Tiger Claws (21 page)
Authors: John Speed
“She is Bhavani? Bhavani, yes?” Shivaji asks as if he hadn’t heard. He points to the temple where O’Neil met the rag man, the temple with the dark green statue of some goddess.
Bloody hell, no, O’Neil wants to say, she’s not some bloody cow idol, it’s the Virgin bloody Mary. But Shivaji is waving for Tanaji to come look.
Tanaji stares at it. Then he folds the medal in his hands and brings it to his forehead.
“Har, har, mahadev,”
he whispers.
“Har, har, mahadev,”
he whispers.
This reaction confuses O’Neil. He gently takes his medal from Tanaji. Somehow the Virgin’s face has changed: dark now, dark green, except for the eyes; there the untarnished silver shines bright. Even O’Neil is reminded of the dark green idol in the temple. He stares at the dark face of Mary for a long time. It’s just some bloody kind of tarnish, he thinks.
“It’s a sign,” Tanaji whispers. Shivaji closes his eyes and nods.
It’s no bloody sign, O’Neil thinks. But at the same time he looks up at the two men. The golden glow of sunset touches their faces, highlighting their features. They seem to him noble, like kings of ancient times. It seems that he has known them all his life, maybe many lifetimes.
Bloody hell, I’m thinking like a bloody Hindi myself. He looks at the scapular and it changes before his eyes: now the Blessed Virgin, now the idol goddess. She is that same one, the rag man said.
O’Neil shakes his head. If he were home, if he were with his friends, he’d know how to deal with this nonsense. But home is half a world away. Now Hindustan is his home. Now these must be his friends.
Who can understand her ways? the rag man said.
He folds the medal between his hands, and raises it to his forehead as he saw Shivaji and Tanaji do. The last red rays of the setting sun bathe them in light like fire.
“Har, har, mahadev,”
he says, deciding.
“Har, har, mahadev,”
he says, deciding.
They had left Ranjangaon temple in the dim light of dawn: Maya and her maid Jyoti hidden under blankets in the old oxcart; Shivaji and Tanaji dressed like farmers, walking beside. Now the sun lifts higher; the air warms and the shadows lessen. It’s breakfast time, and Tanaji is hungry. They stop at a small food hut near the road.
Tanaji loves places like this: good country people cooking good country food. No seats, no tables, just a fireplace and a packed-dirt verandah: beneath a rush roof, the floor freshly polished to a dark, translucent green with the cow dung slurry.
The men wash in a nearby basin. Soon Jyoti and Maya join them. They sit together on the green floor. Tanaji orders chapatis for everyone. Wheat chapatis.
Looking at his farmer’s clothes, the woman raises an eyebrow.
Bakri
chapatis, she suggests. Wheat, Tanaji insists. And
dahi.
Bakri
chapatis, she suggests. Wheat, Tanaji insists. And
dahi.
He has to put some coins in front of him before she is convinced.
“Are you going to take that from her, uncle?” Jyoti demands. “She has insulted you!”
“What do you want to me to do?” Tanaji replies. “We’ll all get along better if you deal with your business and leave me to deal with mine.”
“You are her business,” Maya puts in. Her voice reminds Tanaji of tamarind, that tastes at once both sour and sweet. “She is my maid, and you are my keepers.”
Tanaji takes a long look at Maya. It’s only been a day, but she looks so different now. She wears a sari the color of yellow roses, traced with vines of green. Her eyes are brighter, lighter, clear amber flecked with gold. Her dark hair catches the morning sunlight.
“Please think of us as your hosts,” Shivaji says.
“If its soothes you, I will say so. But I now rely on you, don’t I? So your actions—are they not her business? If you wander off drunk, or get yourself killed, or even if you let any pissy old serving woman insult you, is that not her business?” Maya says all this calmly, holding Jyoti’s hand.
Tanaji squares his shoulders and fixes Maya with a cold eye. “Listen to me. I don’t know what sort of life you’ve been used to, but the new rules are these: You’ll do what you’re told and take what you’re given. And you,” he says to Jyoti, “will keep your thoughts to yourself.”
At that moment the chapatis arrive. The woman sets them down in a
stack on a rough clay plate, still steaming, and puts near them a bowl of fresh buffalo milk
dahi,
the curds firm and creamy white.
stack on a rough clay plate, still steaming, and puts near them a bowl of fresh buffalo milk
dahi,
the curds firm and creamy white.
