Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  “Ahcha …” Bandal says at last, as if Shivaji’s silence has imparted a secret.

  Soon they are describing their watans. “How many horse do you have now, Bandal?” Jedhe asks, referring to the stipend Bandal gets from Bijapur.

  “I am a two thousand horse, cousin,” Bandal replies.

  “My father is a four thousand,” Jedhe tells him. “What about you, Shahu?”

  “I’m not a mandsab,” he says quietly but firmly.

  The cousins glance at each other. “But your father …,” says Bandal, pressing him. “Isn’t he the Bijapuri commander?” Shivaji shrugs. The others stare in uncomfortable silence. “I heard you kept an army,” Bandal asks—for of course their “horses” are simply terms of ceremony.

  “I personally maintain a force of seven hundred,” Shivaji says.

  “That’s a lot of mouths to feed,” Bandal says. “How many forts do you control?”

  “Including Torna?” Shivaji asks. “One.”

  The two others look at each other as if they’re not sure how to take this statement. “So many men, and just this one fort, cousin?” Bandal says, threading his way carefully.

  Jedhe looks at Bandal and begins to laugh. “I’ll tell you what, Shahu. I’ll give you a fort. Then you’ll have two.” He moves behind Shivaji, putting his head near Shivaji’s ear, and points to the mountain next to Torna. “Do you see that peak, Shahu? That’s Bhatghar. You can have that. There. Now it’s yours. Now you have two forts.”

  “Pay no attention to him, Shahu. He thinks he’s funny.”

  “No, no!” Jedhe insists, returning to his seat. “It’s a fort.”

  “Maybe it used to be a fort. Years and years ago, maybe. Now it’s nothing but a clod of earth.”

  “The foundations are still there. I’ve seen them. You’d have to fortify it, Shahu. Build a few walls. You could do that, couldn’t you? Easier than fighting a battle, eh? Anyway, nobody else has claimed it; it might as well be yours. Now you have two forts.” Jedhe laughs at his joke.

  Shivaji laughs along. “All right, I have two forts. Is that better?”

  Bandal shakes his head. “It’s still a lot of men, Shahu.”

  Shivaji looks as if knows what he says next will be even more shocking. “We also support a lot of widows. Maybe a thousand, I suppose, whose husbands were killed in Shahji’s battles.”

  “Why, Shahu?” Jedhe asks. “How the hell can you afford it?”

  “I steal,” whispers Shivaji.

  Jedhe looks as though he’s about to laugh, but he considers Shivaji’s serious face and holds back. “I’ve heard this,” Bandal says. “I always thought … well, people exaggerate.”

  “I steal from women mostly, from merchants’ wives mostly, Bijapuri and Moguls, mostly.” Hearing this, Jedhe looks away, studying the wood planking of the verandah, but Bandal stares at Shivaji. “I rob caravans as well. Usually small ones. Usually it’s just Tanaji and me, but sometimes Hanuman or Lakshman comes along.” Shivaji looks at them in silence. Jedhe and Bandal stare at him doubtfully. Why would anyone be so frank?

  They sit in silence until finally Jedhe nods to the bustling activity in the courtyard. “Iron really knows how to throw a party,” he says, anxious to change the subject. “What’s this all for, anyway?”

  “Well, for me, partly,” Shivaji says. “To celebrate taking the fort.”

  “Well, well,” Jedhe says, looking to the bustle: women and men hanging lanterns and flags, thick garlands of marigolds and roses being draped over doors and windows. The workers have laid out a patchwork of wax cloth to cover the courtyard: bright blankets, sheets, bolts of cloth of all descriptions. Tables have been carried to the edge of the verandah, and women hurry out with steaming trays of chapatis and puris. But Shivaji looks like a man at a funeral.

  “Cousin, what’s wrong?” Bandal asks him.

  “Just what I’ve said, cousin,” Shivaji replies. “What man likes to tell the truth about himself?”

  “Why, then, Shahu? Why did you tell us this?”

  “Well, I’m going to need allies, aren’t I?” Shivaji says, standing up. “You should know what you’re getting yourselves into; that’s how I see it.”

  As Shivaji walks away, they look at each other too surprised to speak. “Allies?” Jedhe says at last. For a moment it seems that he’ll make another joke, but some light in Bandal’s eyes stops him cold.

