by John Speed
Trelochan speaks. “But Shahu, look at what she’s done to your friends, to your house. Even to you! If you won’t sell her, at least send her away.”
“What about taking her back to Ranjangaon temple?” Tanaji suggests. “She’s a devadasi. She belongs dancing in a temple.”
“Dangerous,” says Shivaji. “Too close to Khirki and that dharmsala. Too busy, too. Someone might recognize her.”
“What about Adoli temple?” Bala says. “It’s just a few miles from Welhe. That’s Iron’s place. Remember Iron? He was a great friend of Shahji.”
“It’s a little village,” Hanuman says. “Same sort of trouble will get stirred up there as here, don’t you think?”
“She’ll be in the temple, not the village. A Bhavani temple. There’s a dancing school. Maya could help.”
“They’ll find her,” Hanuman says. “She’s worth a lot, a girl like that. Just because Shivaji has some honor …”
“Iron will protect her. He is a real man,” Dadaji says firmly. “A devadasi he will keep safe.”
“But the road to Welhe will be dangerous,” Hanuman insists.
“Do it carefully, then,” Tanaji says. He lifts his chin, pointing to the sky. “In a week or two monsoons will start. You won’t find anybody traveling those roads then, not even bandits. Wait until it rains.
“Can’t use a cart though, not on those roads, not in the rain,” Tanaji realizes. “They’ll have to learn to ride.”
“I’ll see to it,” Hanuman says, unable to disguise his pleasure.
This final plan meets mumbled approval. The mood at last is pleasant.
Except for Dadaji. Dadaji considers Shivaji. Measuring him, the way a man measures the beam he lays on a foundation, wondering if it will serve.
And except for Lakshman. Unnoticed, he has moved into the shadows on the other side of the courtyard. He waits there as Maya comes out of the bathing house, like a flower blossoming in the morning still wet with dew.
Watching.
As the monsoons approach, the days grow darker. The sky changes. For a while, the sun peeks through the haze. Then the haze becomes thick, and there is only a glow where once the bright sun shone.
It will only be days, perhaps hours before the rains come to Poona. The air grows dense with moisture; sweat hangs on the skin, clothing will not dry, mold grows on sandals and mildew stains walls.
Jijabai finds Shivaji sitting on the verandah, looking at a stack of papers. For a moment, she remembers herself as young woman, scarcely more than a girl, carrying him in her belly in all that heat, holding him to her nipple as he suckled, carrying him on her hip through these forests as they first came to Poona. What hopes she had.
Now she is hopeless. Looking down she doubts that he will ever achieve anything. He is truly his father’s son, she thinks. So she stands over him rather than sit beside him.
Jijabai scowls. “The girl,” she says at last.
“You wanted her gone. She’s going. We’ll leave when the rains start; in a day or two. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“What about the ransom?” she says, choking out the words.
Shivaji bobs his head noncommittally. “No ransom, mother.”
“Why should you throw away the fortune that the gods have placed in your hands?” Jijabai stamps her foot. “Dadaji has told me. The treasury is nearly empty yet you will give away your prize! Have you gone mad?”
“There is plenty. In fact I will take a thousand rupees to the temple as bhiksha …”
“A thousand!”
“There’s plenty in the treasury, mother. Dadaji—”
“How dare you ignore your uncle and adviser!”
Shivaji doesn’t look up. “It is wrong to ransom her.”
“That’s not what you said before! This is her doing. You’ve been manipulated. She’s leading you around by your lingam. You and all your men—like dogs smelling a bitch!”
“Mother,” Shivaji whispers.
But Jijabai doesn’t care if her voice carries up the stairs. Let her hear! “She is no fragile flower, Shahu. Her yoni is no unopened bud. I’m sure you’ve found that out. Under your own roof, with your son not twenty feet away!” She bites her lip, determined not to weep. “Oh, Shahu,” she moans. “What will become of us? I won’t die poor. I won’t!”
“Mother, such talk! Who says you will be poor?”
“The treasury is nearly empty. How will we live?”
“There’s plenty left, mother. Plenty for many months.”
