Authors: John Speed
Tiger Claws (43 page)
“I’ve heard that Shivaji is assembling his army.”
“If that’s true, all the more reason to move quickly.”
But Bandal’s eyebrows knit together. “It’s not just Shivaji. We’ll have to go against Iron as well, won’t we?” Bandal lowers his head. “I like Iron.”
“Everyone likes Iron, lad. But when he sees us marching on Poona, he’ll do his sums and join us.”
“We should be joining Shahu, not moving against him!” interrupts Jedhe. “Why should we be whores for Bijapur? What has Bijapur ever done for us?”
“They’ve made us rich,” Tukoji says with dark finality. “Where do you think your wealth comes from?”
“Then let’s be poor. Poor and free. What’s wrong with that?”
Tukoji rises to his feet and towers over Jedhe. “I’m glad your mother isn’t alive to hear. You don’t know what it was like before the truce, before the traitor Shahji surrendered. War everywhere. Famine, drought. Babies dying, widows wailing. Join Shivaji and you’ll bring it all back. You want the blood of children on your hands?”
“Better to die fighting, father,” Jedhe answers quietly. “What are we to Bijapur? They take almost half of everything we produce.”
“They give back, fool. You’ve done quite well on what they give back!” Tukoji turns to Bandal, waving a finger. “And if we work together, much more will be given back. If the traitor Shahji proved anything, it’s that Bijapur pays for loyalty—they pay bloody well.” With that he storms off.
“Well,” says Jedhe after a while, “that was pleasant.”
“Do you have a different idea?” Bandal asks after a long silence. “Maybe you’ll find me ready to listen.”
“But isn’t he coming back, father?” Sambhuji tugs at Shivaji’s hand, trying to get his attention, for Shivaji’s eyes are focused in the distance. “Father!”
“Probably not,” Sai Bai answers, seeing Shivaji’s empty stare. “Trust Dadaji to pick the least convenient moment.”
Despite the noonday sun and the cloudless sky—for the rains have finished very early this year—the air is cool in the courtyard. At last, his door creaks open, and Dadaji emerges one last time from his room. He clutches his bare chest as the breeze chills him, and shuffles in his bare feet toward the gates where Shivaji and the others wait. His soft belly hangs over the small lungi wrapped around his loins. The rest of his body is thin, almost emaciated, and the skin droops like old parchment from his slender frame. He has shaved his head. Now walking awkwardly in bare feet on the rough ground, he looks like an ungainly naked bird.
Sambhuji runs to him laughing, and Dadaji seems flustered until at last he laughs too, and takes Sambhuji’s hand. “Well, isn’t this a good joke, Sam,” Dadaji says, as Sambhuji leads him toward his parents. There Dadaji lowers his head. “An old man’s last foolishness. Wish me well, my dear boy.”
Shivaji wraps his long arms around the old man, and he holds him there a long time, his face pressed into Dadaji’s neck.
“You know, I had a thought as I was getting ready, Shahu …” Tears pool up in Dadaji’s eyes. “I couldn’t bear to see what’s coming next. I couldn’t bear to see you war against your father.”
“The gods grant it does not come to that, uncle.”
“But it will, won’t it, Shahu? How can you avoid it? It is the nature of war: father against son, brother against brother. But I don’t need to see it. I’ve already seen too much.” He presses a hand to Shivaji’s cheek. “But Shahu, think, think, think when you do it. Think of Sambhuji here. Think what it would be like for him to draw his sword against you, or you against him. You’ve hardly seen him, still Shahji is your father. Remember that!”
At this Jijabai sniffs impatiently. Dadaji turns to her. “What good is a life built on scorn?”
“You dare ask me this?” she replies, lifting her head imperiously.
“And why not? What difference does it make to either of us now? Your life is empty, Jijabai, more than mine. You should follow my example.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t walk away so easily. I keep my promises.”
Dadaji seems about to answer, then shrugs. He shuffles over to Balaji, who falls to his knees and presses his head to the old man’s bare feet. “I have no heir, Bala. I leave everything to you.”
“You do me too much honor, Dadaji,” Bala says.
“It isn’t much,” Dadaji laughs. “I’ve left you some notes.” He pats Bala’s round bald head, and then his own, now newly shaved. “Two bald men, eh? Take care of Shahu, Bala. Don’t let him get into too much trouble.”