  At the temple in Adoli, the shastri paces by the bullock cart in front of his small house, waiting as always with exceptional forbearance for the women. Young girls climb in the back of the cart, dressed in bright colors, garlands of tuberoses and marigolds woven in their hair. The shastri scowls at them when they start to giggle, then scowls across the temple courtyard at Maya’s door. “Come! We’re late. Soon it will rain!” he calls out.

  In Maya’s room, Jyoti jumps up and heads for the door, but just as she reaches it, she turns and steps back inside. “I’m not going.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Maya exclaims. “You have to go!”

  “Well, you’re not going!”

  Maya crosses her arms over her chest and stands, looking like an impatient mother, though she’s scarcely older than Jyoti. “What has that to do with anything? You said you’d look after the girls who are going. You promised the shastri. Now go.”

  “No, I don’t want to now,” Jyoti says, though anyone can see that she both longs to go and is frightened to death that no one will stop her.

  “Oh, silly,” Maya laughs, “you’ll have a wonderful time!”

  “If it’s going to be so wonderful, why won’t you come along?”

  Maya’s gold-flecked eyes narrow, growing sad and distant.

  “You’ll have to see him sooner or later,” Jyoti says to Maya’s silence. “Come with me. Please, Maya. I can’t go alone.”

  “You don’t need me, dear. I’d only be in the way.”

  Again they hear the shastri calling, this time threatening to leave without them. “If I see him, do you want me to give him a message?” Jyoti asks.

  “Tell him I hate him,” Maya says.

  “You don’t!” Jyoti cries.

  Maya lowers her eyes. “Maybe not, but say so anyway. Now go, before the party’s over!”

  Jyoti lets herself be bustled through the door.

  “I’m not going to tell him anything then,” Jyoti declares. “I’ll just walk right past him like he’s not there!”

  “Just what I’d do myself.” Maya gives her a swift hug.

  Shivaji walks back from the smith, smiling, swaggering even; a warrior who has just taken possession of a beautiful weapon. Hanging from his belt is a scabbard, long, narrow, of red velvet. In the scabbard, the farang sword, Maya’s gift, outfitted now with a gauntlet hilt.

  When Iron proposed that his village smith modify the farang sword, Shivaji’s face had fallen, and Iron had laughed. Now Shivaji understood. Whatever was a smith of such skill, such artistry doing in this tiny village?

  The bright damascened blade had been sharpened and polished: the smith himself had admired it—Moorish steel, he called it. Despite his complaints to Iron when pressed to finish the job in just two days, the gauntlet hilt he had added was a work of art.

  Shivaji rests his hand gently on his sword’s new hilt. The steel is cool and smooth, polished so it shines, inlaid here and there with silver and gold. The gauntlet is fashioned as a ram’s head; the sword seems to emerge from its angry mouth, the wide curling horns of the head of the ram provide the space for Shivaji’s hand to hold the crossbar hand grip inside. The ram gauntlet covers the whole of his forearm.

  Townspeople seeing Shivaji strut down the street lift their hands. When he walks by, they remark to each other how like a kshatriya he looks, how regal, how courageous. Then they shake their heads—for of course, the kings of old are dead and gone, all the kshatriyas are gone (for no one believes the lying Rajput rulers and their claims). They feel happy to see Shivaji so full of life. Of course the Bi
japuris will destroy him, but let him have his fun now while he can.

  He walks past boys playing near a well, fighting with long stalks of sharp sword grass: “I get to be Shivaji!” “No! You were Shivaji last time! I’m Shivaji! You be Iron!” Near the gates of Iron’s compound, Shivaji sees Tanaji trying to catch his eye.

  “We’ve got trouble,” Tanaji says, leading him to the stable. After making sure no one’s watching, Tanaji pulls Shivaji by the arm to a dark corner, where Hanuman is standing near an old bullock cart from the fort.

  “Look at this,” he says, pulling aside the gunny on the cart to reveal a pile of canvas bags. “This is bad.”

  Shivaji opens one of the bags. It’s surprisingly heavy. Inside he sees a jumble of long, uneven cylinders wrapped in silk, each tied with blue string and sealed with lumps of wax. He lifts one of the cylinders and tears the silk away, revealing a stack of gold coins.

