Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  He sees Maya now. She stands ahead of him, dressed now in a yellow sari like the other nautch girls, swaying, spinning with the others. Tanaji feels no surprise at her transformation. His arms are waving over his head, his voice is ringing: Jai! Jai! Ganapati! Jai! Jai! Ganesha! The pounding of the drums crescendos; the stone room has itself become a drum.

  The brahmins move ahead to the pounding heart of the temple, to the red velvet drapes that veil the inner room, the very home of the god himself. A shastri slowly draws the drapes aside.

  The form of the god can be seen in his holy place—hazily, of course, for a curtain of silk gauze still hangs across the door. But even this first glimpse of the deity is enough to stir the crowd, to push their emotions to the brink. The drumming grows yet louder. The chant is shouted now, not sung. The nautch girls leap so high they seem to fly.

  The brahmins raise butter lamps and sandalwood on silver trays. They wave the trays in long circles, and chant their praises of the god. In the crowd, bodies now vibrate with the echoes of those huge drums, of those clanging gongs and roaring horns, like the walls and the floors, the people themselves now throb with the universe’s own unending hymns of praise.

  The priests now beg the deity to wake and bless them with his darshan, their chants mingling with the smoke and light and sound. And at that moment the sun bursts through a window in the dome and strikes the face of the deity. The temple explodes in sound as the brahmins bow and lower their arti trays and pull the last gauze curtain aside.

  Silence. Silece that roars as loud as an ocean. The echoes fade, like the last quiet hum of a great gong. It is he: Ganesha.

  What a delightful sight he is, always curious, always refreshing, like clear air that has never before been breathed. Ganesha, the child of Shiva, the delight of all the gods.

  Ganesha was only a child when he defied his father Shiva on his mother’s orders. In his anger, Shiva, who had never met his child, sliced off his head with the light of his third eye. How Shiva grieved when he found that he had killed his own son! So Shiva killed a passing elephant, attached the elephant’s head to the tiny corpse, and resurrected the boy with his tears.

  This is the murti that Tanaji sees: Ganesha with his chubby body and elephant head now pink and perfect like a child’s; Ganesha with his four hands displaying his munificence—one hand open as a sign of comfort, the others holding signs of power and affection: a lily, a discus, and a bowl of candy for his lovers. At his feet is a rat, for of all the animals, the rat goes anywhere and none can keep him out—so, too Ganesha removes all obstacles and none can restrain him. He sits on a silver throne with his consorts—Buddhi seated near one knee, Siddhi at the other, sweet, slim-hipped goddesses with naked breasts as round as custard apples.

  The body of the murti glows rosy pink in the sun, the palms of his hands and feet bright red. His painted eyes—divinely, exquisitely human—are long-lashed and languid and serene. Those who look into those eyes and have his darshan are blessed: their sins, their obstacles removed.

  With soft prayers, the priests now bathe the god using the water carried from the river, pouring pot after silver pot over his head until the murti gleams like a great pink jewel. They dry him with soft cloths, then dress him: in rich silks shot with gold, and heavy brocades and velvets. They offer him sweets—pedas, his favorite, little cakes of boiled milk and sugar. Once he has eaten his fill, the priests take the bounty that remains to offer to the crowd as Ganesha’s prasad.

  And now the crowd begins to disassemble, to step out of its ecstasy, to fall from the height of heaven back to earth. Instead of one people, they become many persons; they form into lines and approach the railing that separates them from the deity.

  One by one they come to take Ganesha’s holy gifts. They waft fingers through the flames of his sacred butter lamps, and touch the fire to eyes and lips. They receive a spoonful of the water that bathed the god’s body: from their palms they swallow a drop, and sprinke the rest on their heads. Finally they take from the brahmin’s hand a peda, Ganesha’s sweet prasad, food that comes from the mouth of god.

  Each one steps away from that railing silent, blessed, filled, once more an individual, with all the frailties and worries and tiny joys of the day to face, but now with hope.

  Tanaji edges to the railing, his eyes fixed on the Lord Ganesha’s eyes—they are beautiful; he is reminded of Maya’s eyes. Suddenly he is inspired to perform palikarsha: Crossing his arms in front of him, he grabs his earlobes and bobs up and down three times—the silly gesture that the deity enjoys, for he is still a child at heart. The gesture makes Tanaji forget the horrors of the previous night; it makes him too, feel like a child. He waves his hands through the flame offered by the priest, and sprinkles water on his hair, and takes a peda, and then two more.

