Tiger Claws (63 page)

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Authors: John Speed

BOOK: Tiger Claws
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“Stand your ground! Move not one inch!” the captain screams.
Shivaji steps to the captain, his demon smile gleaming. Then Shivaji
lifts the sword above his head and cries out in a loud voice: “For the goddess! For Bhavani!
Har, har, Mahadev!
”
“We will not move until we hear the general’s order!” shouts the captain.
“Har, har, mahadev!”
Shivaji cries, and from the crackling, leafy woods along the roadside, shouts are heard.
“Stand your ground!”
“Har, har, mahadev! Har, har, mahadev!”
Shivaji shouts, waving the sword above his head with each word. The voices in the woods begin to raise the call as well,
“Har, har, mahadev! Har, har, mahadev! Har, har, mahadev!”
“Not one inch!” the captain yells, his eyes wide. And then the blasts begin.
 
 
Hidden in the foliage of the woods, Hanuman squints through the underbrush, trying to see the parley tent at the top of the hill. “What do you see, captain?” one of his soldiers whispers.
There’s a stirring on the hilltop; the elephants are stamping more emphatically. Hanuman thinks he can make out his father, lifting his mace.
All around him a deathly quiet has fallen. I wish I knew what the hell is going on, he thinks. What is happening up there? He strains to see the parley tent.
And then a figure, bloody and obscure, emerging from the tent. “Shahu!” he whispers involuntarily.
“Is it him?” the soldier whispers from behind. Hanuman holds up his hand for silence.
Not until Shivaji lifts his sword above his head is Hanuman convinced. And when Shivaji gives the signal cry,
Har, har, mahadev!
Hanuman turns and yells as well: “The signal! The signal!
Har, har, mahadev!
Attack! Attack!”
The forest bursts forth with sudden violence. Out of the leaves and vines, men emerge, and bright blades.
“The fuses!” Hanuman screams. “Throw the
granadas
!” Can anyone hear him?
All around comes a chant that sounds like roaring:
Har, har, mahadev! Har, har, mahadev!
Buried beneath the road, the first of O’Neil’s hidden bombs explodes. The blast thuds like a book dropped beneath a dome. The blast of other bombs follows. “Get down! Get down!” screams Hanuman.
Another blast, and another, the blasts now heavier and stronger. Beneath the Bijapuris’ feet the road becomes the mouth of hell. Fire leaps down the road; black smoke belches into the sky.
The forest brush begins to rattle as a rain falls; not a rain of water, but of bodies broken: arms, and feet, and sharply broken skulls; hooves and tusks and shattered weapons pelting through the leaves. Men cower against the damp earth, which shudders beneath them as though it were a great drum beaten hard.
Sound erupts around them, battering their ears though they have squeezed their hands against their heads. Smoke rolls through the forest like an angry river.
O’Neil’s bombs, hidden beneath the road from the bottom of the hill to the top, explode in a rolling cloud of thundering death, spewing smoke and fire, sending death screaming through the blackened air.
On the hill road there is no warning, only death, death before the bomb’s roar hits the ear. The soldiers watch in frozen terror, unable to move, unable to pray even, as the ground beneath them roils into fire.
At last the ground stops rumbling and Hanuman lifts his head. “Attack! Attack!” he cries. His ringing ears cannot hear his own voice. He dashes down the hillside, sword in hand, pushing the Marathis forward. “Attack! Attack!”
Amidst the broken bodies on the road, men still live. But not for long. The Marathis dash through the fire, swords and sickles waving, slashing anything that moves.
Blood pours down the smoking road in rivulets.
 
 
The bomb blasts stop a hundred yards from the hilltop, leaving all the elephants alive. But though they have been trained to war, they are not ready for the fury of those bombs. Maddened by the flame and smoke and thunder all around, they rear up and the soldiers fall from their howdahs.
The great beasts collide into each other, goring and being gored by armored tusks, skidding on the gore of the men they squash beneath their heavy feet. Bellowing, eyes rimmed with white, the elephants drive mindlessly into the forest. Their howdahs and their armor tumble off, dragging behind them as they run. Sometimes they drag men still tangled in the traces.
 