  “Huns, Shahu,” Hanuman says, his eyes gleaming. “Mogul huns. I can’t believe the captain just left it all there. Gold huns, Shahu, still wrapped and sealed.”

  “How much?” Shivaji asks in a hoarse whisper.

  “Two lakhs,” Tanaji answers.

  “Two lakhs, nineteen thousand seven hundred,” Hanuman corrects him.

  “This changes everything,” Tanaji whispers.

  “For the better.” Hanuman grins.

  Tanaji glares at his son, as though he blamed Hanuman for the gold’s existence. “That commander was an idiot! Who would abandon a fort with two lakh hun in the strong room! I tell you Shahu, we’re deep in shit now.”

  “Calm down, father,” Hanuman says, which only increases Tanaji’s agitation. “What’s wrong with money?”

  “I’m ashamed to be the father of a man who can’t see what this means. Two lakh hun! Where did it come from? Do you think the bitch queen of Bijapur will sit quietly while we take two lakh hun from her pockets?”

  Hanuman snorts and rolls his eyes. “Oh, hell. Forget the money, father—they’re already going to kill us for taking the fort! And even Bijapuris can’t kill you twice.”

  “You’d be surprised what they can do.” Then Tanaji glares at Shivaji. “This won’t be good for your father.”

  Shivaji’s face grows cold. Until now he’d been enjoying the argument between Tanaji and Hanuman, and the weight of the gold in his hands. “What about my father?”

  “They’ll use him to get this back.” Tanaji stares levelly into Shivaji’s eyes. “You know they will.”

  “I don’t care,” Shivaji replies. “How will they use him?” he asks as if as an afterthought.

  “Maybe they send your father with an army. Would you fight against him, Shahu? Or worse, maybe they begin to send the little boxes: a finger in one, an eye in another.” Tanaji waits for Shivaji to consider his words.

  “I don’t get it,” Hanuman bursts in. “So we found some gold. So what? If we have to, we give it back. All’s well. Right?” Hanuman glances from his father to his cousin, waiting. “Right?” he insists.

  “Except we don’t give it back, do we?” Tanaji says quietly.

  Shivaji looks up, places the silk-sheathed cylinder in the canvas bag with its many brothers. “No,” he says. “We don’t give it back.”

  There’s silence for a moment. “This is going to change everything,” Tanaji whispers, and stomps off.

  They watch as Tanaji walks away. “What’s wrong with him?” Hanuman murmurs. “Why is he so angry?”

  “He’s scared.”

  “Scared of what? He’s been in battles before.”

  “Scared for you, maybe. After what happened to your brother …”

  “Scared to tell our mother, that’s what he’s scared of.”

  Shivaji looks carefully at Hanuman. “You could have kept this, cousin. You could have lived like a padshah.”

  “Now you sound like my father. He said the same thing. Got very pissed when I told him I was giving it to you. Anyway, I was not meant to be a rich man, Shahu,” Hanuman says.

  “He’s right,” Shivaji replies at last. “This will change everything.”

  “No, it’s not going to rain,” Iron shouts over the drummers. In the cool dark evening air the cloud of Iron’s breath bursts forth warm and damp and sweet with toddy. “I paid a fortune to the blasted shastri to say the right mantras. Clear skies guaranteed!” Firelight brightens the faces of the men on the dais; golden, like the faces of gods. Iron’s soldiers celebrate by doing yet another dance before the dais, beating wildly on double ended clay drums, making a great racket while they turn and jump and dip and kneel, never missing a beat.

  Lakshman, his eye bandaged, sits alone at the edge of the dais. Perhaps everyone has someone else to talk to. No one would admit wanting to avoid him. Even so he sits apart. He holds his head still, as if his wound might burst apart if he moved too quickly. Lakshman’s good eye plays across the faces in the crowd like he’s searching for someone. In spite of his obvious discomfort, he’s smiling. He has always been proud of his charming smile, and still is proud of what remains of it.

  The entire village has filled the courtyard to overflowing, an unexpectedly orderly jumble of villagers seated in long rows that stretch from wall to wall of the compound, from the far gate almost to the dais’s edge. Boys run through the gathering, blowing on terra-cotta whistles.

