Tiger Claws (37 page)

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Authors: John Speed

BOOK: Tiger Claws
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Iron’s face grows still and his eyes narrow. He glances carefully around him, then leans forward to whisper “You know what I think. I’ve sworn
wagnak
. I’ll kill the son of a bitch like a dog if I ever get the chance.”
Tukoji takes a long look at Iron. “Shall I tell you a secret? I checked your hands before I embraced you. After all, I too made peace with Bijapur, as Shahji did. Don’t you mean to kill me as well?”
Iron holds up his hands, spreading his fingers. “No tiger claws for you, old friend.”
“But why not, Iron? Am I not a traitor, just like Shahji?”
Iron dislikes thinking. He notes the signs of Tukoji’s prosperity: the stiff folds of his crisply pressed clothing, the heaviness of his turban, the breadth of his belly, the soft refinement of his hands. Iron feels ashamed to be sitting in his cotton jamas. “You made the best of the bad deal, as did I,” Iron says at last. “Once Shahji left us with our dicks flapping in the breeze, it was every man for himself. You made a deal—I made a deal. But that bastard Shahji left us both high and dry.”
“But what about the son? Kill the son and you’ll punish the father right enough.”
Iron shrugs. “Thought about it. Didn’t seem right somehow. The boy’s not so bad.”
“I heard he was a shit.”
“Maybe … I guess we’re all shits when you come down to it. Still, he’s been respectful to me, and loyal. Besides, this action at the fort will make pain for the traitor Shahji.”
Tukoji pretends to share Iron’s amusement. “But back to the point, Iron. What will you do now, eh? Think your situation through, Iron. This is your chance to make a new deal with Bijapur. A favorable deal.”
“Why would Bijapur cut a new deal with me?”
“Iron, listen: so far as Bijapur is concerned, everything is Shivaji’s doing—the attack, the takeover of the fort, the arrest of the Bijapuri garrison …”
“Wait, wait,” Iron protests, “Bijapur is bound to hear something about my part. It’s not like I wasn’t there …”
“Sure. But maybe you only went there to help, eh? Maybe you tried to
keep things from getting out of hand. Who’s to say? Iron, listen: Bijapur will think whatever you tell them to think.”
“You’re confusing me.”
Tukoji’s heavy lips curl into a dark smile. “There’s still time, Iron. You might send men today to take back the fort from Shivaji’s garrison. You might send a letter yourself to Bijapur, repudiating Shivaji’s actions. Small steps, really, but you might end up in a much better position.”
“I don’t know. It’s not my nature …”
Tukoji presses on. “You’ll get invited to Bijapur in honor. You’d get close enough to Shahji to use those tiger claws. And what would that be worth, eh? How much would the sultana pay to be rid of the son of a bitch? If not her, then Afzul Khan, or for that matter the Brotherhood.”
Iron looks at Tukoji with the cold eyes of an old gambler. What does Tukoji gain from all this … why is he so insistent? “I don’t know,” Iron grunts. “Going against Shivaji … I was just starting to like him.”
“Enough to face a war? When the Bijapuri elephants stomp this little town of yours to splinters, will you still like Shivaji so much?” Iron says nothing. “Does he even know about your
wagnak
oath, Iron?” Tukoji asks.
“Speak quietly. He’s right over there.” Iron glares. “Anyway, how could I take back that fort, with Shivaji’s garrison up there and all?”
This is what Tukoji has been waiting for. He leans forward to whisper to Iron.
 