  He walks backward so as not to turn his back on the deity, and heads back to the pilgrims’ quarters, munching on the peda as he goes. There Tanaji finds Onil. “For you,” he tells the farang, handing him the prasad.

  “What is it?”

  Tanaji thinks about how best to tell Onil about the darshan he has received, about the blessings and generosity of the elephant-headed god, about the holy prasad that has fallen from Ganesha’s very lips, from the god who removes all obstacles, this blessing that now rests in Onil’s hands.

  “Candy,” he explains. “Eat it.”

  Onil eats the small ivory-colored cake. “Sure, good,” he says. “Shivaji go talk some woman.”

  “Maya?” Tanaji asks.

  “No—old woman, very old woman,” Onil replies. “He very happy. Maybe she is his mother, I think.”

  Tanaji snorts. “If he was happy to see her, it wasn’t his mother.”

  At that moment he turns to see a dark, slender girl of about sixteen who raises her folded hands to her forehead. “I have come for my mistress’s things,” she announces. “Which bags are hers?”

  Tanaji sputters for a second—he never reacts well to sudden pronouncements, particularly from women. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I am Jyoti. I live here. Premabai, my old mistress, has just made me the servant of Mayabai, and I have come to take her things to her quarters in the dancers’ school.”

  “Mayabai?” Tanaji asks. “You mean the nautch girl?”

  “She is no nautch girl, sir! She is a daughter of the goddess,” Jyoti replies, offended. “You might as well call her a whore!”

  He might indeed. And then he might also beat this girl for insolence. But he is a stranger here. He mumbles an apology. “Her stuff is there.” He nods casually to a couple of cloth bags pushed up against the wall near the door. Jyoti doesn’t move. “Well?” he asks.

  She glares at him. “You can’t expect me to carry her bags?”

  Tanaji picks up Maya’s things, swearing under his breath. Jyoti leads him across the courtyard to a small complex of buildings behind the new dance temple.

  The buildings face a small courtyard. Jyoti lifts her hand to indicate a door. Nearby Maya paints henna on the hands of Upala, the little girl who tended Onil. “Just put them there,” Maya says, without looking up.

  “Oh yes, madam.” Tanaji snarls.

  If she is bothered by his tone, Maya makes no sign; she focuses on the intricate design she traces with the cone of dye on the little girl’s pudgy hands. “Oh, and pay her please,” Maya adds, not looking up.

  “Pay who?”

  “Jyoti,” Maya answers, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I don’t have any money, do I?”

  Jyoti serenely holds out her hand while Tanaji splutters. At last he claws out his purse and spills some coins into his palm. He can barely speak for anger. “How much?”

  “Ten annas,” Maya says.

  “Ten? For the month? That’s a lot for a serving girl.”

  “For the week. And she isn’t a serving girl. She’s my maid. It’s what they’re paid in civilized countries. Perhaps you wouldn’t know that.” Maya continues t
o decorate Upala’s hand.

  “I’m giving her seven,” Tanaji replies at last.

  Maya glares at him, but she sees the anger in his face. So she lowers her eyes and says with a practiced quaver, “You are kind to me, uncle.” Her voice is sweet like cool water. Tanaji is mystified by his response. All his anger vanishes.

  “That will be all,” Jyoti tells him. Before he knows what has happened, he finds himself staring at the door that Jyoti has closed in his face. He struggles to make sense of his situation. Life is strange, he decides.

  He finds Shivaji in the portico of the dance temple, talking with a gray-haired woman. Shivaji motions for Tanaji to join them. “Who is the deity of this dance temple?” Tanaji asks as he sits next to Shivaji.

  The gray-haired woman seems pleased by his question. “This temple houses the goddess, who has many forms, but only one essence,” she says. From her yellowed teeth, Tanaji realizes that she is much older than she first appears, for her face is bright and hardly wrinkled and her eyes are clear. “Here the goddess is pleased to share with us her form as Bhavani. Do you know this aspect of the goddess?”