“Where will you go, uncle? Will you head straight for Kashi?” Shivaji asks, raising himself to his knees.
“Not Kashi right away, not the city of the dead right away. Later, Shahu. Please don’t rush me. First Nasik, I think. Yes, Nasik first.” Dadaji steps to the gateway and raises his hands above his head.
“Namaste!”
he calls and
“Namaste!”
everyone replies. Then he lowers himself awkwardly to the moist, cold ground, and begins: for he intends to be a rolling pilgrim, to make his way by rolling from his back to his stomach, from his stomach to his back.
“Namaste!”
he calls and
“Namaste!”
everyone replies. Then he lowers himself awkwardly to the moist, cold ground, and begins: for he intends to be a rolling pilgrim, to make his way by rolling from his back to his stomach, from his stomach to his back.
By the time he reaches the gates, his old body is already thick with dust.
Lakshman rides into the jungle, following the sound of singing.
He follows a stranger who has not told his name. The man had appeared in Poona that morning as if from nowhere.
The stranger knew Lakshman, though. He’d come on an errand, he said: his master had an offer for Shivaji—a plan to give Shivaji “total victory.” But his master would negotiate only with Lakshman, and only at his own place.
Lakshman might have walked away. He might have picked a fight. But something about the stranger, the way his eyes sparkled, a hint of mystery
in his voice, tempted Lakshman’s soul. Two hours later, the sounds of the jungle crowd around him, the shrieks of unknown beasts and the rustle of the great trees. And the stranger’s singing, which caresses Lakshman’s heart.
in his voice, tempted Lakshman’s soul. Two hours later, the sounds of the jungle crowd around him, the shrieks of unknown beasts and the rustle of the great trees. And the stranger’s singing, which caresses Lakshman’s heart.
Even though the stranger sings of Kali, the black destroyer.
Kali, of course, had terrified Lakshman as a child: a gaunt, dark horror, her eyes huge and burning, a bloodstained tongue hanging like a pennant from her gaping mouth. Weapons she held in each of her eight flailing arms: no sign of peace, no boons did she offer. She wore a necklace of human skulls, and a skirt of human arms.
But the stranger sings of Kali’s beauty: the kindness of those gaping eyes, the sweetness of that dangling tongue. In his song, the stranger calls her “Mommy.” And even though he can’t reconcile the horror of his childhood nightmares with the gentle goddess mommy of the rider’s song, Lakshman finds tears flowing down his cheek.
By that song, Lakshman can guess their destination. His guide, he guessed from the start, was a brigand. His song to Kali leaves no doubt.
Kalidas. The singer’s master is the worst of thieves: violent, senseless, terrifying. Everyone fears his name. Torture, rape, death—for Kalidas, no act is too depraved. What can Kalidas want with him, or with Shivaji?
At last they come to a clearing full of strange huts. Forest creepers thread through their walls and roofs, so the huts look like plants that have somehow grown into houses. There’s a big fire where a goat is being cooked upon a spit.
Lakshman sees eight or nine men sitting around idly, and maybe a dozen women or more, all of them young and strikingly beautiful, preparing food, hanging laundry, cleaning pots and dishes, all of them smiling, some of them singing. The men look content, almost smug, eyeing the women as they pass, sometimes reaching out to grab a bottom or a breast. The women giggle and scold them, eyes flashing. Everyone, men and women alike, dresses in extravagant finery: rich silks, necklaces and rings, bright jungle flowers. It’s like a dream, thinks Lakshman.
“Do you want some toddy?” one of them asks, and before Lakshman can answer, a jeweled cup is thrust into his hand. He takes a long drink: the liquid is sweet and fiery and he chokes and coughs as the men around him laugh.
Suddenly, though, they stop laughing and step away. A man walks toward Lakshman, dressed all in black—no flowers, no jewels, with bushy hair and a black beard, and large dark eyes that seem hot as fire.
“I am Kalidas,” the man says. He looks calmly, almost affectionately, at Lakshman. Since his eye was injured, a straight look is a rarity. Neither he nor Lakshman bows. “Welcome to my humble place.”
“I came not for my sake, but Shivaji’s,” Lakshman answers.
“He can wait. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Fancy a woman?”
Lakshman tries to shrug nonchalantly, but the great black eyes of Kalidas burn through his skin. “No,” he manages to say.
