by John Speed
Tanaji meets them in the middle of the courtyard, the packs slung across his back and under his arms. Shahu makes no move to help. “You’ll be Master Bhisma’s servant,” the caretaker says. Tanaji blinks at the name but notices Shahu’s fierce look and says nothing.
As they walk together, the caretaker chatters on about his miserable life: “Always there are too many guests or none at all, sir. And now here comes this farang big shot, and all his guards, I tell you. Farangs! You never know with those devils, sir.” The caretaker’s head bobs between them as they pass the foreigner’s guard sitting by the guesthouse door. “Look, sir. An armed guard sitting there just like that, sir! I am appalled to see such a thing in my dharmsala! Who will hurt him at my place, I ask you?”
The caretaker leads them across the courtyard to another building opposite the guest quarters. “The guesthouse is already full,” he explains, “and these quarters are reserved for the arrival of government officials.”
The special quarters look similar to the guesthouse, but there’s no covered verandah, just a slate patio in front. As in the guesthouse, each room has a narrow double door. These doors can be locked on the outside or on the inside, by a bolt that slides from one door to a fastener on the other
The caretaker slides his hip up to the lock so his long key can reach without having to remove the key ring from his belt. The bolt sticks, squeaking noisily, and finally opens with a bang that echoes in the empty room. Inside, the rooms are dark and cool. Thick whitewashed walls reach up to a soaring thatched roof with a high window for ventilation; the furnishings: a low wooden bed, and a bedside table with a single oil lamp.
“These rooms, of course, are just the same as the guest quarters across the way,” the caretaker says. He ignores Tanaji. “But it is a special building, actually, sir, designed for privacy. Very quiet, sir, away from all the snoring, and only opened for dignitaries so that they can sleep in peace, and also for newlyweds so everyone else can sleep in peace.”
“Why didn’t you give it to that farang big shot, then?” Shahu asks. Don’t egg him on, thinks Tanaji.
“I tell you, that fellow is a prick, sir! Farangs are not gentlemen, I tell you. They demanded that room on the end. Do I run this dharmsala or not, I ask you, sir? Am I the shah’s servant or theirs?”
“Well, I hope they give you something for all your trouble. You may be certain I appreciate your courtesy,” Shahu says, handing the man a few coins. “I would be grateful if you could give my servant a room.”
“I suppose he might be allowed to sleep in the next room,” the caretaker replies, scowling at Tanaji.
After many more compliments and bows, the caretaker at last bobs out of the room. He doesn’t look at the coins immediately, but Tanaji can see his fingers in his pocket, testing their heft.
Tanaji sets the saddlebags on the floor. “Who’s Master Bhisma?” he asks.
“It’s how they know me here,” Shahu replies casually. He stretches on the low bed. Its mattress is a thick cotton pad resting on a net of stout ropes. The pad has a musty smell, as though the room had been shut up for too long. “What did you find out?” he asks.
“The groom says they’ve come from Nagpur. One of the farangs rides in that covered palki. He wears a big veil that hangs on his hat. None of the guards have ever seen his face. The other farangs never go near the palki. When he takes a shit, the whole caravan must turn its back. The farangs keep their pistols out in case anyone wants to take a look.”
“Who needs a guard to take a shit?”
Tanaji nods. “Also the guards have too much money—they’re overpaid. You’re sure this is the right caravan?”
“Yes. And the caretaker told me they’d paid with gold. Did you hear anything about the cargo?”
“Sure, I heard. The groom said they’re carrying prayer rugs to Surat. A groom, four guards, a captain, and three farangs, all for prayer rugs.”
“They must be impressive rugs,” Shahu says. “What do you think?”
“Jewels, probably. There’s no indication they’ve got anything heavy.”
Shahu looks pleased. “Fine. Easy for us to steal. We’ll get a good sleep, leave early, and waylay them on the other side of town tomorrow morning.” Tanaji nods. “Did you learn anything else, uncle?”
“I’ve learned your bags are too damned heavy. I’m sick of carrying them. Maybe I should be the master again.” As Tanaji complains, Shahu takes his bedroll and flips it onto the bed. The roll opens to reveal a fierce-looking sword that Shahu quickly hides beneath the bedclothes. “Don’t wear your weapons here. Keep them hidden tonight,” he says quietly to Tanaji. Shahu looks at Tanaji’s expression and adds, “I mean it.”