 
Jedhe siezes his
katar
and runs to the captain in the bamboo cage, miraculously unharmed. Jedhe slices through the thongs that secure the cage door. The captain, trembling and moaning, is too far gone even to notice. Jedhe releases the captain’s feet, and catches his body in his arms—the smell is horrible—and lifts him so his eyes no longer face the pointed stakes. Then Jedhe cuts the bindings on the captain’s wrists, and he collapses.
When this is done, Shivaji lowers his sword and looks to the Bijapuri captain, still standing in his stirrups. “That man is now free,” Shivaji says. “And so are you. Take what men still live and leave my lands.” Blood trickles from the wound beneath his helmet.
“What about the general?” the captain answers.
“He’s dead,” Shivaji says.
“He should be buried,” the captain says.
“I myself will do it. Leave or die.”
The captain looks behind, down the road now burning, where Marathis slash and hack at anything still moving. In the clearing far below, several thousand soldiers mill in disarray. “I could still take you,” the captain says.
“Try,” Shivaji answers, and he lifts the point of his shining sword toward the captain’s heart.
The captain looks at him. “I never moved, did I? Not one goddamned inch.” The captain turns to the Abyssinians. “Come on, you, bastards,” he calls. “I’m the general now.”
The captain turns once more to Shivaji. “Shall I take him?” he says, nodding to the prisoner Jedhe has released.
“He’s mine now.”
“So’s the goddamned treasure. And the goddamned forts. And any other goddamned thing you want, son.” The captain starts to pick his way down the bleeding, broken road, the other riders following.
Tanaji comes forward, grabbing Shivaji’s arm. “You’ve won, Shahu!”
“Have I?” Shivaji whispers. Then he collapses to the ground.
 
 
Maya’s feet slap the black stone floor of the temple, punctuating the complex rhythm that Gungama taps behind her on a drum. How long has she been dancing? She has reached the wild ecstatic moment near the end. Maya has merged into the goddess.
No more can Maya tell if she is dancer, dance, or goddess. She can no longer tell the jingle of her ankle bells from their echo. The small drum sometimes seems to guide her feet; her movements sometimes seem to wring the rhythm from the drum. This is why she dances, this one moment that expands beyond eternity. As she whirls, perspiration flies from her limbs like stars.
Then the drumming stops, and the stone walls ring with silence. Maya lifts her hands to bowed head. It takes many seconds before she feels the pounding of her heartbeat, the pulsing ache of her limbs, the heaving of her breath.
Gungama comes beside her. “You did well,” she says. “Be careful of the wideness of your left eyelid during the Kharunabhava. You must emphasize the goddess’s compassion, child; one can’t do this with eyelid held so wide.”
“Yes, ma,” Maya answers when she can catch a breath. Gungama throws a shawl across her shoulders, for Maya’s silks are wet from dancing, and the morning air is cold.
Maya hesitates for a moment outside the
griha
doorway as they leave. There she sees Shivaji, bare-chested, wearing only a lungi, prostrate on the floor, head buried under his arms. A brahmin stands nearby, holding a
bowl of fragile rice cakes. “The
sraddah
gift,” Gungama whispers. “It is the eleventh day since Sai Bai’s passing.” Maya turns her eyes to the goddess, remembering Sai Bai. Today Sai Bai’s will soul occupy a new body.
May my sister’s next life be happier, Maya prays.
Outside the temple, dawn lights the street. The Poona market stirs to life. Gungama and Maya walk together, arm in arm: one woman bent from exhaustion, the other bent from age.
Shoppers have begun to stroll the market stalls. Poona is aflood with visitors come to see Shivaji, the hero of the Malve. The city has been filling since the day they came from Pratapghad. And since that day, a week ago, thousands more had come: every bed filled, every inn packed. Outside the walls another city has sprung up, a vast metropolis of tents.
Each day Shivaji sat cross-legged on a dais in his courtyard, greeting his unexpected guests. High caste and low, even untouchables, received a look, a touch, a piece of candy or of gold.
In the midst of all this hubbub, Hanuman’s wedding to Jyoti began four days ago. In the mad excitement of the victory at Pratapghad, Hanuman had invited all his soldiers. Of course they accepted, bringing with them wives and children, grandparents and servants, all joining the crowds already at the city. It soon became impossible to tell who was invited and who was not, and at last Shivaji let everyone take part.
Workmen adjust the wedding
pandal
that covers half the courtyard, tightening the canopy of bright cloth by shinnying up the long support poles. A plaster
murti
of Ganesha, nearly six feet tall and pink as a baby, rests on a bed of rose petals. Some servants sweep, others hang fresh garlands. From the kitchens of the brahmin chefs, the smells of fires and cooking fill the air.
The women reach the palace guesthouse, where a servant girl tells them that Jyoti is still asleep. Her eyes sparkle. “I guess she won’t get much sleep tonight. Lucky girl.” The girl turns back to Maya. “And what of you, mistress?”
“We still mean to leave tonight, after her wedding. See that our bags are packed.”
When Maya has changed clothes, she and Gungama eat chapatis. Jijabai enters without a knock. “Am I to understand that you are leaving?” she asks, with a cold formality that might almost pass for politeness.
“That was always our intent,” Maya replies.
“I have come to ask you to change your mind. Do not go to Adoli. Stay here, and be my son’s wife.”
Astonished Maya looks up, first to Gungama, then to Jijabai, whose hands are folded in supplication. She takes a long time to answer. “Does Shivaji know that you are here?”
“What difference does that make?”
Gungama whispers to Maya. “There’s your answer, child.”
Maya lifts the end of her sari over her head. “I decline your offer.” She turns back to her breakfast.
Jijabai has managed to contain herself, but no more. “How dare you, little whore! I come here begging, and you treat me so!”
“And now you know why I decline,” Maya answers.
Gungama speaks without looking up. “It is her destiny to wed a king. Is your son a king?”
Jijabai glowers at the old woman. “She is a pauper and a whore.”
“Show her,” Gungama tells Maya.
Maya slips like a shadow into another room and comes back with a wooden box. She opens it and takes out the jeweled headdress. The diamonds and pearls glitter like water in her hands. “You see I am no pauper,” Maya says. “Ask your son if I’m a whore.” Jijabai whirls on her heel and stomps out the doorway.
 