“Not enough if the Bijapuris demand a larger allotment.” She watches with satisfaction as Shivaji considers this. Now, maybe, he understands the reason she is so upset. “You must raise the tax. If only to appease the Bijapuris.” She ignores Shivaji’s puzzled look. “Of all the jagirs in their realm Poona has the lowest taxes. Why do you think so many farmers are moving here? Don’t you think it attracts their notice? How long can you expect them to ignore us? Soon they will come in anger!”
“But they made a treaty with my father,” Shivaji protests.
“Oh, you are a child,” she sighs.
In a small fenced ring, Jyoti and Maya trot their ponies in an easy circle. In the center of the ring stands Hanuman, from time to time flicking the the ponies with a long willow branch.
Hanuman smiles to himself. If they go in the rain as Tanaji plans, when will they even find a place to trot? When will they do anything but slog through a river of mud? Still it is enjoyable to teach them.
Sometimes Jyoti’s pony will suddenly break into a canter and when this happens, she laughs. Hanuman notices the way Jyoti responds, enjoying the sudden roughness and surprise. He finds himself thinking thoughts that have nothing to do with horses.
Maya on the other hand is quiet as she rides. But she is a much better rider: calm where Jyoti is excited, still where Jyoti bounces. Already the horse and Maya move as one.
“You’re both doing very well today!” Hanuman calls out. “You’re ready for the trip, I think.” He looks at the sky, squinting, sniffing the air. “Rain tonight. So we’ll leave tomorrow or the day after. You’ll do fine.”
“You are too kind, dear sir,” Jyoti says with too much formality. “That makes us feel much better than yesterday.”
Hanuman frowns. “What about yesterday?”
Jyoti laughs. “Yesterday you were not so pleased. Yesterday you shouted at us both, and insisted on giving Maya private instructions.”
Hanuman frowns. “I gave you no lesson yesterday.”
Maya’s face changes: first laughter, then shock, then horror.
Jyoti just laughs, not noticing her mistress. “Of course you gave us lessons. I have the stripe on my backside where you missed the horse!”
“No,” says Maya quietly, studying his face. “No. It wasn’t him.”
Tanaji has decided to take twenty-five men along to Welhe. He has two worries: the girl and the gold.
Everyone in Poona knows about the thousand pieces of gold they carry. And Poona buzzes with the tale of Maya’s price of seven lakh hun. If Poona knows, everyone knows. And someone might try something. And the girl is like some witch’s charm that lures men to lust. He has felt that charm; he has seen it at work on Shahu, and on his sons. It seems the whole town has become bewitched. If he takes along enough men, he reasons, the effect might be diluted. They can’t all be smitten at once.
Besides the girl, there is the gold: Shivaji, as Tanaji expected, wants to take a casketful of gold to the temple. There is nothing like giving gold to the shastri to improve your welcome. But gold, Tanaji knows, has a voice; it calls out as it travels, and villains hear its call.
Outside, he hears nervous, prancing hoofbeats, and a grating voice with a horrible accent.
It’s O’Neil.
There at the gate of the compound, arguing with the gatekeeper, riding Shivaji’s fine black Bedouin, with the other Bedouin tethered behind him.
“I never thought we’d see you again!” Tanaji c
alls.
“See, don’t I tell you I good friend Shivaji?” O’Neil calls back. “Look: I am bringing here your Bedouins see? Like promise, I do.”
“Very good, Onil,” Tanaji says. “I never thought we’d see you again, to tell the truth.”
“Where Shivaji? Must talk Shivaji. Where that girl?” O’Neil asks, looking around the courtyard.
Tanaji looks from the farang to the lowering sky. “Don’t unpack,” Tanaji says.
In a cave on the edge of Poona is a temple, carved from the living rock. Thick black columns form its wide colonnade. In the heart of the cave a temple to Shiva has been carved from the basalt, and in the center of that small temple is a shivalingam.
Sai Bai steps into the darkness of the inner temple. She rings the dark bronze bell that hangs from the ceiling. It peals deeply, and a rich, low hum reverberates in the heavy air. She likes this dark place, its coolness and its silence, the ancient temple and the more ancient cave. She comes here when her heart is troubled.
