by John Speed
“I don’t know why,” Hanuman replies. “We only lost eleven men. Eleven men against a thousand. The Bijapuris had almost two hundred dead.” He frowns and scuffs the ground as he walks. “Why hasn’t he sent for me? I’m supposed to be his damned lieutenant!”
They reach Bala’s room. To their surprise, Bala is not alone. Seated beside him is a small, strangely dressed man. His skin is extremely dark, his eyes fiery. The fabric of his clothing is richly colored, decorated with hundreds of tiny white dots, and embroidered with silver thread and beadwork. Near the man’s bare feet lies a long black dog. “What’s Bala doing with a tribal?” Hanuman whispers to Trelochan.
“Come and meet this person,” Bala says pleasantly.
The tribal lifts his hands in greeting, and Hanuman notices the network of white scars and black tattoos that circle his wrists. “Tell them what you were telling me,” Bala says to the small man.
“I am Warli tribe man. Name Lion.” Though heavily accented, the man’s language is clear enough. “Bring story to you headman. Tell story. Strong place ours. We give.” Puzzling this through, Hanuman glances at Bala, but Bala seems not to notice. Lion goes on, “Strong place, you understand? Pratapghad. We give you headman.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Hanuman says. “Are you saying you have captured Pratapghad? Taken the fort?”
“‘Fort’ means strong place, yes?” Lion answers carefully. “Yes, take strong place. Give head man. Give Shivaji. Give son of Shahji.”
Trelochan whistles. “I’ve been to that fort. There’s a big Bhavani temple there, on a hill inside the walls, very old. The tribals revere it—they think the Bhavani murti is their tree goddess. The fort itself is quite grand.”
Hanuman leans close to Bala and whispers. “Tribals taking Pratapghad? Can it be believed?”
“I’ve never known a Warli to lie,” Bala answers.
“But how?” Hanuman asks Lion. “How did you do it? What about the Bijapuris?”
“Warli sneak. Bijapur all dead men now. Bijapur bad men. Break tree. Tree goddess sad. Cry to Warli. Warli fix. Warli sneak. Bijapur bad men dead.” Lion says all this quite calmly, patting his dog’s long back.
Hanuman slides next to Trelochan and whispers. “Can this be true? I thought the Warli were peaceful.”
“They’re great archers, don’t forget. And they’re not peaceful when it comes their gods. They worship trees.”
“Yes, trees. Trees good. Bijapur break tree. Bad. Now Shivaji take strong place. Not break trees. Yes? Not.”
“This can’t be happening,” Hanuman says. “How can this be? Tribals come out of nowhere to give Shahu forts?”
“This is her work,” Bala says reverently, nodding toward his murti of Bhavani. “Nothing is beyond her power.”
“But Bala,” Hanuman exclaims. “Forts, money, armies! These things have just appeared!”
Bala rises and bows to Lion. “My dear Lion, you must be exhausted after your journey. Let me get food for you. And for your dog.” He goes to his door and calls out. Soon a servant girl escorts Lion from the room.
“Does Shivaji know about this?” Hanuman asks.
Bala shrugs. “All this news and no one can find him.”
“More news than this, Bala?” Trelochan asks.
Bala nods. “The towns of Indapur and Baramati have written. They need our help—they’ve set up roadblocks and have stopped the flow of supplies to the forts there.”
“A siege?” Trelochan gasps. “The fools. The Bijapuris will drive down from the forts and destroy them!”
“They ask us to send troops,” Bala explains.
“We don’t have troops to send,” Hanuman says blankly.
“Don’t we?” Bala asks, honestly surprised. “Have you paid attention to the encampment? Two or three thousand men have arrived in the past three days! I’ve had to set up special teams to find supplies. They all arrive hungry, of course. And more are on the way! Lonavala is sending men; Pimpalgoan is; Peth is. Other towns too. Jedhe and Bandal’s men are arriving as we speak, and they say more are on their way. Lots more!” Bala’s face, always smiling, now seems to glow as he speaks. “Do you think that the goddess is powerless? This is her work!”
Hanuman doesn’t want Bala to see his disbelief, and he turns away. Trelochan catches his eye. “If you don’t believe in the goddess, you can believe in money. Money changes everything.”
