Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  The sunlight glistens on their smooth bodies and dances in wisps of steam rising from their hair and shoulders. It sparkles on the surface of the bathwater in the twin, swan-shaped tubs, on the girls who look impossibly beautiful. Basant feels like a dervish glimpsing paradise.

  Though he has never entered these particular rooms before, Basant of course recognizes the two women who are bathing. They are Shah Jahan’s favorite nautch girls; twin sisters, barely fifteen, so similar in looks and temperament as to be indistinguishable.

  I’d forgotten they’d been moved in here, Basant thinks.

  Their nautch names are Sun and Moon. The wags in the court call them Breakfast and Lunch. From all indications they are insatiable.

  What a shame they are so stupid.

  Around them Shah Jahan has no self-control. Master Hing loves to recount how the emperor actually commanded that they both be brought to his bed at the same time. Hing, of course, was horrified, and although he expected to die for it, he refused to obey. Later—as Hing recounts at every opportunity—the emperor apologized to him for this sinful lapse and sent to Hing a robe of honor for his steadfastness, and, no doubt, to buy his silence.

  Hing subsequently had given vehement and explicit orders to assure such a scandalous act never occurred. Such a sinful act could destroy the emperor’s authority to govern.

  Basant winces at the rude and disdainful greeting Roshanara gives the twins. The twins raise their sleepy beautiful faces to her—round, wet, and innocent of any disturbing thoughts, or of any thoughts at all. Though the servants bow low to Roshanara, and stay prostrate excessively long (and one even says “highness” very loudly, as if to give the sisters a hint), the two girls gape at her with their dark, blank eyes.

  Without raising her voice, Roshanara commands all the servants from the room; they scramble to their feet and dash for the door before she finishes speaking. Then she turns and orders Basant to bring Tambula the apothecary to her immediately.

  Basant is stunned, not only by the command, but by its unexpected tone—stately and demeaning. But he gathers his wits, and moves to obey. As he leaves, he looks back hopefully. Maybe she will call him back, say that she was only teasing her dear Spring Blossom—but as she turns with a scowl to the twins, Basant thinks she looks angry indeed.

  He hurries down the long hall to the red sandstone archway that separates the harem from the palace. Guards patrol this gateway: on Basant’s side of the gate stand eunuch guards who nod at him as he passes, on the other side stand a few of the now disfavored palace guard. Once he steps beneath the arch, a palace guard calls out “Hey! Hey you! Stop!” and drops his tasseled lance across Basant’s path.

  Basant toys with the idea of running. For a moment he remembers being five years old, with all his parts intact, and he wishes he had run then when he could run. Cursing silently, he halts.

  “Aren’t you Basant? Basant the eunuch?” the guard demands.

  “I have the honor to be a servant of the emperor, a eunuch of the first rank, and personal attendant to Princess Roshanara Begum, second daughter of the emperor. By her am I called Basant, and by my friends.”

  “That’s enough,” the guard sneers, unimpressed. “Wait here, hijra.” The words thud in Basant’s ears, like rocks heaved into a shallow pool.

  Across the sunlit courtyard Basant sees a door open, and the guard who stopped him leads a familiar-looking man toward him: It is that same man, Ali Khalil—the friend of Hing, the cousin of the emperor, the pain in the ass. He looks just the same as earlier, and Basant hates him for it, hates that he should be smiling and friendly and impeccably groomed when Basant sweats in cold panic.

  “Good day, Basant,” Khalil says, stepping toward him.

  “He don’t like that name,” says the palace guard, pretending, as soldiers do everywhere, to be stupider than he really is. “That name be only for his friends, he says.” The guard sneers at Basant with smug amusement.

  Khalil thinks this over, and fixes the guard with his charming smile. “But you see, I am his friend.” And he beams at Basant. “Am I not your friend, Basant?”

  Basant beams back, thankful to have something to do besides perspire.

  Basant notices that the other palace guards have moved closer. They are watching Khalil—waiting for his subtlest sign before stepping into action.

  “Ali Khalil,” Basant says, giving the appearance, he hopes, of bored annoyance, “I come on an errand at the order of my mistress, the princess. Already she will be asking for me—I dare not delay.”

