Authors: John Speed
Tiger Claws (34 page)
Iron is swaying over Lakshman and the man he killed, looking down at them in anguish. “Lakshman! Lakshman!” he moans, his face held up into the pelting rain. “This is my fault! What have I done?”
Tanaji’s face grows pale and his eyes dart from son to son. His battle mace clatters from his hands and he sinks to his knees.
He looks up to Shivaji and the rain pours down his face. “Is this is my reward, Shahu? So your have your fort—is it worth the price? Tell me, is it worth the price?”
Around their feet the blood-red puddles swirl.
More rain! So much rain! thinks Bala. Nowhere does so much rain fall as in these Purandhar hills. How do people stand to live here in all this rain?
Looking up from his morning prayers, Bala’s gaze turns to the dark hills where Torna fort lies hidden by low clouds. I wonder what it’s like for them up there, he thinks. The plan is to send a company up the mountain today. If all has gone well, the raiding party should be in charge to welcome them, and the Poonis can occupy the fort. If not, well, they’ll find that out soon enough. Either way, Bala will have work to do today.
For it will fall to him to explain to Bijapur what they have done, either way. Yesterday, with very little ceremony, Shivaji appointed him ambassador. In truth, all Shivaji actually said was, “I’m sending you to Bijapur.” But Bala understood. And by the light in his eyes he knew that Shivaji understood as well. Torna fort was going to be just the beginning. What’s happening up there, he wonders, as he squints at the hidden mountain.
As Bala walks he sees the
farang
O’Neil, saddling a Bedouin, a traveling bag at his feet. “Good morrow, Onil. Thou’rt preparing for a journey?” Bala asks in Persian, the tongue they both speak fluently.
farang
O’Neil, saddling a Bedouin, a traveling bag at his feet. “Good morrow, Onil. Thou’rt preparing for a journey?” Bala asks in Persian, the tongue they both speak fluently.
O’Neil bows. His red hair is tied into a bushy queue. “I must away for Surat. My lord Shivaji has given me leave to barter for his teak.”
Bala’s eyebrows lift—actually his bald forehead where his eyebrows would be, if he had any hair. “This is good news, Onil. Dost know about Torna?”
“A little, maybe. Wouldst tell me more?”
Bala explains how the raiding party left yesterday afternoon to recapture Torna, how Shivaji is legally the rightful master of the fort.
“Bijapur will be angry, Balaji,” O’Neil says.
“Less, maybe, than thou thinkest. Bijapur cares little for forts. They want only the taxes. Just give them their allotment, which they believe to be their proper due—and thou mightst then keep any fort.”
“And if he does not pay, Balaji?”
“Then I think an army of elephants will thunder through these hills, with guns and cannons blazing.”
“So he must pay, Balaji!”
“I do not think he likes to pay. In any case I will go to Bijapur, Onil. Maybe I can soothe them with my words. Wouldst come with me?”
“I go to Surat first, master. I must tell the Portuguese of the death of their man, Da Gama. And I must seek out the Dutch and speak to them of teak.” O’Neil mounts the wooden saddle. Bala walks beside him.
As they reach the gate, the wind shifts, now from the north, cool and dry, blowing the haze from the sky. O’Neil points to the peak of Torna mountain, to the gray walls of the fort. Floating high above the walls, a saffron-colored banner, long, thin, billows on the breeze.
“A saffron flag!” whispers Bala. Bala forgets about O’Neil and runs back into the temple. “They’ve done it!” he shouts. “They’ve taken Torna fort!”
Soon everyone from the temple is heading to Welhe, dancing, laughing, eager to congratulate the triumphant raiding party. When they reach the village, they gather in the courtyard of Iron’s house. Bala finds himself talking to his friend Govindas. “I’ll tell you what I think, Balaji,” Govindas says. “This is the start of something, make no mistake. This is Shivaji’s sign. He’s telling the world that he’s taking back what’s his.”
“Maybe,” Bala answers.
“I see them!” someone shouts, pointing to a hill just visible over the village’s stone walls.
When he hears the cheering, Iron straightens, a man aware of the importance of appearances, lifting his head, though it weighs a hundred pounds. “We’re all right!” Iron shouts, his face determined that it should be so. But even Bala’s smile fades when he sees Lakshman clutching his bandaged eye,
the blood oozing over his fingertips. “Get a doctor,” Tanaji growls. But his voice is so hoarse, Bala can hardly hear him.
the blood oozing over his fingertips. “Get a doctor,” Tanaji growls. But his voice is so hoarse, Bala can hardly hear him.
“We have no doctor,” Iron says. “Get the
shastri.
”
shastri.
”
“The
shastri
is here, uncle,” Bala responds, jogging along beside Lakshman. “Hold on, brother, help is here. Hold on.” Bala runs back to the gates.
shastri
is here, uncle,” Bala responds, jogging along beside Lakshman. “Hold on, brother, help is here. Hold on.” Bala runs back to the gates.
“I’m all right,” Lakshman says, not realizing that Bala is already gone.