“Yes.” Hanuman nods. “The gold.”
“Her gold,” Bala says softly.
“Have you finished counting it?” Trelochan asks.
“Nearly,” Bala replies.
“And how much is there?” Trelochan prompts.
Bala smiles. “Lots.”
“Damn it,” exclaims Hanuman. “Where the hell is Shahu?”
At an old temple on a hill overlooking Poona, as the air grows cool and the evening breezes blow, Shivaji weeps. Though he knows Bhavani is everywhere, he comes to this small dark temple, as though it contains the door to her heart.
Wiping his eyes with his palm, Shivaji stares across the river at the lights of Poona. The river sparkles like a cloth strewn with tiny mirrors. At length he picks his way down the hill, his path lit only by the stars.
At the riverbank, Shivaji walks slowly past eleven heaps of ashes. In some the embers still glow orange. “You hardly knew them,” Hanuman had said as the flames of the funeral pyres leapt into the air.
“I knew them well enough,” Shivaji replied.
Now only ash remains, and soon the wind will blow the ash away. Shivaji steps into the river. The water comes up nearly to his armpits, so he holds his gauntlet sword above his head. Once on the other side, Shivaji walks along the outside of the city walls. A shadow catches his eye, and Shivaji turns, reaching for his sword.
Amidst a pile of rags lies the wizened, naked body of Ram Das. “What are you doing here?” Ram Das croaks.
Shivaji sheathes his sword. “I should be asking this of you!”
“But then I would know for certain that you are fool,” Ram Das answers. “Do you have any food?”
Shivaji shrugs. “Sorry, father.”
“Never mind.” Ram Das peers into Shivaji’s shadowed face. “Hold out your hands.” Slowly, uncertainly, Shivaji lifts his hands. In the moonlight he sees blood pouring from his palms. “Those are your scars are bleeding. Remember how you got those scars, lord?”
There’s a long pause. “When I took my oath.”
“Did you think they’d never bleed again?” With a clawlike finger, Ram Das traces the bleeding scars on Shivaji’s palms. “You think you’re the first person to bleed, lord? You’ve died a million times already. Now give some other men a chance to die!” Shivaji says nothing. Ram Das strokes his shoulder. “But give them something to die for. Look what you’ve done since we first met! Think it’s all your own doing?”
“I don’t know what to say, father.”
“Say whatever you want. I don’t give a shit. Your answer makes no difference. It’s all decided anyway.” Tiptoeing to reach, Ram Das kisses Shivaji on the forehead. “Close your eyes, lord,” Ram Das says solemnly. Shivaji stands there with eyes closed, expecting who knows what. After a minute, he opens one eye and peers around. The old man is gone; his rags have disappeared as well. Shivaji lifts his bleeding hands in the moonlight.
By the time he reaches his home, Shivaji’s hands have stopped bleeding. It will be dawn soon—too late to sleep. So he goes to Sai Bai’s room and slumps against a cushion near her bed. He hasn’t spent the night with his wife in many days—making war instead. And as the night passes, he grows concerned. He can feel it: something is wrong with Sai Bai.
The door of Sai Bai’s room opens just a crack, letting in a shaft of the dawn sunlight. “I thought you might be here,” Jijabai whispers.
Shivaji frowns and nods to Sai Bai, who sleeps restlessly beside him. “I think she’s sick.”
“Maybe,” Jijabai says. Then she realizes that with even a single word, she
has revealed too much.
“You know this? What’s wrong with her?”
“We all must die, Shahu,” Jijabai says. “I blame your father. She was never a suitable wife. Shahji should have sent her back.” Her voice trails off and she looks at Sai Bai’s face. “I once was pretty, Shahu,” she says quietly.
Shivaji stares at her. At length, Jijabai scowls. “Stop mooning about. You must finish what you have begun. She is nothing!”
“Hold your tongue! What if she hears you?”
“You think I don’t say this to her face? I am no hypocrite.” She sighs. “Never mind now. Bijapur has responded to your attacks. They’re holding Shahji for ransom.”
Shivaji comes bolt upright. “In Bijapur?”
“You’re surprised by this?” says Jijabai, lifting her eyebrows. “Now I am concerned. Go. The others want to talk with you—they’re quite disturbed.”