“Best if you think of yourselves as our guests,” Shivaji says.
“Guests then,” Maya replies. “So may your guests inquire what plans you have for them?”
“We’re going to my home in Poona. There’s a guesthouse in our compound, and you’ll be welcome there. You’ll stay—as guests—until you can be returned to your proper home. We don’t mean to keep you at all.”
Maya considers this. What is she to think? She looks away again, a little frightened.
Jyoti can’t remember having been this far from home, from the temple where she has lived since she was a baby, where she worked for so many years beside her mother, where her mother’s ashes now lie scattered. She felt brave when she offered her services to Maya; but now outside the temple walls, seeing the new world she is entering, her heart beats like a bird’s.
She clutches Maya’s hand, and thinks of the story of the kidnapped bride Subhadra, gripping the silver railing of Prince Arjuna’s war chariot in ancient times, feeling the wind in her face as the prince raced from the pursuing armies of Krishna.
Jyoti talks when she is afraid. She asks if Maya likes stories, and without waiting, she starts to tell story after story: of love forbidden, of love requited. Maya sits against the rocking rickety rails of the oxcart, deep in thought. She cares nothing for love stories. She may seem young to have a heart so hard, but there it is. Love, she thinks, is the fool’s name for desire.
She knows about desire: not the desire of Jyoti’s stories, a gentle longing of heart for heart. Maya knows the essence of desire; knows it well: the fierce ragged beast that explodes through the quiet skin, yearning to possess, to hold, to own—the brutal hunger of the hands to grasp, of the tongue to lick, of the empty aching yoni to be filled.
Soon they reach a shallow ford where the Poona road crosses the river. Maya’s eyes dart along the heavy woods across the river. Jyoti is reciting the story of a queen exiled to the forest. Is that her fate as well? Oh gods, she thinks, How will it be, how will it be? Maybe I should run.
At least the forests had been cool. The trees growing in tangled profusion had muted their steps, their words. The gentle rocking of the oxcart had lulled the women to nap. But now there is no shade. The sun glares down, its light assaulting them. Their faces shine with sweat. The road weaves up and down over increasingly steep hills.
“Tell me where we are, uncle,” Maya calls to Tanaji.
“Close. Once we reach the top of this hill, we might even be able to see Poona.”
“Whose lands are these, uncle?”
“No one’s, now. Maybe his. Maybe he owns them, if anybody does,” he says, nodding to Shivaji, who has now fallen far behind them.
“Him, uncle … Shivaji?”
“Shahji, his father, conquered this territory. But he gave everything over to Bijapur when he made peace. Anyway, the Bijapuris wanted Shahji’s forts, but they didn’t give a shit about these old hills.” Tanaji hums to himself as if remembering. “This is where I brought Shivaji and my boys when he was on the run from the sultan. There’s lots of caves around here.”
“He gave them to Bijapur? To the sultana?” Maya asks.
“No, to her husband, the sultan who died. This was years ago, when Shivaji was a child. Hell, Shivaji probably killed him, spitting in his eye the way he did.” Tanaji laughs and answers Maya’s next question before she asks it. “No, he didn’t really spit. He just refused to bow to the sultan—then he turned his back on him when he left the
darbar.
Ten years old, and turning his back! Of course that put his father Shahji into a very unpleasant position. So he tried to make Shivaji apologize to the sultan.”
darbar.
Ten years old, and turning his back! Of course that put his father Shahji into a very unpleasant position. So he tried to make Shivaji apologize to the sultan.”
“And did he?” Maya asks, glancing behind her, where Shivaji walks through the dancing shadows of the trees.
“Him? Apologize? Of course not. He stole his father’s horse, instead. That’s right: He stole Shahji’s horse and rode it into the marketplace, and for good measure knocked down the butchers’ stands. Meat, you understand. Couldn’t bear the sight. He was so full of his mother’s notions then, you know—Hindus must not bow down to Muslims; Hindus don’t eat meat, like that. He was just a kid. But what a mess.” Tanaji glances back at Shivaji, and Maya realizes that he is looking not at a man, but at that boy. “So it fell to me to get him out of sight while Shahji and Dadaji tried to
square it with the sultan. In the meantime, there was a price on Shahu’s head. So this is where we hid,” Tanaji waves his arms to the horizon, “here in these old hills.”
square it with the sultan. In the meantime, there was a price on Shahu’s head. So this is where we hid,” Tanaji waves his arms to the horizon, “here in these old hills.”