 
Last to arrive at a hastily called meeting in the main palace are Tanaji and Trelochan. Bala, Lakshman, and Shivaji wait for them.
“I have news,” Jedhe tells them. “Iron and I rode behind the Bijapuris as they retreated. We took five hundred men, just to keep an eye on things. As we neared Bijapur, we heard that the Moguls had lifted the siege of Golconda.” Jedhe glances around the circle, letting the news sink in.
“So we took the men east. On the road, moving slow, were a couple of thousand foot soldiers. Led by a eunuch.” Jedhe looks around, enjoying the expressions of surprise. “But that’s not all. They were escorting five hundred cannon.”
“Five hundred cannon and two thousand men?” Tanaji blinks in astonishment.
Jedhe nods. “Iron set our force up on a hillside. We attacked their flanks. Imagine being led by a eunuch! The better soldiers had been part of the earlier divisions, and these were the the dregs. They ran off. They left more than four hundred cannon behind.”
“That’s twice what we took from the Bijapuris,” Bala says. “We have nearly a thousand cannon now.”
 
 
It’s the final day of the wedding.
Jyoti enters from the guesthouse, splendid as a princess, her face hidden beneath a long veil of golden silk, led by Shivaji, since she has no father. Maya follows behind her former maid, their roles now reversed.
Then Shivaji escorts Hanuman, decked out like a prince, to a seat of honor in the shadow of Ganesha. He places honey in Hanuman’s mouth to sweeten his welcome. His parents sit nearby. Nirmala sobs into the end of her sari while Tanaji pretends not to notice.
Shivaji leads Jyoti to Hanuman’s side, and with a sweeping gesture, places her hand in his. Trelochan and another brahmin bind their hands together.
Together, Hanuman and Jyoti walk a slow circle around a fire and a vessel of Ganges water. Three times they walk, and each time offer roasted
bakri
to the gods. “I am the melody, you are the words,” Jyoti says.
“I am the earth, you are the sky,” Hanuman replies. “Let us live a hundred autumns.”
Then Trelochan brings them to a place a few yards from the fire, and places seven heaps of rice in a line before them. Side by side, they step from heap to heap, with each step repeating a prayer. “For food,” Hanuman says. “For strength.” Another step. “For wealth.” Another. “For happiness.”
Nearby, Maya’s gaze drifts to Shivaji, his face radiant with joy and edged with sorrow. Never has Maya felt more longing. She is about to turn away when he bends toward her. As their friends walk the final three steps, his eyes lock with hers.
Jyoti and Hanuman throw ghee into the fire, the crowd in the courtyard presses close. This is the part they’ve been waiting for. Every hand is filled with kumkum-stained rice; the younger boys have bags of the stuff.
Shivaji and Maya hold a silk sheet between Hanuman and Jyoti while Trelochan intones a verse. When he finishes, the crowd pelts the two with a shower of colored rice. Seven times he does this, seven times the rice rain falls. Maya and Shivaji are too busy laughing to stare into each other’s eyes. Then Trelochan says the word, and Maya and Shivaji drop the silk curtain. Rice falls on Hanuman and Jyoti so fiercely they must cover their faces. When things calm down, they garland one another with roses, and sprinkle rice on each other’s heads. Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! the crowd chants, until Jyoti pecks Hanuman’s cheek and everyone applauds.
 