  “Sure,” Tanaji replies. “You worship Bhavani, don’t you, Shahu?”

  “Yes, my little Shahu knows her well. Don’t you, sweet?” Shivaji turns away with a bashfulness that Tanaji has not seen before. “You don’t know me, do you?” the old woman says to Tanaji. “But I know you. Your father brought you here when you were just a baby. Your father was Balaram, a great favorite of Maloji. And your mother was a beauty, but I forget her name. I’m old, you see.”

  “You knew my parents?” Tanaji asks. “They died when I was young.”

  “Your father was a great warrior,” the woman tells him, raising her hand to his, pulling him down beside her. “Without him, Maloji was nothing. Balaram and Maloji—they were fearless! Princes, but born as farmers by some whim of the goddess. And such adventures! To become princes in their own time! Yes, I knew your father. He was a friend of mine, child.”

  “I scarcely remember my father, and my mother not at all. Maloji raised me with his own son, Shahji. Maloji never said that my father was important.”

  “Important!” the old woman exclaims. “Essential! Without your father, Maloji would not have been a prince, and without Maloji, this temple would never have survived.” She squeezes Tanaji’s hand surprisingly hard.

  “Her name is Premabai,” Shivaji tells him. “She has been a temple dancer here since before this temple was built. She was a great favorite of my grandfather. He visited her often.” It takes a moment for Tanaji to realize that Shivaji is saying that Premabai was his grandfather’s mistress.

  Premabai’s knotted fingers still squeeze Tanaji’s hand. “I am so glad you brought my sister here,” she whispers. “Mayabai, I mean.”

  “That nautch girl? Maya?”

  Premabai’s expression is one of such grief that Tanaji wishes he could cut out his tongue. She looks at him with that tolerant forgiveness reserved for the very old. “That’s not such a nice word, you know. She and I are devadasis, and daughters of the same mother. What you say of her, you also say of me. You think like others, that all nautch girls are whores.”

  Tanaji hangs his head.

  “We devadasis have only one mother, our dear guru—she becomes our mother, our father, our family. Mayabai and I both were chelas of the same teacher, Gungama of Bengal. You’ve heard of her?” Tanaji lifts his hands uncertainly. “Never mind,” Premabai says sadly. “It is not her portion to be famous in this lifetime.”

  She shifts so she can look straight into Tanaji’s eyes. He is surprised by the force of her look. “You must do me a kindness, little one. I am too old for you to refuse.” Again she takes his hand, pressing it urgently. “Promise me to keep her safe. Do you understand?”

  “Maya, you mean? Mayabai?” he asks, and she nods her head.

  “Promise me, little one, that you’ll care for my sister when I cannot,” she begs.

  “Yes, mother, yes,” he answers.

  “It was for this reason that you have returned here. I have seen this,” she tells him, as if revealing a great secret. She peers into his face, and he feels a joyous peace flowing from her eyes into his.

  “We must let you go, Premabai,” Shivaji rises and namskars.

  “Can I help you up, mother?” Tanaji asks, offering his hand.

  “I shall stay here.” As the two men walk off, she draws the end of her sari over her head and begins to chant, rocking gently with the words.

  Lunch. On a rush-roofed verandah the temple residents sit shoulder to shoulder on a flagstone floor, banana-leaf plates in front of them. Servers inch between the rows, ladling food from pots they carry wrapped in thick towels—rice, dal, dahi. Tanaji turns to Shivaji. “We’re in danger here. We stick out. Someone here will inform on us. Those Khirki men will find us and there’s no way out. We’ll die here, most likely.”

  “I agree. We’ll leave tomorrow. By oxcart. Dawn.”

  “You mean to take the girl?” Tanaji asks.

  Shivaji doesn’t even need to answer.

  “Maybe she should stay here,” Tanaji suggests, thinking of Premabai.

  “No.”

  Tanaji looks into Shivaji’s face. There’s no room for argument. “And the farang?” Tanaji asks.

  “Forget the farang,” Shivaji replies. “He’s dying. I’ll give the shastri some money to bury him. That’s their custom, I think. Buried in the ground like Muslims.”