“Fresh clothing,” Kalidas orders. Two women drop their chores, bringing robes and sandals, jewelry and flowers. Kneeling at Lakshman’s feet. The women gently peel away his cotton garments, taking even his lungi.
The women hum as they work. They wrap him in silk. He feels the smoothness of their hands against him, the flutter of their breath against his skin. The rich cloth rests heavily against him, rustling when he moves.
“This suits you,” says Kalidas when the job is done. “I have some business. Rest for a while. Then we shall talk.” Kalidas then walks into the jungle; his men and women following silently behind, leaving Lakshman alone. The sky grows pale as the sun sets. Lakshman waits in his strange new garments. Loneliness begins to eat at him. He’s faced with a dilemma: stay here alone, or follow the others into the deep forbidding darkness.
He hopes the light will last long enough for him to follow the path. As he walks into the trees, his nostrils are filled with jungle smell; green and wet, a rotting lingering sweetness that grows stronger with each breath. Far off, he hears chanting. And another sound, now growing stronger and more clear, a buzzing, a great and endless drone. With every step that drone grows stronger, punctuated by deep drumbeats like the beating of the jungle’s heart. He doesn’t need to see his way, he can follow his ears.
The path bends and he sees them, huddled in a semicircle before a huge fat man who stands in an enormous swirling cloud of smoke. They chant and wave a tray of lights and incense. The droning and booming grow louder.
But the firelight surges and he sees that he is wrong. It isn’t a cloud of smoke at all. It’s flies. Millions of flies. That’s the drone: Flies so thick that he can hardly see the man standing in their midst. How can he stand so still, in all those buzzing flies? Of course, it’s not a man; it’s a statue.
Kali.
A huge painted
murti
of a black-skinned, wild-eyed goddess, a long red tongue hanging from her mouth.
murti
of a black-skinned, wild-eyed goddess, a long red tongue hanging from her mouth.
She wears around her neck, not skulls, but real heads: human heads, strung together through the ears, dripping and festering with rot. Around her waist, a skirt of arms, real arms: different sizes, different shapes—the
thick arms of workmen, the slender arms of young wives—and some of them, Lakshman realizes, the tiny arms of babies.
thick arms of workmen, the slender arms of young wives—and some of them, Lakshman realizes, the tiny arms of babies.
As Lakshman gapes in horror, the idol’s eyes begin to move, turning slowly in their sockets.
It can’t be, he thinks, you’re just a statue.
At last she finds him where he tries to hide, and then Kali looks at him, and around her dangling tongue her stone face smiles.
“It’s no good, Jedhe,” Bandal says. “Your father will not budge.”
“I told you he would not, cousin. My father may be a fool, but I guarantee he is a stubborn fool.”
“Can you blame him for his stubbornness? He struggled hard to achieve his current status. He’s a Bijapuri
mandsab
of four thousand horse! You think he’s ready to give it up on your whim?”
mandsab
of four thousand horse! You think he’s ready to give it up on your whim?”
“It’s not a whim!” Jedhe’s usual look of calm amusement is gone, replaced by a fierceness that Bandal has never seen before. “It’s what’s right.”
“You’re a fool,” Bandal mutters. Jedhe shrugs, his eyes burning. “Well,” Bandal says at last, a small smile on the corners of his lips, “we’ll be fools together.”
Stars are beginning to glimmer in the skies over Poona. Sai Bai carries a tiny lantern against the coming night, more for comfort than light. In any case she knows the way.
At the entrance of the Shiva cave, she can see within the dim flame burning in the lamp above the tiny shivalingam. If he’s anywhere, she thinks, he’ll be here. But it saddens her that she might find him here, for she knows this is the place he comes in times of greatest tribulation. He’s doing his best, she scolds the gods, so why is everything so hard for him! She sees Shivaji from behind, sitting in the dark, his turban gone and his long hair falling softly on his shoulders. As she moves in front of him, however, she gapes. Shivaji has ripped his shirtfront from neck to navel. He holds in his hand a shining knife, the tip pointing to his heart.
“No!”
He sees her but he does not move. At last his eyes flicker—from the blade to his wife’s pale face. Finally he sets down the knife and lifts his eyes to Sai Bai. “At least we first shall say goodbye. I was sad that I did not say goodbye to you, my wife. That was the part I most regretted.”
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