  “Do me a service, Basant?” Though he phrases it as a question, Khalil speaks it like an order. He draws the eunuch away from the arch. Khalil’s hand feels hot, like the hand of a man hot with desire. Surely that’s impossible! Basant thinks.

  Khalil puts his face close to Basant’s ear. Basant can feel his smiling breath. “What a lot of trouble you have made for me,” Khalil whispers, the words blowing warm and soft in his ear, like a caress. “And for yourself, Basant,” Khalil whispers. The sound curls in Basant’s ear like a snake.

  Basant wants to flee, but where can he go? “Could you look at something with me?” Khalil says, peering into Basant’s face with his plaster smile. “It may be something that concerns you.” Basant’s knees are shaking so much that he can feel his silken pant legs quivering.

  “This way, Basant,” Khalil says gently, and he motions to his palace guards. They step forward, almost offhandedly forming themselves together into a tight unit. This subtle action nearly undoes Basant; he thinks he must collapse. Instead he walks beside Ali Khalil to a small storeroom. Khalil stands by the door while one of the guards pushes it open.

  A moist smell of damp wool emerges, then the sour smell of old dust. The room is dark. “Show him,” Khalil says, gesturing with his chin to something in the shadows. With a heave, two of the guards push the end of a big wet carpet through the door and into the sunlight. It lands in a tented heap in front of Basant’s feet. A dark puddle forms beneath the carpet, spreading toward Basant’s jeweled slippers.

  “Seen this before?” Khalil asks.

  It is the carpet from Basant’s own room—a deep blue Persian carpet of Sarouk design. “Never,” Basant replies.

  “We fished it out of the moat this morning. Someone thought it might be yours,” Khalil looks at him levelly.

  “Someone is mistaken.”

  Khalil looks at him carefully, the way a man might watch a bubble, waiting for it to pop. Basant looks back, forcing his eyes to be soft, half-asleep. Whoever speaks next loses, Basant thinks.

  “Well, that’s what we told him. We looked in your room—the carpet’s still there.” Khalil seems embarrassed by the admission. “Then he said the one in your room was a new one.” Basant sniffs, disdaining even to answer. Who is saying these things, he wonders, though he keeps his face blank. “Any idea where this came from? How it ended up in the moat?” Khalil asks, almost pitifully. Basant shrugs. “Put it back,” Khalil says to the guards.

  Khalil shakes his head. “Intruders in the harem. A guards captain missing … and his lieutenant missing. A carpet in the moat …” His voice trails off. “The emperor so terrified of treachery that he removes his own guard in favor of the eunuch guards! Well, I can’t expect you to help me. Sorry to trouble you.” His smile is unchanged as ever, but there is a wan, defeated quality in his eyes. “I was sorry to hear about the death of your servant,” Khalil adds, his plaster smile unchanged. “He died over there. Fell down those stairs. They say he broke his neck.”

  “Haridas? When?” Basant croaks.

  “A few hours ago. His family collected the body.”

  “He had no family.”

  Khalil seems not to hear. He bows deeply to Basant, swirls his sumptuous gray cloak around him with a flourish, and glides away.

  The guards look Basant up and down and then follow Khalil down the hallway of the palace. Leaving Basant behind, gasping for breath.

  In the neat herb ga
rdens Basant sees Tambula’s long, thin form bent over a row of tall plants.

  Basant allows himself to breathe. It seems he has hardly breathed all day. The garden air smells full of tangy, pungent scents.

  In the far corner Tambula picks carefully through a row of plants held up by stakes and strings. Now and then he plucks a leaf and places it gently in one of the sacks he has slung over his shoulder, dropping others less than perfect disdainfully to the ground.

  Basant and Tambula have been friends since childhood, since they were made brothers by the same slavemaster. Tambula had a keen mind and an infallible memory—unlike Basant, whose main talents are a pleasant demeanor and an artless willingness to do whatever he is asked. Tambula, young though he was, became harem apothecary. Now of all the brothers in the harem, Tambula has the position of greatest trust. Only the Mir-Bakawal, the royal taster, has a post of greater trust, and he is not a brother and has never seen the inside of the harem.