At the crest, the road twists to the right, and suddenly the land drops off below them into a wide plain that stretches west as far as they can see. “It looks smooth, doesn’t it, like a big table,” Tanaji says.
“Like a dancing platform, uncle,” Maya replies, enjoying the vista.
“The Deccan plateau,” Tanaji explains. “Over there is Poona, where we’re going. And where you’re going—to Shahu’s palace. The Rang Mahal—the Painted Palace.”
Jyoti’s eyes grow wide to hear this. “A palace?”
“It’s just a house,” Shivaji says, suddenly drawing near them. “You’ll see it soon enough. I’m sure Maya has seen better.”
Tanaji nods to some distant mountains to the south. “We’re in Shivaji’s fief now. From here to … well, can you see the forts high on those hills over there? And there,” he adds pointing north. “From here, to there, to there—all this land is his.”
“This land is ours,” Shivaji says quietly, correcting him.
“But I thought Bijapur owns …” Maya’s voice trails off before she finishes the question.
Shivaji looks away. Tanaji answers for him, “Shahji made a deal with Bijapur, but they haven’t held up their end. So by rights …” Tanaji shrugs. “It’s complicated.”
Again Maya sees in Shivaji’s eyes the same fierce fire, but now burning even hotter, as though with his fief stretched out before him he is nearing the heart of his desire.
“It’s not complicated.” Shivaji turns to Tanaji, teeth clenched. “Bijapur has taken everything.”
“But, Shahu, we …” Then Tanaji stops, and hangs his head. An uncomfortable quiet falls as they stare at the bright lands that lie around them. Shivaji moves to the head of the procession, and Tanaji takes his cue and steps to the rear, and no one speaks a word.
The sun bakes the road. Shivaji, his shirt stained with sweat, reaches for the water jug, pouring a long draft into his mouth from above, and then splashing some over his face.
“Me, too,” Jyoti says, flirting. Shivaji lifts the jug over her head. She
drinks and then moves suddenly so the water pours onto her breasts, soaking them.
drinks and then moves suddenly so the water pours onto her breasts, soaking them.
Cow, thinks Maya. Is that what I shall have to do now? she wonders.
They start down the road again, but now Shivaji and Tanaji walk close together, far ahead, talking softly. Maya can’t hear what they’re saying.
“I wonder what they’re up to …,” she says to herself.
“Men are a mystery, mistress,” Jyoti says. And Maya notes that Jyoti is watching Shivaji as she says this. “He’s married,” she says, as if Jyoti doesn’t know this.
“But he’s a man, isn’t he?” She leans toward Maya.
“They say that he is very adept. They say that he is the master of a hundred different kinds of congress, and that he has seduced the wives of two hundred Muslim merchants.”
“Muslims?” Maya says aloud. “Surely not.”
“They say that. The women have not complained, they say, though their husbands beat them after. Many merchants want him dead.” She gives a mischevious look. “A wanted man. Wanted by the husbands, wanted by the wives. They say he paid for our temple with their love gifts. So do you think it matters that he’s married?”
“I forbid you to flirt with him, Jyoti,” Maya whispers. “It’s not right.”
Jyoti shrugs, and Maya bristles. It’s clear that Jyoti thinks she’s trying to keep Shivaji to herself. That isn’t true, Maya tells herself. But some part of her knows that Jyoti is right.
Despite herself, Maya finds her eyes again drifting toward Shivaji. Even when he is walking slowly so Tanaji and the bullock can keep up, an intense energy seems to pour from him, as though he might suddenly gallop off.
He’s a panther, Maya thinks: dark, graceful, full of coiled power. A panther in a cage. And if the cage should open …
“Dangerous,” Jyoti whispers. She gazes at Shivaji, neither cautiously or circumspectly. It’s embarrassing. Oh, gods, thinks Maya, am I as obvious as her?
The road snakes toward Poona. Now they see more signs of life: children driving water buffalo, cooking fires, mud farmers’ huts. The land is broken into neat squares, marked with stone fences.
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