Tanaji reins in his horse and waits for Shivaji to catch up. “Now I quit, Shahu. I’m done with you.” When he sees the look on Shivaji’s face, Tanaji nearly repents. But he’s been thinking and now his mind is made up. He speaks quickly before he changes it again. “I promised your dad I’d help you grow to manhood. Well, I’m done. If you can take a fort, you’re a man—that’s how it seems to me.”
“Uncle, don’t say this. Not now,” Shivaji says, and his eyes are so plaintive that Tanaji nearly reconsiders. But a look at Lakshman is all it takes to steel him.
“Look at my son. Haven’t I sacrificed enough, Shahu?” Tanaji’s voice chokes. “Time you take the consequences of your actions.”
“You are my general, my minister, my friend. I will have no other one but you, uncle. I cannot replace you. I won’t even try. I need you, uncle.”
“No more, Shahu. Look at my sons, broken and bleeding. Enough.”
Shivaji lifts his head, in a way that reminds Tanaji of General Shahji. “The day of reckoning comes, Tana. The die is cast, there is no bringing it back.”
“Not with me, Shahu. I’m done.” When Shivaji reaches out to him, Tanaji spurs his horse, to ride next to Lakshman.
“Forget it, Shahu,” Hanuman says, turning in his saddle. “He’s just upset. It’s hard on him seeing Lakshman hurt. Give him a day or two, and everything will be back to normal.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Shivaji replies. “I think he’s right. Don’t you?” And without waiting for an answer, Shivaji reins his horse briskly to the head of the line.
Hanuman looks after him, wondering: Has Father really broken their friendship with those few short words? What does that mean for me?
By the time the riders reach the crowd, the cheers have faded. Shivaji goes to the front of the line, close to Iron. “Here is your hero!” Shivaji calls. Iron struggles to smile, though it’s clear he is hurting; he raises his hand. A
few voices cry out “Iron! Iron!” but mostly people simply crowd around his horse, trying to touch him, as though to offer comfort.
few voices cry out “Iron! Iron!” but mostly people simply crowd around his horse, trying to touch him, as though to offer comfort.
Some of the men from Poona, on the other hand, rush toward Lakshman. With them is Jyoti, who along with Maya has made her way from the temple. Gathering up her skirts, she runs right through the puddles, calling: “Hanuman! Hanuman!”
By the time she reaches his side, her face is wet with tears. All she sees is that he is whole. She stands near his horse, just staring. For of course, what else may she do? She is a servant, and he is a soldier. It’s not as if they are married or betrothed. She can’t even touch his hand.
So she gazes up at him. And he lifts his hand ever so slightly, moving his fingers so she might see.
They won’t let Iron walk from his horse to his house and they carry Lakshman in as well. The servants make up a bed in Iron’s small bedroom where Lakshman can be tended. Iron’s old manservant chases everyone away but the
shastri
and his wife. Tanaji, Hanuman, and Shivaji he allows to sit in the next room; the rest must wait outside.
shastri
and his wife. Tanaji, Hanuman, and Shivaji he allows to sit in the next room; the rest must wait outside.
Maya peers through the crowd, her arm around Jyoti. She nods as Jyoti describes Lakshman’s terrible injuries and Hanuman’s apparent good fortune, but listens all the while for word of Shivaji. She caught only a glimpse of him, riding tall on his great Bedouin, his hair flying in the morning breeze.
The sky grows dark. Thunder rumbles. Some of the people from the temple eye the sky and talk of heading back. Others wait. They want to know what happened. Maya thinks: Who can blame them? She wonders why Shivaji doesn’t come out to tell them.
The door to Iron’s house groans open. It is Amba, the
shastri
’s wife. “Maya!” she calls, waving her hand. Maya picks her way toward the door, aware that many eyes are looking at her. Jyoti clings to her elbow. Amba pulls her inside the house. “We know your skill in healing. Can you help?”
shastri
’s wife. “Maya!” she calls, waving her hand. Maya picks her way toward the door, aware that many eyes are looking at her. Jyoti clings to her elbow. Amba pulls her inside the house. “We know your skill in healing. Can you help?”
“Maybe,” Maya answers. “I will do what I can, auntie.” She steps into the bedroom and forgets everything else.
What takes Maya’s breath away is Lakshman, lying flat on a bedmat on the floor before her. His bandages removed, she sees his ghastly wound, and she has to turn away. Jyoti holds her arm, as if to give her strength.
The
shastri
sits near Lakshman’s head, dabbing slowly and gently at the twists of skin that hang from his face. His flesh, purple and swollen, has fallen away to expose a bleeding mass of muscles, veins and fat. The eyelid
dents downward over the empty socket where his eye should be, the eyelashes glued shut by dark, dried blood. A trail of orange oozes from its corner. The
shastri
lifts his sorrowful face to Maya.
shastri
sits near Lakshman’s head, dabbing slowly and gently at the twists of skin that hang from his face. His flesh, purple and swollen, has fallen away to expose a bleeding mass of muscles, veins and fat. The eyelid
dents downward over the empty socket where his eye should be, the eyelashes glued shut by dark, dried blood. A trail of orange oozes from its corner. The
shastri
lifts his sorrowful face to Maya.
