Authors: John Speed
Tiger Claws (51 page)
Jumla’s eyes bulge for a moment, but he recovers himself and inclines his head respectfully. “As you wish, highness. But you can’t mean for them to attack Bijapur …”
“Of course not, general. But they’ll put some steel behind our words.
Alu,” he says. The eunuch looks up, alert. “Draft a letter to the sultana telling her it is our wish that General Shahji be set free. Make it clear that he is the father of an honored ally, Shivaji, and we would regard any injury to him as an injury to our own person.”
Alu,” he says. The eunuch looks up, alert. “Draft a letter to the sultana telling her it is our wish that General Shahji be set free. Make it clear that he is the father of an honored ally, Shivaji, and we would regard any injury to him as an injury to our own person.”
“Yes, highness. To be signed how?”
“As Viceroy of the Deccan. In fact, don’t request it, order it, by the authority of the Peacock Throne. Let them mull that over.”
“They’ll never free him, highness,” Jai Singh says.
“That’s all one to me, general,” Aurangzeb replies. “It’s the son I want, not the father.” He turns again to Alu. “Send copies to Shivaji … have that ‘bumpkin’ bring them.”
“Yes, highness,” Alu answers, rising. Jai Singh again finds the eunuch glancing at him.
“Do we have any sources in the Malve, general, who can assess the credibility of this chieftain?” Aurangzeb asks.
Jai Singh thinks this over. “Traders, perhaps, or
farangs
. Let me see what I can find.”
farangs
. Let me see what I can find.”
Aurangzeb stands. “Things are coming quickly to a head, I think. As Jai Singh says, we approach the endgame. I trust that both of you are ready.”
Jai Singh bows again as Aurangzeb slips out, wondering how ready he needs to be. He thanks Jumla, bows to him, and walks back toward his tent. His sentries jump to their feet as he approaches. “There’s someone waiting for you, sir,” one of them says.
In the firelight, Jai Singh sees a graceful shadow standing by the entrance to his war tent. It is Alu, his dusky eyes glowing by the light of the flames. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come, uncle,” he says in a murmuring whisper.
With any other eunuch, Jai Singh would be abrupt, but this one is the subject of many stories. Everyone in Agra talks about him, and the tales are strange. “Forgive me, Alu. I’m tired and morning comes soon.”
Alu smiles. “Whatever did you think I meant, uncle?” Jai Singh wonders if he got the wrong idea. “It’s only that I never got the chance to tell you of my admiration for you, uncle. You have always been a favorite of mine.”
“Really?” Jai Singh answers, trying to appear pleased.
Alu steps closer, as close to Jai Singh as a woman might stand, though still polite, with his long hands folded together beneath the sleeves of his dark silk jama. “Among the
mukhunni
you are much respected uncle. You have always dealt fairly with the brothers.”
mukhunni
you are much respected uncle. You have always dealt fairly with the brothers.”
“Thank you,” Jai Singh answers. His head comes scarcely up to Alu’s shoulder, and he can feel the eunuch’s breath, warm and sweet.
Alu slowly moves one hand from under his robe and places it tentatively on Jai Singh’s chest, the long fingers resting gently on his shoulder, the palm on his breast. “You will find us helpful, uncle, should the need arise. Pliant. You need only make a sign … the subtlest sign, and you shall have us.”
Jai Singh’s lips don’t seem to work. Alu’s hand moves, rustling the stiff silk of Jai Singh’s robe. “Dark times approach, I fear. And in the darkness, one wants a friend, yes?” Jai Singh nods, not sure where things are leading.
“But you told me you are tired, uncle.” Again, silently, Jai Singh nods, and Alu smiles knowingly. “Some other time when you feel more rested we must speak again. Longer. Much longer.” He slides into the shadows, his fingers trailing across Jai Singh’s chest as he departs.
A few weeks ago Maya had been a nautch girl, her life filled with softness and scents, with silk and serenity. Now she is the guru to a dozen devadasis in training, and every moment of her day is busy. The change came so quickly that she sometimes wonders if she would one day wake and find that it had all been but a dream.
Her head covered with the end of her sari, she slips across the torchlit courtyard to the steps of the Bhavani temple. The night air feels crisp, and above her the canopy of stars explodes in splendor. The courtyard is silent, and the temple carvings, touched by silver moonlight, seem about to breathe.
She almost bumps against him, he sits so quietly at the top of the temple steps. When he raises his bearded face, she sees thin gleams of light reflecting on his cheeks. It is Tanaji, looking older than she remembers.
“What’s wrong, father?” Maya asks.
