Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  Through the rain, O’Neil sees Bala riding just ahead. What a treasure Bala is, he thinks. To have found a man such as Bala in Maharashtra: one with connections, intelligence, humor, and best of all, a man who speaks Persian.

  If what Bala had told O’Neil were true, there is a very different situation in Hindustan than the picture painted by the Moguls.

  At the dharmsala—the night Da Gama died, he reminds himself, the night his life changed utterly—O’Neil had begun to puzzle over Shivaji’s story. Da Gama had scoffed at him: “For Hindi there’s no difference between the truth and a lie. Never believe anything they say.”

  But he had heard something momentous. A Hindu general. Hindu tribes arming themselves and rebelling. Taking forts and raising armies.

  In the pictures drawn by the Persian-speaking Mogul tradewallahs, no such conflicts were revealed. Oh, there were hints of difficulties between the Moguls and Bijapur and Golconda, but the tradewallahs acted as though such conflicts were the minor adjustments required when great nations danced in exquisite unison.

  But with Bala’s help, O’Neil was learning that the tradewallahs from these different groups were colluding: presenting a unified front to the farangs, setting high prices and miserable terms.

  What O’Neil has learned may make him rich.

  He understands much better the importance of those forts around him. He must have seen half a dozen in the fifty miles between Ahmednagar and Poona. Bala says that there are a dozen more in these hills as well.

  Control those forts and you control the trade routes to the sea.

  That was why Bijapur was so ready to negotiate with an upstart Hindu chieftain: By taking just a few forts, Shahji had a stranglehold on Bijapur.

  Also Bala told him that although Bijapur has manned those forts, their garrisons are dwindling and complacent.

  O’Neil looks at the riders around him. He has seen the vast armies of Bijapur: the war elephants, the camels and the horses, the hordes of Abyssinian mercenaries. Hard to believe that Shahji had taken riders like these up against such forces, harder still to believe that they had won.

  What stops from Shivaji from doing the same? What does he need—money? Guns? The factors in Surat can provide these things and more. Confidence? Perhaps O’Neil can provide that, too.

  For there is treasure to be had here. Treasure that the tradewallahs don’t even realize they own, like those vast forests of teak on the road to Poona.

  Though the factors had asked about teak—the best wood for building boats and worth a fortune—the tradewallahs said they had none; not even the Bijapuris had mentioned those forests. Thanks to Bala, O’Neil now begins to understand: these teak forests officially still belong to Shahji. Or perhaps Shivaji. In any case, no one now has outright title.

  Perhaps it’s time for Shivaji to stake his claim.

  He peers through the misty shadow to the tall form of Shivaji riding at the rear. He might do it, O’Neil thinks. With my help, he might.

  God, I’d give anything for a map!

  By the time they reach the temple gates there is hardly light enough to see. The temple wall, covered by dense, big-leafed vines, looks to Jyoti like a shaggy shadow. Beyond it, she can see the dark suggestions of temple domes rising into the air.

  A man in a dark cloak, comes up to Jyoti, takes the pony’s bridle, and leads her up to the temple. Another man from the temple is guiding Maya the same way. While the riders dismount, their guides lead Maya and Jyoti toward some nearby buildings. Four tall temples stand there, with a stone platform connecting them; raised above the platform is a makeshift canopy made from long bolts of waxcloth. The cloth slaps in the wet breeze, but most of the platform is dry.

  While Jyoti and Maya dismount, a big, burly man with a wide nose and a gray-flecked mustache, stands up from the small dung fire. He namskars long and low, as though they are royalty, and looks out at them with eyes serious and sad. “We heard you two were coming. Well, now you’re here. We’ll find the shastri and get you settled. Was the ride hard?”

  Jyoti and Maya look at each other in some confusion. The man is strong, tough, his turban messy. Something about him reminds Jyoti of Tanaji. “It was very wet, sir. Two days ride in constant rain, sir,” Jyoti replies.

  “Two days, eh? Then you made good time, across those hills in this weather.” With this observation the man has apparently run out of things to say. His face begins to sag with the strain of being polite. It strikes Jyoti why this man reminds her of Tanaji: He’s a warrior, she thinks.