There are no priests here, only the lingam and a tiny butter lamp: it is quiet, cool, and dank. She walks once around the lingam and stands before it, adoring it, quieting her heart. Then she whispers her prayer.
The lingam itself is only about a foot tall. And maybe by design or by the ravages of time, it is not smooth; it seems almost to have veins carved into the black stone. It glistens in the darkness. At its base are flower petals, bits of incense, and a few coins.
She says her prayer, then she waits for a sign that the gods have heard.
In a moment a drop of water forms on the dark ceiling and falls onto the lingam with a plop.
Leaving the temple, she sees him in the shadows, meditating cross-legged on a wide platform of rock, in a part of the cave where the carving was never completed. His head nearly touches the low-hanging ceiling. His eyes are closed and his hands are on his knees.
When she was a child, her auntie told her the story of Karna, the foundling child of a charioteer, really the son of the sun god. When she met Shivaji she thought of that son of the sun: his skin always golden, his face radiant, his eyes like jewels.
She wishes she were enough for him.
Shivaji’s face brightens when he sees Sai Bai. “Did the gods answer?”
“Husband, do you have some trouble on your mind?”
“Maybe some money trouble. Taxes and allotments. Mother thinks Bijapur may raise our allotment, even attack us.”
“What will you do?” He tells her so little about his life outside the palace. But Sai Bai picks up pieces and assembles them in her heart.
“I trust that the path of dharma will be clear. I’ll do what I must.”
She can no longer hold back. Here in the silence of this cave, as the storm gathers round them, she cannot be silent. “I see your heart. I see the madness that you plan.”
Shivaji stares at her. “This is not like you.”
“You must not do it, husband. I see on every side around you blood and death and grief. You must not do this thing.”
“Why not?” he shouts, and his words echo in the cave.
“Because it is the path of darkness. And you …” She cannot finish. “Give up, husband,” she says abruptly. “I have prayed for the courage to say this, so, please, dearest, don’t interrupt me.” Sai Bai takes a deep breath, staring into her husband’s eyes. “Let me care for Sam and Jijabai. Go away from here. She is so beautiful and her heart is pure and she loves you, dearest. She doesn’t know this, yet, but she does. Trelochan says you are already married. So leave these troubles. Give up your mad plan. Take her to some sweet valley in the forest and live lives of pleasure.”
Shivaji lowers his head. “I do not think that is my path.”
“Then make it your path. I know your heart. You have the strength to make it so. Like Kunti and Pandu, be happy in the forest. Be happy, husband, as I will be happy for you.” The faint light highlights tears in the corners of Sai Bai’s eyes.
Shivaji says nothing for a long time. “What about Madri? She was Pandu’s other wife. She went to the forest, too. They were happy together, the three of them, were they not?”
Sai Bai scarcely dares to breathe. “Yes, lord,” she says. “Yes, Madri was happy, too.”
“But it cannot be so with us, Sai Bai,” Shivaji says.
Sai Bai closes her eyes, feeling as though the knife has fallen through her heart. “No,” she says weakly. They are so close, she can hear his heart beating while her own heart breaks.
“I have but one wife, dearest. Why would I seek another? I have but one home. If you think you know my heart, then you must know this.”
“But I thought … and she’s so … perfect …” Sai Bai’s throat is tight and she has trouble speaking.
“But she is not my wife, no matter what a priest may say. You were chosen for me, and for that I thank the gods.”
Sai Bai throws herself against him, her tears now flowing onto his shirt.
“Marry her, husband. I wouldn’t mind. Trelochan says a kshatriya must have many wives.”
“I have you. What man could ask for more?”
“But those women … all those Muslim wives …” Sai Bai says the words before she can stop herself.
Shivaji looks into her eyes. “They are not women.”
“Not women! What are you saying? I don’t understand.”
“Don’t try to understand. Just love me.”
So she clings to him. When they leave the temple, on the open road where anyone may see, she pulls away. But still she feels his weight against her. A wind gusts suddenly in the midst of the dark, humid air. The trees rustle, branches sway in the wind. Then a fat raindrop plops onto her forehead, and one on her arm, and soon the dusty ground begins to jump as big globs of rain splash on the dry earth.