  Tanaji notices a man looking at him: dark, dirty, his hair and beard matted with dust; wearing rags so tattered they hide very little, so grimed by dust and sweat that they look almost like part of the earth itself. People keep their distance from him. Even when Tanaji looks away, he can feel the rag man’s eyes burning into him. Then, unexpectedly, the rag man’s face breaks into a toothy, extravagant grin.

  As if he needed any new element to strain his reason, the strange smile of this strange man completely unnerves him. Suddenly Tanaji’s mind starts overheating. “We shouldn’t be seen together,” Tanaji says with sudden urgency. “We’re being watched. We should sit apart.”

  “Uncle,” Shivaji says, frowning with concern, “don’t tell me you’re worried. That is only Ram Das. You know Ram Das. He’s that crazy holy man. He wanders from town to town—you’ve seen him before. Ram Das is harmless! You’re tired, uncle. Finish your food. Get some sleep.”

  At the very word “sleep,” Tanaji feels so weary he can scarcely keep his eyes open. Suddenly a question pops into his mind. “Why do they call you Master Bhisma, Shahu? What’s that all about?”

  “You know the story of Bhisma, uncle. From the Mahabharata.”

  “Sure. The prince who made the terrible vow. The gods showered him with celestial flowers.”

  “That’s the one,” Shivaji says. Tanaji looks back with uncomprehending eyes. “You know of the vow we took—your sons and me?”

  “That was all some child’s game, Shahu.”

  Shivaji looks up, as if pained by Tanaji’s words. “We made our vow here, uncle, at this temple. That’s why they call me Bhisma.” Shaking his head as if lost in memories, Shivaji walks off.

  “But I don’t understand!” Tanaji calls after him. “What was so terrible? The gods didn’t shower you with flowers, did they, Shahu?”

  Shivaji waves, without turning his head.

  The bells wake him. For a moment O’Neil is back in Dublin, listening to the bells of Saint Finian’s—asleep in his big wooden bed, his wife still alive, his daughter still alive. For a moment the constant ache of his heart disappears. But how, he wonders, has Dublin got so hot? When did it start to smell of jasmine and dung? And the bells don’t sound right—usually they peal forth like angels, not clanging and banging to wake the dead.

  And then he knows. He is in Hindustan, far from home and alone. Absently rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, he refuses to acknowledge, even to himself, that they are wet with tears.


  His clothing is soaked: sweat mixed with blood and dung and herbs. An ugly stain crosses the once white cotton of his shirt. I need a drink, he thinks, wishing for whiskey. A pitcher stands near his bed, and he picks it up. Empty. He can’t remember drinking it, but he must have done.

  Where’s that girl? He stands, and darkness swims before his eyes.

  He tries to ignore the smell rising from his chest, the smell that seeps through even the heavy odor of cow dung and herbs. He knows that smell too well: the sick rotten sweetness of a festering wound. Once it gets in your nose, it takes hours before it goes away. Now, sweet Mary, that smell rises from him.

  He struggles to walk to the door. He needs water, some food, the girl, something. He is exhausted just by the effort of getting this far. But he won’t turn back and he won’t lie down again: he has the soldier’s fear that if he doesn’t move, he will fade into a slow, still death.

  With each step his lips move soundlessly—Ave Maria, gratia plena. Silently he begs the Virgin to forgive his clumsy prayer, to forgive that he hasn’t tasted the Host in months, and with tears in his heart, he begs Her to look after his sweethearts, to lift them from the muck of purgatory to join with Her in Blessed Paradise. He prays a lot these days.

  Some man comes up to him, half-naked, wearing nothing but a skirt tied around his waist, and across his chest that bloody string they all wear. “Something something,” the man says, trying not to stare at O’Neil. “Other man something.”

  “Pardon me but I do not speak your language very well. Please talk to me slowly, and use small simple words,” O’Neil answers, the formula he has memorized. His wound is starting to throb now: his chest is on fire.

  The man nods and now talks as though O’Neil were deaf. “Taaa-nnnaaaaji. Slleeeeping.” He points to the door of the next room, and mimes someone napping.

  “My friend, I very thirsty. You having water nearby?” O’Neil croaks.

  The man frowns, looking confused for a moment, and then nods enthusiastically. He points toward some building, a small temple maybe. Odd to put water in a temple, O’Neil thinks.