  Iron knows how to celebrate. Everyone is drunk; gloriously, wildly drunk. Shivaji has only had a cup or two of toddy, but he is in the minority; others are soaked in the stuff. Every few minutes, a drunken villager stumbles up to the dais and bows before Shivaji, usually offering fruits or flowers. So many garlands now hang around his neck Shivaji seems to be wearing a robe of marigolds and tuberoses. Beside him, Iron sways in his seat, the happiest of hosts, calling constantly for more toddy; making sure that the food never stops, nor the music.

  Other than his friends on the dais, Shivaji sees few people he knows: most of his men are on duty up at the fort or marching to Bijapur; Hanuman himself guards the bullock cart and its hidden gold—Shivaji will relieve him later.

  Shivaji had eagerly scanned the faces in the crowd when a few of the young dancing students from the temple got up to perform. He caught a glimpse of Jyoti, but that was all. Now a group of village women gets up to dance: old maids and widows and a young girl or two, walking in a slow circle. Shivaji notices that many of the women give Iron bright glances fueled by too much toddy, and Iron responds with upraised eyebrows and a knowing nod. “Having fun, Shahu?” Iron says to Shivaji. He leans over to hear Shivaji’s answer and almost starts to topple.

  “It’s late and I’m tired, uncle,” Shivaji laughs, pushing him upright. “Looks like you’re tired, too!”

  “I’m too drunk to be tired!” he shouts.

  Shivaji looks around the dais. Jedhe and Bandal have gone. “Uncle, I’m going! I have to leave early tomorrow! I am grateful for this honor, uncle.”

  “Well, if you’re not drunk enough to stay up all night, what the hell good are you?” Iron winks at him, and Shivaji realizes that Iron thinks he’s leaving to be with a woman.

  But as Shivaji stands, a scream tears through the laughter, turning into a choking gurgling rattle.

  Shivaji sees a farmer stagger to his feet, clutching his side. For a moment a half dozen bloody snakes squirm between the farmer’s fingers. Then Shivaji realizes that what he took for snakes are really the ragged end of the farmer’s entrails.

  The farmer lurches forward, one hand locked on his gushing wound, the other pawing the air. Then his eyes grow wide and cold, and roll up showing only the whites in the torchlight, and he falls. His head lands on a plate of food, and blood gushes from his lips. A woman screams, and another, and soon the air is filled with anguish.

  Nearby another man stands and holds up his bloody hand: his sleeve is stained scarlet and his eyes are afire. “Wagnak!” he screams in a mad dance. “Wagnak! Wagnak!”

  There, shining wet in the firelight, he reveals the hidden kniv
es of death: black tiger claws between his clenched and bloody fingers. “Wagnak!” he screams in triumph.

  Iron is at the scene almost before the farmer has fallen. He slaps the killer across the face with a heavy hand, and the man collapses in a heap at his feet. Iron grabs the man’s arm and tears off the tiger claws, practically ripping off his fingers along with the rings. Some guards move forward, but they are superfluous: Iron’s knee drives the man’s neck to the ground as Iron spits on his face. “Fool!” he shouts. Then to the guards: “Take him to the caste elders; let them decide his fate.”

  Tanaji grabs Shivaji’s arm and tugs him away from the scene. “There! Do you see! There’s your enemy, Shahu! Not the Bijapuris—your own people! General Shahji couldn’t control them and look what became of him! How will you succeed where he failed?”

  Iron stands and waves the bloody wagnak angrily at the assembled villagers. “I’ll not have it! Do you hear! I won’t have blood feuds in my watan!” He shakes his fist at the farmer. “Whatever the elders decide, I add this: You are banished! Banished forever from my watan!” Iron strides back to the dais. “Play!” he shouts to the musicians as he takes his seat again. “Toddy!” he yells, and a frightened woman brings the brass pitcher to him quickly.

  Tukoji leans over to Iron. “If only that had been General Shahji, eh, cousin? What he deserves, eh?” Iron looks at him for a moment and then turns away, draining his cup and thrusting it forward again.

  “You look like hell, you know. Must be quite a party!” Hanuman laughs as Shivaji approaches. But when Shivaji tells him what has happened, Hanuman shakes his head. “You never know, do you? I mean, that’s the whole point of wagnak—you have to get close … You have to win the trust of the man that you despise. Even when he sees the rings on your fingers, he has to say, no, not him; it can’t be, not him, not my friend. He has let you sit beside him, let you put your arm around him, until you sink the blades deep into his guts. That’s the point, isn’t it?”