“Why?” asks Tanaji, annoyed. Shahu looks at him but says nothing. For Tanaji, these unexplained orders are one of the more unpleasant aspects of his recent life with Shahu. He remembers the old days, when he gave the orders. “Then if you have nothing further for me, sir, I’ll go to my own room now, sir, if you don’t mind, sir.”
“Keep your mace under your blanket,” Shahu insists.
“All right, all right,” Tanaji replies. “Don’t forget: that mace has saved your life more than once.” He drags his bags outside, to the room next door.
Shahu closes the door. By the dim light of the high windows, Shahu examines his sword. The blade of dark steel has been sharpened until the razor edge glistens like a bright silver thread.
There are many kinds of sword blade, each suited to a particular style of fighting, a particular temperament: blades narrow, long and flexible, with a needle-sharp point for stabbing from a distance; heavy, moon-shaped blades with a sweeping edge, designed for a rider to hack from above; blades thick and deep, like an elongated ax head.
The blade that whispers beneath Shahu’s thumbnail, however, is narrow, light, sharpened to glide smoothly through flesh and sinew. Every blade has drawbacks; this blade will snap if caught in live bone; the steel, designed for sharpness, is brittle. But for close-quarter fighting, for speed and quiet action, no blade could compare.
Hearing a knock, Shahu sheathes the sword and secretes it beneath his bedroll, then swings back the inner bolt to open the door. It’s the caretaker bringing pitchers of fresh water. As he places the pitcher on the bed table, Shahu asks casually about the guarded room. “I think that farang bastard may be sick,” the caretaker says. “I think maybe leprosy.”
Shahu straightens up, looking shocked. The caretaker’s face is shocked as well. Having said the words aloud, they no longer seem unreasonable to him; suddenly the caretaker thinks he may be right. “No one has seen him. He came in a closed palanquin. He ducked straight into his room. He was covered from top to toe—you couldn’t see his face, his hands, nothing. He wore one of those big hats—you know the kind farangs wear, sir, like a tray on the head? A veil on the brim—it looked like a big black sack over his head.”
They agree that it’s all very strange, and not like the old days. The caretaker limps to Tanaji’s room with the other pitcher.
Shahu takes up a towel and goes to the nearby well for a wash. Tanaji is already there bathing. “I don’t like it if he’s a leper,” Tanaji mutters as Shahu shares the news. “You can never go wrong keeping a big distance from a leper, that’s my view.”
“Fine,” Shahu says gently. “Then keep an eye on his guards and see what they’re up to. If he’s a leper, they’ll know.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“Look at those guards—do they seem worried?” Shahu dries his face. “We’ll stick to my plan, leper or no.”
The first bell of evening begins to ring and they head for the common area near the courtyard verandah. Shahu takes long, easy strides, and Tanaji must bustle on his stumpy legs just to keep up.
Among the blossoming bowers of roses, cloths and cushions have been set on the ground, where the guests of the dharmsala are gathering for supper. As they approach the courtyard, Tanaji and Shahu see two farangs in their bizarr
e costumes seated there.
Tanaji and Shahu find seats, trying not to stare at the foreigners, who sit on wooden chairs and talk among themselves. Farangs are still so few, so unusual, that they have a compelling novelty; it is all too easy to stare.
The guards, some of whom are playing cards, nod casually at the two new arrivals. From their belts hang swords, knives, and punch daggers. The farangs carry long straight swords and pistols tucked into their belts.
One of the farangs notices Tanaji eyeing his pistols. “Ever fired a pistola, captain?” he asks in heavily accented Marathi. Tanaji is too shocked to be addressed by a farang even to reply. The farang laughs, and then leans back, poking the other farang in the arm, and they laugh together. Something about their laughter perturbs Tanaji.
“I am a Portuguese,” the farang says proudly. “My farang name is”—here he says some blather of syllables—“but my Hindi friends call me Deoga.” He nods to Shahu. “You must be Master Bhisma.”