  Then Jyoti becomes aware of a familiar sound coming from one of the temples: drumbeats, and the shaking of dozens of tiny bells.

  “Do you hear it?” Maya asks Jyoti. Jyoti nods.

  The man waves toward one of the temples behind them. “Oh, that racket goes on all day. It should stop soon, gods be praised.”

  “Dancing?” Maya asks softly.

  “Yes, yes. Bloody dancing. Damned girls racing everywhere.” Maya is about to speak when the man looks up and begins to curse. “Who let you in here!” he shouts. “This means your death, you bastard!”

  “My death! Shit! It’s I who have come to finish you off, captain!”

  Jyoti huddles against Maya as the men square off.

  “Iron!” says Tanaji, grasping his shoulders and laughing. “You’ve gotten old and flabby. Maybe I should start to call you Rust now, instead of Iron.”

  “I can still take you, any time, captain. Just try me.” Laughing, Iron looks at the others. “Who is this? It can’t be Shahu?”

  “Yes, uncle. It is good to see you once more.”

  Iron shakes his head. “You were this big. How’s your father?”

  “I don’t see him, uncle,” Shivaji replies without a hint of emotion.

  Iron blinks, then shrugs. “No, no, of course not. He was a great man.”

  Iron studies Shivaji’s face as if he is looking for something, some mark, some sign. It’s not clear whether he sees it. “That new dancing guru keeps making a fuss about your coming. Says you’re a marked man, Shahu. Said I could see it for myself.” He frowns. “I don’t see anything.”

  While Iron greets Hanuman and Lakshman, and is just telling Tanaji how big those sons of his have grown, a shout goes up from one of the temples—a chorus of high-pitched children’s voices. “Oh, gods,” Iron groans. “Lesson’s over. Here they come.” From behind the farthest temple a stream of girls in bright dresses comes running. Iron shakes his head resignedly.

  “Is that the dancing school, then?” Tanaji asks.

  Maya follows the girls with her eyes until every one of them has ducked into a doorway. Then she sees one last form emerge—but as Maya watches through the veils of rain, she sees that this one wears a sari instead of a dress, and moves with labored steps, and her long hair is white. Maya’s eyes grow wide, and she lifts her hand to her mouth as though she fears to speak.

  A gray-haired woman appears, wearing a dark wax cloth cloak. “The guru has sent me to fetch the women,” she says.

  The woman nods impatiently for them to follow and leads them toward a low house full of lights. Jyoti looks back. Hanuman smiles at her as if to say goodbye.

  “Tell me, sister,” Maya whispers to their guide. “What is the guru’s name?”

  “You don’t know?” the woman sneers. “Her name is Gungama.”

  “Mother!” Maya gasps.

  “Where is everyone, Iron?” Tanaji asks. “The place seems deserted. Where are the shastri and the brahmins? Isn’t there some sort of dancing school? All I see around here are your people.”

  “Ah, the dancing school. Those girls will be the death of me! All day long, it’s all you can hear, the clack of their drums, and that damned guru yelling. Then when they stop it’s worse! Little girls, running around, running and shouting and never a moment’s peace!”

  “You never married, did you, Iron?” Tanaji asks, his eyes sparkling.

  “Eh? What about it?” He glares at Tanaji. “It�
��s a festival, that’s where they all are. The festival of the mother, so naturally those girls will make a big deal about it, here at a Bhavani temple. Running around, doing heaven knows what. They’ll be in the main temple soon, I suppose. It’s purnima, the full moon, so they’ll be singing kirtan all night.”

  “The crow’s baby is a big deal to the crow,” Tanaji agrees.

  “I don’t mean to make it sound so bad,” Iron says, looking embarrassed. “It’s nice, if you don’t mind a little noise. People like dancing, right?” He says this as though such a thought would never cross a soldier’s mind. “Even so, it hurts me to bring you to this place, but under the circumstances it seemed best. I didn’t know where else to put you.”

  The flames of the dung fire glint golden on the dark faces of the tired men. “I thought I’d bring you to my place in Welhe,” Iron continues. “It’s just a run-down shack compared to yours, Shahu.” This raises a few chuckles; Iron’s compound is elegant. “The rains started a week ago. After the rains had fallen for five days and nights without stopping, I heard a pounding on my gates, a big ruckus. When I got to the door, what did I see?