“You should not call me ‘father.’” His eyes, damp and dark, look at her for just a moment. “What have I done to deserve such an honor, eh?”
Maya sits beside him. The stone floor of the temple feels cold through her thin cotton sari; Tanaji slides over slightly to give her room. “Look at me. How many men have I killed, eh? How many men mutilated by my hand? You’d think I’d feel some regret. It never crosses my mind. Yet when I think of how I’ve failed my boys, how I’ve failed you, I blubber like a baby. I’ve been a fool.”
“Tell me what’s troubling you, father?”
“That you should call me that, for one thing. Have I ever been a father
to you? When things were hard for you in Poona? I could have protected you from Jijabai! I could have taken your part!”
to you? When things were hard for you in Poona? I could have protected you from Jijabai! I could have taken your part!”
“You did your best.”
“No. I failed you. Just as I failed Lakshman. And Hanuman. And Shahu, too.”
Everything she thinks to say seems empty. She should argue … she should comfort. Instead she merely sits beside him.
“Maybe Dadaji had the right idea. When his time came, he shaved his head and became a sadhu. At least now he spends his time in penance, winning the favor of the gods instead of disappointing those he loves.”
“But he was old, father, and his time had come. You have much to do. You must not chastise yourself. It is the gods that choose our ends. How shall we avoid the twists and turns of karma?”
Tanaji thinks about this for a while, then shakes his head. “I fear Lakshman is ruined. When I look at him, I cringe.”
“Many men bear battle scars, father.”
“It’s not his face that’s scarred, but his soul. He’s so full of anger.”
“It must have been hard for Lakshman, father.”
“But see what I have done … Just made things worse! And now I abandon Shahu when he most needs my help! I was his lieutenant. Now out of cowardice and anger, I resigned when he most needs me. How he must despise me!”
“I’m sure he doesn’t! And you wouldn’t have done this unless you thought he’d be better off with some other lieutenant.”
“I thought only of myself. I never guessed that he would turn to Hanuman in my place. Now I’ve placed my other son in danger. There’s no way to fix it. I’ve made a mess. Each step I take brings misery.”
She hears the choked sound of Tanaji weeping, and without thinking puts her arm across his shoulder. His back is broad and strong, but wracked with sobs. So they sit for a while, as they evening breeze stirs around them.
“You’ve done much good. How you cared for Shahu and your twin sons! Surely you must place those good deeds in the balance of your thought. Do they not outweigh these small missteps?”
He lifts his head to look at her. She feels, for a moment, that she should wipe away his tears, but she thinks this would just embarrass him.
“Why do you act as though your life is at an end? Do you think your store of good deeds is empty? Even a dry well may fill again, father!”
“You’re right,” he says after a long time. But then his face changes as another thought flits across his mind. “Your servant girl …”
“Jyoti?” Maya says, smiling.
“Nirmala won’t let her marry Hanuman. Says she’s too poor. How can he be happy with a poor wife?”
“Maybe she can get money someplace. Maybe Shivaji …”
“Nirmala ordered Shahu not to help her. She said it would be as though Hanuman were marrying Shivaji.”
“Foolishness. That’s no reason at all.” Maya stands, and Tanaji gets up, afraid he’s disturbed her after her kind words. “I must go, father,” Maya bows. “I have not much time. Those girls take all my thought. You are a good man.”
He stands and bows to her. She calls him “father,” with a voice so soft and warm, it seems the sun has risen. I might yet do some good, he thinks. I might. I might.
What a dreadful place is India.
Hot and dusty or wet and musty. Never comfortable. Never easy. Nothing the way it ought be: the food a horror, more spice than meat; the cities a disaster, filled with crushing mobs, all of them trying to rob you directly or indirectly; the roads no more than trails; the rich extravagantly wealthy; the poor near starving. The officials he has met are either pompous, self-aggrandizing buffoons, or servile, sniveling toadies—but all of them ready to do anything for baksheesh. The
farangs
are no better—the very worst of Europe has found its way to Hindustan.
farangs
are no better—the very worst of Europe has found its way to Hindustan.
Who can understand the ways of fate? How odd that he should stumble into this lot, he thinks. These Marathis, Shivaji’s people, have a core of honesty and courage that sets them apart. Few of the
farangs
he’s spoken with even know of them, and those that do dismiss them, either lumping them in with the Bijapuris or calling them tribals and shaking their heads. “Stick to the Muslims,” most tell him. “That’s where the money is.”
farangs
he’s spoken with even know of them, and those that do dismiss them, either lumping them in with the Bijapuris or calling them tribals and shaking their heads. “Stick to the Muslims,” most tell him. “That’s where the money is.”