  Tambula straightens and lifts his chin in greeting. One of his two front teeth is much longer than the other, and gives him a sweet and slightly dopey appearance, which, Basant knows, is entirely misleading but very appealing. Basant waves back. They exchange a few pleasantries, and almost immediately Basant tells him why he has come.

  “But do you know what she wants, brother?” Tambula asks. “Is she ill? Fearful? Too sad or too happy? Are her menses uncomfortable?”

  To each question Basant merely shakes his head and shrugs, unable to bear any delay. “Just come quickly, brother.”

  But Tambula moves slowly, carefully lifting each sack over his head and handing it gently to his apprentice, who sets it tenderly on the marble walkway that surrounds the garden. Tambula then removes and folds his apron; he hands this to his apprentice as well.

  Basant can barely contain himself. “Hurry, hurry,” he says, glancing at the archway to the harem.

  Tambula brushes the dust from his trousers and kicks the dry soil from his sandals. He opens a fine old, wooden box: plain, about the size of a harmonium. Tambula throws back the lid and studies his portable apothecary kit—full of vials and potions arranged in neat rows of corked glass bottles. Running a jeweled finger across the display, he quickly tallies what he has and what he lacks.

  “I have no rue,” he says.

  “Never mind, just come,” Basant says. “We must hurry.”

  “It’s for painful menses.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just hurry.”

  “But what if the princess has painful menses?” Tambula slips the embroidered strap over his head, and stands so the heavy apothecary box rests on his left hip.

  Together they hurry back toward the concubines’ quarters. Tambula’s long legs easily outpace Basant, who has to waddle extra fast to catch up.

  “Sorry about your servant. I know how you loved him,” Tambula mentions as they walk. “But I was there, you know. I held his hand and offered prayers, but he was already dead.”

  Basant can barely speak. “Did he suffer?”

  “No, dear. And the fall didn’t kill him, you know. Somebody broke his neck for him and then shoved him down the stairs. You could see his neck had been wrung like a washcloth.”

  Basant stops walking. His world seems to go black. When he comes to himself, he has to run to catch up. When he reaches Tambula’s side once more, Basant is puffing hard.

  “I could give you something to make you skinnier,” Tambula offers.

  “Perhaps some other time,” Basant replies.

  Never has Basant seen so many eunuch guards. All of them seem to be peering at him with accusing eyes. When they pass one, Basant positions Tambula between the guard and himself, altering his pace carefully to keep himself hidden. But he knows it is impossible to hide his quivering bulk behind the rail-thin Tambula. Tambula looks at Basant quizzically.

  They reach the door of Breakfast and Lunch. The scene is much as Basant left it: Roshanara is still standing near the two nautch girls, but they have left their baths and stand wrapped in muslin sheets.

  The faces of Breakfast and Lunch, those empty-eyed faces so beautiful and serene a few moments ago now appear agitated and fearful. The twins cower together as Roshanara strides nearby, dark and powerful. Basant wonders what Roshanara could have said to frighten them so. As she motions impatiently for Tambula to enter, she says brusquely to Basant, “Fetch their other servants.”

  Basant bows. Tambula hurries to Roshanara’s side. She is already whispering to him fiercely when Basant goes out the door.

  When he returns, he sees Roshanara watching imperiously as Breakfast and Lunch swallow potions handed to them by Tambula. They make wry, wrinkled faces and reach for cups of wine. With that Roshanara turns straight for Basant. “Now pay attention. This time nothing must go wrong. When these two … women are dressed, take them to the Diwan-i-Khas. Yes, the purdah room, of course. When they are done there, come to my room. I’ll have a letter for Aurangzeb. Is that quite clear?”

  It isn’t until after Roshanara strides from the room, scowling, that Basant realizes he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with two nautch girls in the purdah room. He feels his cheeks growing hot and tears welling up in his eyes, but he refuses to let her see him cry.

  He closes the door behind the princess, and turns back into the room. Tambula has come to his side. The apothecary’s face is pale and his eyes are wide—Basant can see that Tambula too is shaken.