Shahu namskars politely, folding his hands and bowing his head. Deoga namskars in reply. Then he pushes his hand forward as if reaching for Shahu. “This is how we greet each other as farangs,” he explains, grasping Shahu’s hand and swinging it up and down. “There now, we’ve met properly.” The guards are clearly amused.
“My friend is an English,” Deoga continues, pointing to the other farang. “His name is Onil. You want to greet Onil?” Shahu finally understands, and with some trepidation, pushes his hand forward.
“Other hand, captain,” Deoga whispers.
With a pleasant smile, Onil takes Shahu’s hand in his and squeezes it while moving it up and down. It is not so unpleasant when Onil does it.
Tanaji examines the farangs. They’re about the same age, and bigger than most Hindis, more dense and fleshy. Both wear loose white shirts, dark sleeveless tunics fastened by small silver disks, dark trousers that cling tightly to their legs, fastened along the outside edge with disks of bone, and heavy boots that come up to their knees. Tanaji imagines they would be very difficult to walk in. Deoga’s hair is dark brown, but Onil’s is that odd coppery-golden color that some farangs have, and he has the ghostly blue eyes that go with it. Both have beards and pale, pasty skin, and Onil’s skin is blotchy with small orange patches and lumps.
But Tanaji senses something else in these men, an agitated air that clings to them like an odor. Deoga impresses Tanaji as a typical farang: open, loutish, overbearing, pushy. He acts as if he doesn’t realize how loud he talks, or doesn’t care. Onil, on the other hand, seems careful, reserved. He hangs back at every moment, watching, waiting, considering his next move. Tanaji doesn’t trust him.
Shahu returns to his seat near Tanaji, looking relieved to put some space between himself and the farangs. The guards chuckle; it’s clear they think the farangs are a fine joke.
At that moment the caravan captain walks up, looking very ill humored. “All right boys,” he says, “eat up. Then draw lots for watch. First watch starts in an hour. Questions? None? Good.”
Tanaji approves of his style: quick and direct, the captain acts like a professional. Like all good captains, he strides off confidently the moment he stops speaking, his orders still ringing in the air, hoping to give his men the impression that the orders came from God’s own voice, and those with questions or doubts are fools.
The caretaker, meanwhile, limps to the gate of the dharmsala. Two bars of iron hang from a tree near the gate; he vigorously strikes one against the other, setting up a terrific clang.
As the ringing fades, his thin voice shouts the official formula, “In the name of Allah the Munificent and his excellence the Nizam Shah of Ahmednagar, may he live forever, the gates of this dharmsala are about to close.” With these words, he swings shut the iron gates with a boom. Then he resumes shouting, “Let all who remain sleep in peace! Look to your possessions!” With that the caretaker locks the gate with a long iron lock. This ritual over, life in the courtyard returns to normal.
While they argue over their watch assignments, the guards are cooking vegetables in big iron pots. The hot oil and smoky spices fill the air with fragrance. The farangs are talking, sounding to Tanaji like bleating goats.
As he stretches his arm, Tanaji notices three black dots in the crease of his elbow.
One of the guards is laying out banana leaves. Soon warm and fragrant food has been piled on each of the leaves. As if at a silent signal, the guards move to seat themselves; Shahu and the farangs come when Tanaji calls them to eat.
As he takes his place, Shahu glances over to the guarded door of the missing farang. Tanaji leans over to Shahu. “He has to come out sometime. Even if he doesn’t eat, he’s got to pee.”
“I wonder.” He glances at the farangs, who have left their wooden chairs to sit politely on the seating cloths set on the ground. Their stiff knees jut up into the air. Deoga uses his knife to probe at the vegetables he has been given; Onil uses his right hand like a civilized person, but is as clumsy as a child. Bits of food fall on his shirt just as his fingers reach his lips. The guards snigger.
The captain dispatches a guard to bring food to the missing farang. “Have you boys got your schedule all set?” he asks brusquely, eating with quick motions. “All right. First watch in five minutes. No complaints!”
The skies now are nearly dark: the last rosy glow of the setting sun has faded, and the crescent moon won’t rise until it’s nearly dawn.
“You expect trouble, captain?” Deoga asks. He has lifted the banana leaf and shovels the food into his mouth.
“Maybe,” he replies. “There are many robbers in these hills.”