“Can’t you help, dear?” Amba whispers in her ear. Maya takes a soft cloth and a bowl of warm water from the
shastri
. Steeling herself, she stares directly at the injury. She begins to drench the wound, and as she does so, Lakshman lurches on the bed. His good eye opens wide, and his hand snakes around her wrist. “Kiss it and make it better?” he whispers.
shastri
. Steeling herself, she stares directly at the injury. She begins to drench the wound, and as she does so, Lakshman lurches on the bed. His good eye opens wide, and his hand snakes around her wrist. “Kiss it and make it better?” he whispers.
“Let her go, Lakshman,” the
shastri
says. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
shastri
says. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Trust me: I know.” His breath comes in harsh, angry rasps.
“Get bhang,” the priest says to his wife. Instantly she vanishes from the room. Jyoti stares, uncertain of what she ought to do. At least I can keep my mistress company, she thinks. She smooths her hand along Maya’s arm. Then she slowly pries Lakshman’s fingers from Maya’s wrist.
Through it all, Maya simply stares at the floor, as though she were in pain; pain worse than Lakshman’s.
Soon Amba returns, a cup in her hands. Lakshman makes a terrible face when he drinks the warm brown cup of bhang. It smells like old leaves and earth.
With each swallow Lakshman grows a little easier. In a few minutes he closes his eyes and begins to hum; after a while, his humming stops.
“I saw something like this fixed once,” Maya explains to the
shastri
. She drenches the wound again and again, until no blood colors the water. Then she lifts the torn skin, gently spreading its curled edges, pushing the flaps over the tissues they used to cover, stretching the skin with gentle fingers. She probes and presses until the edges match up fairly well. Lakshman stirs beneath her touch when she does this, but he does not wake.
shastri
. She drenches the wound again and again, until no blood colors the water. Then she lifts the torn skin, gently spreading its curled edges, pushing the flaps over the tissues they used to cover, stretching the skin with gentle fingers. She probes and presses until the edges match up fairly well. Lakshman stirs beneath her touch when she does this, but he does not wake.
The
shastri
chants an endless Sanskrit prayer while Maya presses on the wound. Outside the sky darkens, and thunder tumbles through the stone walls of the house. Sweat drenches Maya’s sari, though she hardly moves. Beneath her touch the angry flesh, once dead, seems to glow.
shastri
chants an endless Sanskrit prayer while Maya presses on the wound. Outside the sky darkens, and thunder tumbles through the stone walls of the house. Sweat drenches Maya’s sari, though she hardly moves. Beneath her touch the angry flesh, once dead, seems to glow.
When she’s done, she leans back, exhausted. The ragged edges of his skin are pink now; they nearly join in places. Amba hands Maya a hair-fine needle threaded with a single strand of silk. She passes the needle’s point through Lakshman’s wounded flesh. Then she ties an exquisite, tiny knot.
She makes a score of tiny knots along Lakshman’s ravaged face. Amba brings a bowl of neem leaves ground with myrrh. Maya paints the greenish paste across the ragged seam of Lakshman’s wound, presses his broken face with a clean cotton cloth, and ties a bandage over his cheek.
Lastly she sighs as if steeling herself for one final, difficult encounter. She places her hands on Lakshman’s head, closes her eyes, and breathes deep, as though breathing through her hands and arms into Lakshman’s face. Her breath comes deep and strong.
When Maya lifts her hands, the
shastri
thinks he sees them joined by threads of light, all red and golden. “She’s a wonder,” he whispers to his wife, as Maya shuffles out with Jyoti by her side. “I thought she was a just nautch girl. I didn’t understand why Gungama chose her.”
shastri
thinks he sees them joined by threads of light, all red and golden. “She’s a wonder,” he whispers to his wife, as Maya shuffles out with Jyoti by her side. “I thought she was a just nautch girl. I didn’t understand why Gungama chose her.”
“And do you now know, husband?” the
shastri
’s wife asks.
shastri
’s wife asks.
“I’ll never look at her the same way again,” he says with awe.
“That will be a relief,” his wife replies coolly.
Hanuman gets to his feet and goes to Iron’s bedroom. The
shastri
and his wife are picking up their things with a formal finality. A terrible fear overcomes Hanuman. He glances at his brother, and sees his face so peaceful it seems to him he must be dead. Hanuman lets out a stifled cry.
shastri
and his wife are picking up their things with a formal finality. A terrible fear overcomes Hanuman. He glances at his brother, and sees his face so peaceful it seems to him he must be dead. Hanuman lets out a stifled cry.
“Do you think we’d let him die?” Amba exclaims.
“That nautch girl …,” the
shastri
says, then corrects himself, “that devadasi, it was she who fixed your brother. I can’t imagine where she learned to do all those things she did.”
shastri
says, then corrects himself, “that devadasi, it was she who fixed your brother. I can’t imagine where she learned to do all those things she did.”
“He’s going to be well?” Hanuman asks, hardly daring to believe. The
shastri
nods. “And Iron?” Hanuman whispers.
shastri
nods. “And Iron?” Hanuman whispers.
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