  “I had no idea, brother,” Tambula whispers hoarsely. “No idea at all. You are fortunate in your friends. Indeed, I hope you will remember our friendship in days to come.” He seems to Basant almost to bow. “Even so, my dear, promise me that you will never say a word of this to Hing!”

  “What can you mean, brother?”

  “What if he finds out that I have had a part in this—the act that he has so explicitly forbidden?” His face is ashen. “The princess stakes everything on one throw of the dice.” He gives a resigned shrug. “Anyway, I suppose my secret’s safe enough with you. If things go wrong, I mean—why, you’d be the first one Hing would kill.”

  Tambula turns to watch the servants dress the twins, leaving Basant to sort this out as best he can. “I’ve given them each dravanas,” Tambula explains. “Double doses. I don’t know what the princess said to them, but whatever it was, I’ve never seen them so upset.”

  “What did she say to you?” Basant asks.

  “You can imagine,” Tambula answers, appearing disturbed just by the memory. “In any case, she was quite explicit about what I was to do with these two. They’ll be as horny as lepers in a few minutes. Then you can take them to the purdah room.” Tambula bites his lip. “I’m concerned they might have convulsions. I can’t help them much if they do. I’ve never given anyone such big doses before. They’re young, so they’ll probably be all right. I’ll just watch them for a while, I think.”

  Convulsions! He is about reply when he notices that Tambula’s hands have dark swellings, like thick pustules.

  “Oh those,” Tambula says, as if answering the question Basant is too embarrassed to ask.

  While they watch the twins being dressed and prepared by their serving girls, Tambula quietly tells Basant the story of those odd swellings. He speaks quietly and discreetly, slipping into Bengali, which all the brothers speak when secrecy is helpful.

  It happened, Tambula says, after ‘taj Mahal died—giving birth to her fourteenth child: what does that say about Shah Jahan’s vigor? After a period of mourning, Shah Jahan called Tambula’s predecessor, a eunuch called Kela, for a consultation. At that time Tambula was Kela’s apprentice.

  Every man, of course, experiments with vardhanas at some point—every man wants to add an inch or two to the length of his lingam. But in this endeavor as in others Shah Jahan was determined to surpass all other men. He let Kela know he was prepared to tolerate any manner of agony to achieve his goal—to have the grandest lingam the world had ever known.

  Kela’s method required enormou
s effort—Shah Jahan ended up lying facedown in a hammock for more than a month. His lingam poked through a hole with small weights suspended from its tip. The shaft Kela wrapped in wool soaked in mustard oil, into which he and Tambula had ground up the stingers of a thousand jalshuks. Since a man might swell up and die from a single jalshuk sting, Kela had paid dearly for them: a full rupee apiece for each of the brilliant green bugs.

  Though they wrapped their hands in rags before they applied this ointment to Shah Jahan’s lingam, no precaution was adequate. Touch even a few drops of the oil and hands and fingers would blister and swell to enormous size; and though they soaked their hands in dahi for hours, even that could not cool them. But Shah Jahan bore the treatment day after day, never sleeping for the pain, never uttering a sound.

  At last, though more blistering oil was applied, the skin had become so thick and blackened that no more growth could be achieved.

  For some weeks, the emperor used to show the results to anyone who asked, and also to those who did not ask. Tambula says that the court called it the Jahan-minar—the tower of the world—just to please him.

  Since Basant never saw it, Tambula describes it to him: The emperor’s lingam is enormous—long, thick, but hideously misshapen; twisted, distorted, bulging, and in some places black.

  Nevertheless, the emperor seemed delighted with the results. He only sees its size, says Tambula, not its deformity. Apparently he could make it function well enough, and that was the main thing.

  He gave Kela jama robes of honor and a casket of jewels. And of course at that point Kela made his tearful goodbyes, and gave Tambula his apothecary box. Two days later he was dead. Shah Jahan could not bear that Kela might help another man achieve such a masterwork.

  Shah Jahan’s wives and concubines quickly learned to bite back their horror at the emperor’s monstrosity: rather they learned to admire the results if they knew what was good for them.