 
Seated on the verandah on the other side of the courtyard, Shivaji is preparing pan with his newly met cousins, Jedhe and Bandal. It’s Jedhe’s pan set, and like all of Jedhe’s things, it is expensive. He watches Jedhe set out his pan
dan
; a matching set of small round gold-enameled boxes for the supari nuts, the betel leaves, the cardamom and clove, and a special box with a small spoon that holds the astringent chunam powder.
Iron had explained the family tree when he introduced them: how Iron and Jedhe’s father had ridden with Shahji, how the two of them had played together as babies, and so on. An old man’s introduction, full of an old man’s memories. Jedhe had caught Shivaji’s eye with a quick, mocking look at Iron before formally lifting his hands to his head to greet Shivaji.
Iron continued: “This other fellow is Bandal. He just became
deshmukh
of Hirdas—a month ago, wasn’t it?”
“It has been ten weeks now, uncle. You came to my father’s funeral.” Bandal bows.
“Anyway you youngsters are all cousins, you know. Why, you are practically brothers!”
Soon after Iron leaves, the “youngsters” are enjoying the familiarity even this thin thread of blood tie affords. As family, they forgo the need to find common bonds of friendship. They launch immediately into talk of family members known and unknown, scandals and annoyances. Soon they are laughing.
Even now Shivaji is chuckling at one of Jedhe’s jokes. He seems to have an endless supply. Jedhe wears a whisper-thin mustache, and his eyes are clear and hard: they dart quickly as he talks, like the eyes of a hunting bird.
Bandal, a head taller than Jedhe, watches silently, his face so dark it seems smudged with charcoal, his eyes plaintive, never looking directly at either.
As his hands deftly prepare the pan, Jedhe describes a wedding he attended, focusing especially on the expression of the eleven-year-old bridegroom seeing his twelve-year-old bride. He mimes the boy’s wide-eyed expression: the fear and desire. But there’s more: hidden by his cloak, Jedhe has stuck his hand down his pants; now he pokes out his thumb to mime the boy’s stiffening lingam. He shows the boy: now frantically trying to push it down, now squeezing it between his legs, finally showing it off to his young bride. Shivaji laughs until tears dampen his eyes.
“Uncle Iron told us you have a
farang
sword, Shahu,” Bandal says, changing the subject. “Might we see it?”
“When I get it back … It’s at the smith’s,” Shivaji replies. “I’m having it fitted out as a
pata.
”
“A gauntlet sword … excellent. The hand can be a swordsman’s most vulnerable spot,” Bandal says.
“How did you come to get a
farang
sword?” Bandal asks.
“It was a gift,” Shivaji answers. The others wait but nothing further comes.
“Ahcha …” Bandal says at last, as if Shivaji’s silence has imparted a secret.
Soon they are describing their
watans
. “How many horse do you have now, Bandal?” Jedhe asks, referring to the stipend Bandal gets from Bijapur.
“I am a two thousand horse, cousin,” Bandal replies.
“My father is a four thousand,” Jedhe tells him. “What about you, Shahu?”
“I’m not a
mandsab,
” he says quietly but firmly.
The cousins glance at each other. “But your father …,” says Bandal, pressing him. “Isn’t he the Bijapuri commander?” Shivaji shrugs. The others
stare in uncomfortable silence. “I heard you kept an army,” Bandal asks—for of course their “horses” are simply terms of ceremony.
“I personally maintain a force of seven hundred,” Shivaji says.
“That’s a lot of mouths to feed,” Bandal says. “How many forts do you control?”
“Including Torna?” Shivaji asks. “One.”
The two others look at each other as if they’re not sure how to take this statement. “So many men, and just this one fort, cousin?” Bandal says, threading his way carefully.
Jedhe looks at Bandal and begins to laugh. “I’ll tell you what, Shahu. I’ll give you a fort. Then you’ll have two.” He moves behind Shivaji, putting his head near Shivaji’s ear, and points to the mountain next to Torna. “Do you see that peak, Shahu? That’s Bhatghar. You can have that. There. Now it’s yours. Now you have two forts.”
“Pay no attention to him, Shahu. He thinks he’s funny.”
“No, no!” Jedhe insists, returning to his seat. “It’s a fort.”
“Maybe it used to be a fort. Years and years ago, maybe. Now it’s nothing but a clod of earth.”
“The foundations are still there. I’ve seen them. You’d have to fortify it, Shahu. Build a few walls. You could do that, couldn’t you? Easier than fighting a battle, eh? Anyway, nobody else has claimed it; it might as well be yours. Now you have two forts.” Jedhe laughs at his joke.
Shivaji laughs along. “All right, I have two forts. Is that better?”
Bandal shakes his head. “It’s still a lot of men, Shahu.”
Shivaji looks as if knows what he says next will be even more shocking. “We also support a lot of widows. Maybe a thousand, I suppose, whose husbands were killed in Shahji’s battles.”
“Why, Shahu?” Jedhe asks. “How the hell can you afford it?”
“I steal,” whispers Shivaji.
Jedhe looks as though he’s about to laugh, but he considers Shivaji’s serious face and holds back. “I’ve heard this,” Bandal says. “I always thought … well, people exaggerate.”
“I steal from women mostly, from merchants’ wives mostly, Bijapuri and Moguls, mostly.” Hearing this, Jedhe looks away, studying the wood planking of the verandah, but Bandal stares at Shivaji. “I rob caravans as well. Usually small ones. Usually it’s just Tanaji and me, but sometimes Hanuman or Lakshman comes along.” Shivaji looks at them in silence. Jedhe and Bandal stare at him doubtfully. Why would anyone be so frank?
 