  “There in my courtyard was Hamzadin, the captain of the garrison at Torna fort, and around him maybe thirty men, the bunch of them looking like drowned rats. He was polite, but his eyes were crazy.

  “He wanted me to put them up! Him and his men! So much rain up there on the mountain they couldn’t stand it anymore! He had a near mutiny, so Hamzadin decided to bring everyone to town where there maybe was a dry blanket and a dry floor.”

  Tanaji slaps his thigh. “They ran away from rain? You must be joking.”

  “Well a few days ago, it was really coming down. But you’re right—what kind of captain runs from a little drizzle?”

  The men shake their heads. O’Neil, who has followed a little of this talk, however, thinks of the surging floods that have fallen on him nonstop for two days, and wonders what it would be like if, as Iron says, it was “really coming down.”

  “So the whole garrison is at your house, Iron?” Bala asks.

  “He rotates three or four men from the house back to the fort every day. There’s maybe half a dozen up there.” Lakshman sneers, as if to say that he would know how many men were left at that fort. Iron ignores him.

  “So even if I still had the room to put you up, which I don’t,” Iron continues, “I asked myself if it was a good idea. Bijapuris and Poonis in the same place? I thought that it would be more peaceful to bring you here.

  “The Bijapuris are living well on my food and drink. My drink especially; they do love their wine.” Iron shakes his head. “But I had this canopy set up for you, and food sent for you and the animals, and I’ve made arrangements with some villagers to look after you.”

  Iron nudges Tanaji. “Of course the shastri ordered that there’s to be no toddy here. So don’t tell him that I gave you this.” He hands Tanaji a flask. Tanaji drinks and passes the flask around the circle. O’Neil splutters after a sip; only Shivaji passes it without drinking. Soon that flask is empty, and another, and the men’s faces glow as they speak. Iron’s people work like magic: bedmats roll out on the floor, dishes of hot dal appear in their hands.

  “I owe this fool my life,” Iron says to Shivaji, nodding toward Tanaji, “and I owe your father for my good fortune. I don’t forget this. He was a great man, Shahu, a great man.”

  Shivaji stands up. “I’m going to check on the horses.” He finds his cloak and steps out into the downpour.

  Iron has provided well: Shivaji’s men have blankets enough, and food and drink in plenty, and the ponies are dry and comfortable.

  Shivaji then picks his way across flooded walkways to the stone stairs of the main temple. The night air, full of rain, is getting cold. At the sides of the temple steps are two tall stone columns, shaped like huge combs with wide stone teeth. On each tooth sits a flaming oil lamp. The flames sputter as the rains splash into the oil, but still they burn. But just as he’s about to climb the steps, a small gray-haired woman appears, beckoning him to follow. She moves quickly, glancing behind her to be sure that Shivaji is keeping up.

  She leads him past the windows of the low house that he assumes is the students’ quarters, empty now. Around the corner they come to a dark door at the end of the building.

  Maya answers his knock, her eyes red from weeping.

  “What’s wrong?” Shivaji asks.

  “It’s my guru. She’s here.” Her tears brim up. “I thought she was dead. “Come,” she says, wiping her cheeks with her fingertips, “she wants to see you.”

  An old voice calls him, a voice so old that it’s hard to tell whether it’s a man or a woman. “Come here, darling one.”

  On a tiger-skin rug that has been spread on the dirt floor sits the tiniest woman that Shivaji has ever seen; maybe the oldest woman he has ever seen; maybe the happiest woman he has ever seen.

  She is smaller than Sambhuji, so that makes her smaller than a nine-year-old. Her hair is long and completely white, the thin skin of her face crosshatched with fine lines, her eyes penetrating and bright.

  As he enters, she struggles to stand, taking Maya’s quickly offered hand to steady herself. Then she shuffles to Shivaji’s side like a child peering up at a giant.

