rattles on. “The gold, coming with the sign of the stones! It can only mean one thing! The gold must be dedicated to fulfilling the sign!”
“The sign, the sign! I’ve heard enough!” Tanaji stands. “Shahu, don’t tell me you really believe this horseshit.”
After a long pause, Shivaji looks up. “Tanaji is right. I’ve been a fool.”
“No!” Trelochan cries.
“Don’t stop him, now that he’s starting to make sense,” Tanaji says.
“Shahu, don’t be foolish!” Trelochan begs.
“It seems I’m a fool no matter what I say,” Shivaji replies.
Dadaji gives Shivaji’s shoulder a shove. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Shahu. Didn’t you know this day would come? I am ashamed to hear you talking about signs and stones. What difference do they make to a man? Don’t turn your back on your destiny.”
“You don’t believe in the stones, Dadaji?” Trelochan asks.
“Those stones are horseshit,
shastri
. That far I agree with Tanaji. But if they inspire Shivaji to fulfill his birthright, who cares if they’re horseshit?”
He takes Shivaji’s hand. It is an unexpectedly emotional gesture, for Dadaji is the most formal of men. “Shahu, look around you. The walls of the city are complete. You’ve taken back Torna, and you’re fortifying Bhatghar. Singhaghad is in your grasp. It is your destiny to succeed where your father failed. I’ve known that, Jijabai has known that.” Dadaji then looks into Shivaji’s eyes. “Those men outside our gates—the army that’s massing here. Do you think a single man there believes that crappy sign? Do you think they came to fight because of four black stones?”
“No,” Shivaji says. “But they might have come for gold.”

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