 
They sit in silence until finally Jedhe nods to the bustling activity in the courtyard. “Iron really knows how to throw a party,” he says, anxious to change the subject. “What’s this all for, anyway?”
“Well, for me, partly,” Shivaji says. “To celebrate taking the fort.”
“Well, well,” Jedhe says, looking to the bustle: women and men hanging lanterns and flags, thick garlands of marigolds and roses being draped over doors and windows. The workers have laid out a patchwork of wax cloth to cover the courtyard: bright blankets, sheets, bolts of cloth of all descriptions. Tables have been carried to the edge of the verandah, and women hurry out with steaming trays of chapatis and puris. But Shivaji looks like a man at a funeral.
“Cousin, what’s wrong?” Bandal asks him.
“Just what I’ve said, cousin,” Shivaji replies. “What man likes to tell the truth about himself?”
“Why, then, Shahu? Why did you tell us this?”
“Well, I’m going to need allies, aren’t I?” Shivaji says, standing up. “You should know what you’re getting yourselves into; that’s how I see it.”
As Shivaji walks away, they look at each other too surprised to speak. “Allies?” Jedhe says at last. For a moment it seems that he’ll make another joke, but some light in Bandal’s eyes stops him cold.
 
 
At the temple in Adoli, the
shastri
paces by the bullock cart in front of his small house, waiting as always with exceptional forbearance for the women. Young girls climb in the back of the cart, dressed in bright colors, garlands of tuberoses and marigolds woven in their hair. The
shastri
scowls at them when they start to giggle, then scowls across the temple courtyard at Maya’s door. “Come! We’re late. Soon it will rain!” he calls out.
In Maya’s room, Jyoti jumps up and heads for the door, but just as she reaches it, she turns and steps back inside. “I’m not going.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Maya exclaims. “You have to go!”
“Well, you’re not going!”
Maya crosses her arms over her chest and stands, looking like an impatient mother, though she’s scarcely older than Jyoti. “What has that to do with anything? You said you’d look after the girls who are going. You promised the
shastri
. Now go.”
“No, I don’t want to now,” Jyoti says, though anyone can see that she both longs to go and is frightened to death that no one will stop her.
“Oh, silly,” Maya laughs, “you’ll have a wonderful time!”
“If it’s going to be so wonderful, why won’t you come along?”
Maya’s gold-flecked eyes narrow, growing sad and distant.
“You’ll have to see him sooner or later,” Jyoti says to Maya’s silence. “Come with me. Please, Maya. I can’t go alone.”
“You don’t need me, dear. I’d only be in the way.”
Again they hear the
shastri
calling, this time threatening to leave without them. “If I see him, do you want me to give him a message?” Jyoti asks.
“Tell him I hate him,” Maya says.
“You don’t!” Jyoti cries.
Maya lowers her eyes. “Maybe not, but say so anyway. Now go, before the party’s over!”
Jyoti lets herself be bustled through the door.
“I’m not going to tell him anything then,” Jyoti declares. “I’ll just walk right past him like he’s not there!”
“Just what I’d do myself.” Maya gives her a swift hug.

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