The caretaker limps up. “Robbers indeed,” he sputters. “This dharmsala has never been robbed!”
“A first time for everything,” the captain replies.“You’ve got about ten bands of robbers in a thirty-mile radius of here. But most of them won’t bother us. We only need to worry about three: Kalidas, Shivaji, and Chandbibi. The rest are lazy scum. But those three show some initiative, and initiative is what you don’t want in your robbers.”
“No thief would dare enter this dharmsala!” the caretaker says.
“Better too careful, than not careful enough,” the dark farang says. “What concerns you about those three?”
The captain seems pleased by the farang’s question. “First, Kalidas. He is crazy. The crescent moon tonight is sacred to his goddess Kali. He has been quiet lately. I’d bet his men are getting restless.
“Next, Shivaji. Mostly he works the roads west of here. Attacking a dharmsala isn’t Shivaji’s style. He prefers the open road, but he likes surprise. So maybe he’ll surprise us. But he’s a coward—so if the guards stay awake, he’ll never come near. Still, men get weary, you know? Sometimes they’re paid to fall asleep.
“Last, Chandbibi. She could charm her way in here and never spill a drop of blood. Our guards have been away from their women too long. Let Chandbibi show a bit of thigh, and so much for discipline.” His eyes sparkle. “She has excellent thighs,” he adds, as if remembering.
“Most caravans are robbed by their own guards,” Shahu says. The captain responds with an icy stare. “So if there’s anyone to fear, captain, I’d say it’s your men. Or you.” The captain’s hand moves slowly toward his sword. Shahu, unarmed, stares back, stone still. The fire crackles.
Finally Deoga laughs. “God, you Hindis would murder each other over a penny!” He leans forward. “By God, captain, let’s not fight!” But no one speaks, and Shahu and the captain do not break their stare.
Then the caretaker pipes up loudly, “Sri Bhisma is a storyteller! Maybe you can tell us a story, sir?”
The farang forces another booming laugh, but his eyes are stern. “Yes, captain, tell us a story! Only go slow or my friend won’t know what you are saying.” He nods to Onil, who smiles politely, uncertain of the joke.
“All right,” Shahu says. “What shall I tell?”
“Tell us the story of Shivaji,” the captain says
coldly. “You’re from his part of the country, I think.”
“Suppose instead I tell you the story of Shivaji’s grandfather,” Shahu replies. “That story is more interesting. It so happened that a poor farmer called Maloji lived in a village called Khed.”
“Maloji had been plowing one day when a glittering green snake coiled at his feet, looked up at him with golden eyes, and then slithered down into a nearby hole, like a rope of emeralds. The next day, from that same hole, Maloji saw a woman’s hand emerge, green as a shoot of bakri, long and graceful as a snake, the hand of a goddess living in the the soil, beckoning, beckoning.
“He dug where the goddess showed him: deeper, deeper, deep as a well, a well so deep he could not see the sky, but found nothing. Exhausted, miserable, about to give up, he suddenly found, wrapped in a snake-green cloth, a treasure: a trove of weapons and gold.
“Maloji took these blessings, put on armor and bought a horse. Risking all, he rode fully armed to the court of the Nizam Shah of Ahmednagar. The Nizam Shah, impressed by his audacity, made him a mandsabdar of a thousand men and a hundred horses.
“Maloji used his wealth to build an army: the bravest men and the strongest horses the shah had ever seen. He rode at the vanguard of the shah’s battles, gaining glory.
“Maloji then sought a wife for his only son, Shahji: One day he rode into the midst of the swayamvara of a princess, and in the face of all her suitors hauled her on his horse, and rode away.
“When the kidnapped princess saw Shahji, her intended groom, she fell in love at once and married him and they lived in joy. The Nizam Shah gave the newlyweds a glorious kingdom, if Maloji could conquer it. So Maloji led his army, and took those lands. With those battles the Sultan of Bijapur became Maloji’s enemy forever, and his son Shahji’s enemy as well.”
“Wait, no more!” interrupts the captain. “Bijapur was Shahji’s savior, not his enemy!” He grows agitated. “When Shahji couldn’t beat old Wagnak, he ran to Bijapur to hide. On his knees, like a woman! Shahji begged for Bijapur to save him.”