The monsoon has come.
CHAPTER 10
As a fish leaps from the water, eager to catch the baited hook, Ali Khalil saw his chance and leaped.
The life of a lesser nephew of the emperor, simple and obscure, filled with petty handouts and dubious favors—such a life might satisfy some men, but not Ali Khalil. He cadged an invitation to live at the palace; once there he had won his uncle’s trust. But his uncle, Shah Jahan, emperor of Hindustan, would not be emperor long, he soon realized. Ali Khalil was no fool.
So he turned his thoughts to winning the confidence of the next emperor. Of course he assumed that the successor would be his cousin, Dara. Everyone assumed this. But after spending time in Dara’s company, Ali Khalil saw that the empire would not long tolerate such a self-important fool. And the other princes—Murad, Shuja—he had seen and dismissed: they were ciphers; ineffectual, even laughable, unsuitable as emperor.
But then Aurangzeb arrived at court—quiet, introspective, adamant, modest Aurangzeb. Ali Khalil saw that the sun would soon rise on Aurangzeb even as it set on Shah Jahan. Aurangzeb too was no fool. So Ali Khalil had made himself available; he charmed, he flirted.
At last his moment had come, when he received that secret note from the old khaswajara, Hing. Ali Khalil leaped.
Following Hing’s instructions, he had found the old path that led to the moat. But when he got there, there had been no boat.
No boat.
He had stood there like a fool, pressed against the red sandstone walls, staring at the slow-moving river. With each step back to his rooms he faced a flood of doubt and dread.
They had duped him. They had forced him to show his hand. His anger at his folly was matched only by his terror; the penalty for betrayal was death: swift, certain, secret, painful death. Curled up on his bed, he awaited the crack of the door bursting its hinges, the rush of guards, the pitiful end to his pitiful life.
But a day had passed, then another. When he tiptoes from his room, he is ignored. No one greets him. No one, it seems, even looks at him. A week passes. He must sneak into the servant cantonment to buy food, or he would starve.
They know. They all know, he realizes.
He locks his door, and pulls the drapes, and determines to fast until he dies. But Ali Khalil, nephew to the emperor, will not be defeated easily. Ali Khalil makes a plan.
For he realizes that betrayal is two-edged sword. What is his betrayal? Nothing! Especially compared with the betrayal of the khaswajara, that pathetic eunuch Hing. Ali Khalil has done no more than to receive a note! What about the traitor who wrote that note? What about Hing?
He will bring the old khaswajara to justice, he decides, that shriveled eunuch who betrayed him. The wheel of justice will turn full circle!
Seeing now that it is Hing, not he, who has the most to lose, Ali Khalil begins to wonder—on whose behalf did Hing deceive him: on Shah Jahan’s? Or Dara’s?
If only he were wiser; if only he had been raised at court instead of in his mother’s country house, maybe he would not be in such danger—danger exacerbated by his ill-formed plan.
Ali Khalil writes a hasty note to the captain of the palace guard, signs it, and seals it with wax. He opens his door, fearful of being seen delivering it. But then, the Prophet be praised, luck shines on him: A boy comes his way, a carefree African boy, dark as shadows, his teeth gleaming white against his black lips. In a moment Khalil has sent the boy scurrying.
While he waits, he himself sponges his elegant gray cloak—for he is poorer than he would like to appear, and it is the only one he owns. He hears a timid knocking at his door. The boy has brought an answering note. The captain suggests a time when they can meet in secret; when the inner palace will be deserted.
It never occurs to Khalil to wonder why the note is unsealed.
As the note instructed, he waits in a colonnade near the Diwan-i-Am. Behind him he hears a heavy groan. Beneath the shadowed archway of the colonnade, the palace wall begins to bulge, and a secret door appears, formed from the wall of heavy sandstone blocks.
From the shadows of that dark doorway, a hand signals him. Khalil glances around, assures himself that no one is looking, and then heads into the shadows of that open door, a man chasing blindly to his death.