True, O’Neil had come to India to get rich. He won’t go home unless he has enough money to build a noble life. But he doesn’t much like the
farangs
here; the Portuguese shun him ever since the death of Da Gama; the Dutch shun him because he is a Catholic; and what few English there are, shun him because he’s Irish. The Indian Muslims ignore him altogether.
farangs
here; the Portuguese shun him ever since the death of Da Gama; the Dutch shun him because he is a Catholic; and what few English there are, shun him because he’s Irish. The Indian Muslims ignore him altogether.
Only among these Marathis has he found a sense of comradeship or honor, or most important, a place to laugh.
For their part, the Marathis seem to enjoy him. Sometimes he feels like a trained monkey. When he walks down the market in his high leather
boots, a gawking crowd forms. Children sneak in to watch him bathe, even adults huddle nearby, staring with wide eyes at his pale, freckled chest and its mat of copper hair.
boots, a gawking crowd forms. Children sneak in to watch him bathe, even adults huddle nearby, staring with wide eyes at his pale, freckled chest and its mat of copper hair.
So O’Neil now finds himself in Welhe, making
granadas
. It’s strange that these simple items are considered to be some sort of
farang
magic, thinks O’Neil. The Hindis, who have embraced the cannon and the matchlock so completely, have some sort of terror of
granadas
. They’re simple enough to make: hollow balls of bronze, packed with Chinese powder and bits of steel and a paper fuse.
granadas
. It’s strange that these simple items are considered to be some sort of
farang
magic, thinks O’Neil. The Hindis, who have embraced the cannon and the matchlock so completely, have some sort of terror of
granadas
. They’re simple enough to make: hollow balls of bronze, packed with Chinese powder and bits of steel and a paper fuse.
But O’Neil has no bronze, so he’s using balls of fired clay, which he has heard will work if the walls are thick enough, and steel is scarce, so he packs the Chinese powder with sharp gravel. He’s tried a few, lighting the fuse and watching it burn down before heaving it as far as he can, praying that the damn thing won’t blow up in his hand.
They will do.
O’Neil sits cross-legged beneath a mango tree far from the encampment, about a hundred unglazed balls sitting empty near his knees. He looks up to see Hanuman walking cautiously toward him. O’Neil laughs. If he’s crazy enough to come there, he’s welcome.
“How is it going?” Hanuman asks, taking a place across from O’Neil.
“Sure, good,” O’Neil answers.
Hanuman watches fascinated as O’Neil scoops powder mixture into a clay ball, cuts a length of fuse, and packs the ball with a wad of cotton. As he starts to melt wax on the opening, using a butter lamp, O’Neil shakes his head and chuckles. “We maybe die together, Hanuman.” Hanuman tries to laugh. When the
granada
is complete, O’Neil tosses it casually to Hanuman, who catches it in his lap, eyes full of terror.
granada
is complete, O’Neil tosses it casually to Hanuman, who catches it in his lap, eyes full of terror.
“Not banging, Hanuman,” O’Neil tells him. “Must make fire for banging, or strong hit.”
“How long until you are done, Onil?”
“Maybe sundown,” O’Neil answers.
“Need any help?”
“I think men maybe very scared of
granadas,
Hanuman. Maybe too scared for helping?”
granadas,
Hanuman. Maybe too scared for helping?”
“Maybe,” Hanuman laughs nervously.
“Bijapuris come soon, Hanuman?” O’Neil asks, as he starts another.
“Maybe.”
“Can make many
granadas,
Hanuman. Who will throw?”
granadas,
Hanuman. Who will throw?”
Hanuman shakes his head. “You can teach us how to throw,
farang
?”
farang
?”
“Sure,” O’Neil answers. “Some men maybe die. You understand?”
Hanuman nods, his face tight, and it seems to O’Neil that he’s working up the nerve to ask a hard question. At last Hanuman proves him right. “You have a wife, Onil?”
“Wife dead. Why? Maybe you have a sister?”
Hanuman looks shocked. O’Neil tries to restrain his amusement. From what he knows of these people, he can imagine how shocking the idea of O’Neil and Hanuman’s sister must be.
“No sister, no sister!” Hanuman says, laughing as he realizes that O’Neil is teasing him. Hanuman looks O’Neil over, as though considering how much to reveal. He’s going to tell me a secret, O’Neil realizes. I’m a damned
farang,
and it makes no difference what you tell a damned
farang
. I’m lower than a barber, and men will tell their barbers anything.
farang,
and it makes no difference what you tell a damned
farang
. I’m lower than a barber, and men will tell their barbers anything.
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