Shivaji begins to fix his turban. “And you are not?”
“I hope you let him die.”
The circle of men sit in an open space, a hundred yards from anyone. Bandal sweeps a spear around the grass before he sits, as if worried someone hides there. “Are these precautions really needed, cousin?” Trelochan asks.
“You think we’re not at war?” Bandal snaps back. “You think that we’re surrounded only by our friends? Afzul Khan likes spies, brahmin. There may be spies in this very circle.”
“There’s no harm in being careful.” Shivaji says. Trelochan looks around the circle dubiously. There’s Jedhe, Bala, Hanuman, Lakshman, and finally Shivaji. Their eyes are fixed on the parchment just arrived from Bijapur.
“Well? What does it say?” Lakshman asks, looking bored.
Bala speaks: “It’s from Shaista Khan. He writes that General Shahji has been arrested. They’re sealing him, even as we speak. One brick an hour until he’s sealed behind a wall.”
Bala continues: “They want the gold, the Kalyan gold. Unless they get it, Shahji will be sealed completely within a week.” Bala looks around the circle. “Official word from Bijapur should come soon. The arrest was two days ago. Five days remain until General Shahji’s sealed.”
When Bala stops speaking, to the surprise of all, Lakshman stands. “I’m going, Shahu. All this foolish talk has become a nuisance. I will fight no more.” He lifts his hands to his forehead in with an exaggerated bow.
“Where are you going, cousin?” Jedhe asks, looking stunned.
Lakshman bows again. “I’m off to Bijapur, cousin. They can use a man with my talents.”
“What talents are those?” Jedhe asks, his face cold.
“I have no morals,” Lakshman answers.
“I shall be sad to see you go, cousin,” Shivaji says. “No matter what you do, I will always honor you as the son of my uncle, and as my friend.”
“You see how it’s done?” Lakshman looks at the others, pointing to Shivaji. “One thing more: Bala, when I send you a letter, here’s how you’ll know it’s from me. The code word will be ‘vengeance.’”
“Will you be sending letters, Lakshman?” Bala asks, looking confused.
“Why the hell do you think I’m going to Bijapur? You think you can beat Bijapur by force of arms? You don’t stand a chance. I’m going to be your spy, you fools. Don’t any of you understand?”
Now they do. Now the men in the circle stand and wish him luck, and bow him off, but Lakshman simply shakes his head and strides across the field as though walking from a pit of garbage.
“Do you think you can trust him, lord?” Bandal asks.
“You’re talking about my brother!” Hanuman cries.
Bandal looks down for a moment. “I know who I’m talking about. Haven’t you noticed how he’s changed?”
“You can’t let him go, lord,” Jedhe says, finishing Bandal’s thought. “He says he wants to be a spy. Whose spy? What if he tells Bijapur about our plans?”
“We have no plans,” Hanuman says, disgusted.
“Let him go,” says Shivaji. “For better or worse, let him go.”
After a silence, Bala whispers, “What shall we do about this letter?”
“Ignore it.”
“Let your father die, lord?” Trelochan gasps. “It isn’t right that he should suffer for our actions.”
“Shahji’s situation is not our fault!” Hanuman declares. “He himself chose this course. He forsook his family for Bijapur. If Bijapur plays false, what’s that to us? Does Bijapur think one man is worth all that gold?”
“How shall we have victory if we fail to honor our fathers?” Trelochan responds, but Jedhe stirs uncomfortably.
Shivaji stares at the ground. “I won’t return the gold.”
“Then they’ll attack us,” Bandal says.
“They’ll attack us anyway,” Hanuman responds.
“Then let’s use the gold against them,” Jedhe whispers. “Send gold to every town and village that sits beneath a Bijapuri fort. Tell the headman to block the roads. Some towns are doing this already. Encourage it.”
“Yes, yes!” Jedhe says. “People are waiting for a reason to move against the jackals. Give them a reason! The gold will give them the courage!”
Bandal agrees: “Pratapghad fell to a bribe. When they hear about your wealth, other forts will fall.”
“This is meaningless,” Hanuman cries. “You’re forgetting that we have no army. Afzul Khan will be here soon. He’ll mow us down like grass.”