 
Fifty miles from Rathanbore, Aurangzeb makes camp. He and his guard have built fires, but keep their horses saddled, for they will leave before the dawn.
As Aurangzeb puts down a wooden bowl of rice and dal, two soldiers hurry up; one a sentry of Aurangzeb’s company, the other a mud-stained courier.
“The Princess Roshanara sent me, highness,” the courier tells him. He takes out a simple leather tube. “She said to say she had very little time, highness.” Aurangzeb opens it.
The parchment inside, of course, bears no seal. It is small and completely covered with the princess’s manic script. Aurangzeb peers at the writing by the flickering firelight.
 
Brother:
Father did not die from the poison, but he is too sick to rise. The court is in an uproar, and begs for Dara to take the throne. I am a prisoner in my own room. I beseech you, hurry!
 
Aurangzeb reads the words again: “
Father did not die!
”
“Is there an answer, highness?” the courier asks.
Aurangzeb considers. His brows knit. For a long time he is silent. “Tell her that I come as quickly as I can.”
“Is that all, highness?”
“One thing more. Ask her this.” Aurangzeb seems to struggle to say the words. “Where is he? Where on earth is Jai Singh?”
Aurangzeb tears the parchment to shreds and thrusts them in the fire. The courier backs away, frightened by Aurangzeb’s twisted face.
 
 
At the wedding feast, Sambhuji leads Maya up the back stairway of the Rang Mahal. A long receiving line waits outside Shivaji’s door, but Bala hurries Maya inside. “Please don’t take too long,” he whispers. “There are so many waiting.”
Shivaji, still in his wedding clothes, leans against a satin cushion. He’s removed his turban, and his dark hair falls against his shirt. The sun strikes him like a crown.
“You look like a king,” she breathes.
He turns away, embarrassed. “I understand my mother visited you. I apologize for her rudeness. If I had known what she was planning …” He looks at her, and his eyes are dark as night. “If I had known …”
Lost in his eyes, her mind searches for an answer. “Never mind her words,” she whispers.
He stares at her and she at him. “I understand you wished to see me,” he says at last.
It takes Maya a moment to gather her thoughts; suddenly seeing him, suddenly close, she had forgotten her purpose. Finally she says, “I came to say goodbye. Gungama and I are going back to Adoli. We shall rebuild the dancing school and temple that Afzul Khan destroyed.”
Shivaji’s eyes seem to burn, that look of wild impatience that she first saw the day they came to Poona, but his voice is gentle. “Can I help?”
“I would ask a favor. It will take money to rebuild, a lot of it.” He nods and Maya goes on. “You know that wedding headdress that I have? Let me sell it to you.”
“Save that for your wedding day. I will underwrite your project myself. Tell Bala; he’ll give you whatever you need.”
Maya bows, then falls to the floor and places her forehead at his feet. “Oh, why can you not be a king?” she whispers, then looks up. “Forgive me. I should not have spoken.”
“I heard nothing,” he replies, “so there is nothing to forgive.” She sees that his eyes are full of longing, too.
Maya rises, smoothes her sari into place, and bows to leave. “Do you know,” she says at the door, “this was only our third time alone together.” She stands by the door, looking at him, memorizing his face. She turns, certain they will never see each other again.
“Our fourth time,” Shivaji answers, before the door
clicks
shut.
 
 
After she fetches their belongings and says her goodbyes, Maya, changes into a simple cotton sari, and joins Gungama in the
shastri
’s oxcart that will take them to Adoli.
As they pass the courtyard gates, the din of the wedding feast fades behind them. A lonesome sentry watches them depart. The city streets are so deserted there’s little to hear but the creaking of the cart wheels. Outside the city walls, the tent city is deserted. Everyone’s at the wedding.
Through the overhanging branches of the mango trees that line the road they can see the Poona hills shining bright in the afternoon sun. By
the time they reach the river, the sun has dipped behind the trees. “I hope the ferryman has not gone to the wedding,” the
shastri
tells them. But it isn’t the ferryman who comes out of the hut; it’s Tanaji, looking very pleased with himself. “This is a very large load.” He winks at Maya. “I must call my helper!”

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