  “You brought my daughter back to me.” Though her teeth are stained and ground with age almost to stumps, her smile is bright. She must lean her head back just to see into Shivaji’s eyes. “Did you hear me calling you, my darling? I’ve been calling and calling. I’ve so wanted to see you. Sometimes I thought I would never live this long, to see this day, to see you both together, in my own room.” She looks over to Maya. “Now I can die.”

  Though Maya’s eyes are full of tears they beam at the old woman. “This is Gungama. My guru. Did you know she would be here? I thought she had died long ago.”

  “Sit right here, darling,” Gungama says, taking Shivaji’s hand and leading him to her tiger-skin rug.

  “Not here, mother,” he protests. “A skin such as this is a guru’s place. I should sit elsewhere.”

  She shushes him. “It is a king’s place, my darling.” She guides him onto the tiger skin, and then tugs at him until he sits.

  “That’s better.” Gungama beams at Shivaji. She fusses with his turban, which he accepts with a mixture of tolerance and amusement. When she is satisfied, she steps back and sinks to her knees, looking into his eyes with clear delight. “I have sat you on tiger-skin. I have brought you incense and butter lamps burning bright. But I am too weak to wave these things before you as I should. So this will have to do.”

  “Mother, I deserve none of this.”

  “That, dear, is not for you to say. Not yet” She leans forward, and stretching out her back in a long and graceful curve that seems impossible for one so old, places her forehead on his feet.

  “No, mother, no,” Shivaji protests. Maya watches in confusion, still sniffing her tears.

  Then Gungama begins to moan. She begins to lean first to one side, then the other, and the moan continues longer and longer, until Maya realizes that Gungama is singing. The words are strange, a language she has never heard before, and the tune is scarcely more than tiny variations in her guru’s croaking voice. The effect is fascinating, comforting, disturbing, beautiful.

  Maya catches her breath, for the swaying song of Gungama is like the song of the heart of the earth, a song that seeps skyward from the dark oceans deep beneath the ground, a song that grates against the bones of the world to emerge in wisps through the soil, an ancient melody gathered by this tiny woman, placed before Shivaji’s feet like a flower.

  At last Gungama opens her eyes. “One more thing to do before I die,” she says. She leans forward, balancing on her knees, and catching Shivaji’s head in her hands, presses her thumbs into the spot between his eyebrows. His face widens in shock, and he tries to pull away from those gnarled, tiny hands, but he cannot. She squeezes his face so hard his flesh pokes out betwee
n her fingers, she presses her yellowed thumbnails into his forehead so hard that a drop of blood oozes from beneath them.

  Tears begin to well up in her old eyes when she sees that drop of blood, and she stops, leaning back on her heels. “Well, darling, that wasn’t too bad, I hope. It had to be done, you know, but it’s over now.”

  “So,” she says, patting the floor, “Maya.” Maya hurries to her guru’s side. “What took you so long, darling?” she asks, turning to Shivaji, who is still rubbing his forehead. “I’ve been calling for you over these many weeks.”

  “Mother, how would we hear your words? We’re so far away.”

  She looks shocked. “Your ears must be made of stone. I called and called. I called even louder when my daughter here begged me for my help.”

  “Whenever did I do that, mother?” Maya asks in surprise.

  “About a month ago, I think.” The old woman’s beams, but seems puzzled that the incident isn’t obvious. “Shall I describe the scene? You, dear child, sitting on a low bed in the dark, wearing some nonsense that covered all your pretty face. And pressed against your sweet throat, child, a sword. And then a fire—flames everywhere. Oh yes, child, you were calling your poor old mother. You called her very hard.

  “And so, what did I do, eh? I called him! Didn’t I, darling?” She nods to Shivaji. He nods his head noncommitally. “I called for you to help her—and you did! Things looked so difficult. Yes, darling, yes: you even broke your sword trying to help her! But everything,” she says brightly, “has worked out in the end. Just as it is supposed to. And now, look at us: we three. And in my room. What a sweet world we live in.”

  Her bright eyes flash from face to face. “And neither of you believes a single thing I’ve said.” She chuckles. “But what do I care? Now I can die.

  “Let’s see: first, there’s the problem of your sword, the broken sword. That at least is easily remedied. Daughter, please give him yours. He broke his own in your service, I think it is the least you might do in return.”