“Maybe, cousin,” Bandal answers. “But they’ll come with a big army, and that will take time.”
“In the meantime, we organize,” Jedhe says eagerly.
“When we receive the demand from Bijapur,” Bala says, reflecting, “we must promise to return the gold.”
“They’ll never believe it,” Shivaji says.
“Write to Aurangzeb!” Jedhe suggests. “He’s in Golconda. Offer to ally yourself to the Moguls. You’re a force now, lord. He’ll have to pay attention.”
“Why should Wagnak give us any help?” Shivaji asks, using Aurangzeb’s old nickname. “He defeated my father. Why should he rescue him now?”
“Because now we have the money and Bijapur doesn’t,” Jedhe answers. “Hell, it’s worth a try! Look how quickly things can change. Delay, delay! Every day becomes our friend!”
Shivaji sits for a moment in silence, then nods. “Very well. Bala, send letters to Shaista Khan and Aurangzeb. Make promises. Beg.”
“Yes, lord,” Bala answers. “Shall I write to Bijapur too, and promise you’ll return the gold?”
Shivaji thinks about this. “No. I intend to use the gold as you suggested, cousin. We’ll offer bribes to the fort commanders. But we won’t be able to hide this from Bijapur. Word will get around. Hell, we want word to get around. If I lie in their faces, it will infuriate Bijapur. Let the news trickle in. Jedhe, you and I will go to Welhe with the new arrivals, and prepare against Bijapur’s attack. Bandal, will take a couple of hundred men and fortify Pratapghad.” Shivaji turns to Hanuman. “Hanu, stay here and coordinate our efforts. I expect there will be new arrivals coming. Who knows, maybe another fort will fall without our help!” Shivaji smiles.
“This is a bad plan, lord,” Trelochan says. “You’re needed here. Maybe you haven’t realized, but you are sparking an uprising. You must stay here and be the king!”
“I say I am no king!” Shivaji says. For once his face looks truly angry.
“As you wish, lord. Even so, you must not leave Poona. Stay here, lord; send others.” Shivaji looks around the circle, and the others nod agreement. “Please, lord,” says Jedhe. “Do us this favor. We’d all rather face Afzul Khan than stay here with Jijabai.”
Hanuman almost doesn’t say goodbye to his mother. Ever since Lakshman came back injured, she acts so worried. His thoughts turn then to Jyoti. Shahu told him that he tried to make the arrangements, but that Nirmala had not been pleased. “She made me promise not to give Jyoti any money,” Shahu told him.
“Can’t you do som
ething? She’d never let me marry a woman with no dowry,” Hanuman replied. But Shahu refused to disobey Nirmala’s wishes.
Hanuman sees Nirmala stirring rice and dal over the fire in the back kitchen. The warm smell of wood smoke mixes with the heavy scent of spices. He sees that her waist has grown thicker, and her shoulders smaller, that the braid along her back is longer now, and streaked with gray. When did she get old? he wonders. But her eyes are just as bright as ever.
“Are you just going to stand there?” Nirmala says.
Embarrassed to be caught staring, Hanuman says “I came to say goodbye. I’m off to join father at Welhe.”
“Well, if you’re going, go,” she answers, turning back to her cooking. The pot of food is far too large for a woman who will be eating all alone.
“I’ll be back,” he says. She just goes on stirring. “We’ll all be back.”
“She’s not good enough for you, Hanuji,” Nirmala says softly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were lonely? Now I know you’re interested, I’ll find someone suitable. You had only to say something.”
“Never mind, mother.”
She turns, and her face is full of hope and sadness, as though her heart is splitting open. “I forbid you to see her anymore,” Nirmala tells him. “I didn’t raise my son marry some nautch girl’s maid.”
“Her heart is full of love.”
“You may say as much of any beggar. Your father has raised this family out of poverty. You’re important now. You need a suitable wife. Don’t you want your mother to be happy, Hanu?” she asks.
“Don’t you want me to be happy too, mother?”
She turns away, and begins to stir the pot once more. “Maybe things will be better when you return.” She puts down her wooden spoon, and spreads her arms to him. Finally she pulls back, clutching his arms. “Want what I want, son,” she whispers. “Is that so hard? Want what I want.”
