Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  “They should be here in two or three days, madam,” Balaji puts in.

  “Well, gentlemen,” she says at last. “What shall our answer be? Shall we thank him, this grand person, this affectionate servant? Shall we leave him there to hold that fort for its rightful owner? Or shall we send an army to retake that fort and punish him for his insolence?”

  “An army, madam!” Afzul Khan calls out. “My army stands ready, awaiting only your command.” He lifts his head and glares around the throne room. “The word of a Marathi may not be trusted.”

  “We are certain you were not thinking of our friend General Shahji when you spoke, nephew,” the sultana says, but her eyes reveal nothing. “Wasn’t it your army that we sent before? Hamzadin was your man, was he not, nephew? Wasn’t the garrison yours, too?” The sultana then looks to Shahji. “But we would hear your opinion, general. He’s your son, after all.”

  Shahji spreads his arms, as if he is about to make a great speech. But then he drops his hands. “No,” he says quietly. “He’s not my son.”

  Bala’s eyes go wide. There is a buzz throughout the throne room; no one expected this. “What are you saying, general?” cries Wali Khan.

  “I say ignore those flowery words, madam. A man writes that he’s taken your fort! If anyone else wrote those words to you, how would you respond? That the writer was once my son should not enter into it.”

  “But the letter says, general,” Wali Khan argues, “that he holds the fort for its rightful owner.”

  “Lord,” Shahji replies, “Who does Shivaji think is the rightful owner?”

  “Bijapur is the rightful owner of Torna fort—of all the forts you ceded to us, general,” Wali Khan replies. “Until Shivaji comes of age and swears an oath of fealty. Have you yet seen him here, bowing to our queen?”

  “I say this letter is a feint, designed to breed confusion,” Shahji continues. “Shivaji pretends no harm, but he means to keep that fort!”

  “I must say that I’m surprised to hear such thoughts from your lips, general,” the sultana says.

  And Bala too is shocked. He stares at the general, not even smiling for a change, surprised that Shahji has seen so clearly what the others appear to miss, and that he speaks against his own son.

  “The point,” says a raspy, treble voice, “is only this: will Shivaji send the allotment?” The throne room quiets; people shush each other, trying to hear Whisper, the khaswajara. “That’s all that counts, madam.”

  “You are right to say so, Whisper,” the sultana replies. “When is the next allotment due?”

  “In six weeks, madam,” Whisper replies instantly.

  “Then in six weeks, we shall see, Whisper. Shall we not?”

  Afzul Khan takes a bounding step forward. “You can’t be serious, madam. You plan to wait?”

  “And what if we are serious, nephew?”

  “What about the treasury?” Afzul Khan chokes out.

  Bala’s bald eyebrows snap up. Treasury? The sultana glances toward Wali Khan, lifting an eyebrow.

  “There is that, madam,” the grand vizier replies.

  “Tell us.”

  Wali Khan glances to his secretary, who is already busily stooping over a pile of cloth-bound books. At last he grunts and lifts a large folio. Briskly turning page after page, he reads: “Nine hundred and eighteen rupees. That was last quarter’s accounting.” Bala tries to hide his excitement: Why that fort holds nearly as much gold as Poona’s whole treasury!

  “Not worth wasting lives over such a triviality,” the vizier says thoughtfully.

  “But add to that the guns, madam! Who knows how many weapons are up there!” Afzul Khan calls out.

  “Eight fixed cannon, four small wheeled cannon, fifty matchlocks, and miscellaneous small arms.” Shahji enumerates from memory.

  “Thank you, general. As you see, that also is not so much, madam,” Wali Khan suggests.

  “Not so much?” Afzul Khan sputters. “He takes our money and our guns. It is an insult at the very least!” He wheels toward Shahji, graceful despite his bulk. “What do you think he’ll do—that son of yours?”

  Shahji stares up calmly at Afzul Khan, whose face burns with scarcely concealed anger. “Tell me what you would do, General Khan, if you had all that money and all those guns?”

  “I’d figure out how to use them, general. And I wouldn’t think too long before I put them into action.”

  “So would I, general. That’s just what I would do.”

  You would imagine, Bala thinks to himself, that with these words of agreement Afzul Khan and Shahji would make a momentary truce. Instead, they glare at one another more fiercely than ever. Does this go on every day? Bala wonders. The courtiers look on: eyes darting from one man to the other as if they will be called upon at any moment to place a wager.

  The sultana’s muffled voice tries to ease the tension. “General Shahji, using stolen guns from a conquered fort is exactly what you did to us, if we recall correctly.”

  Shahji bows. “Madam, I must protest. My victories were on the battlefield. I didn’t simply move into an empty fort.”

  “Are you unhappy with your son’s tactics, general?” The sultana’s voice seems to Bala genuinely interested.

  “Not what I would have recommended, madam.”

  “Still why shouldn’t he have done so, general?” Wali Khan suggests. “For as soon as he swears his fealty that fort and many others will be his.”

  “Then let him do it, lord! Let him swear, as I did!” Shahji answers, his voice harsh. “Let him do it first, though, before he starts occupying forts; let him prostrate himself before the throne, the benevolent throne! Let him bow his head like a man!” In the vast hall all that can be heard now is the sound of Shahji’s breathing, and the thock, thock, thock of the Persian clock.

  In the midst of this discussion, Bala, the cause of it all, stands forgotten. Perhaps he could now just slip away unnoticed. But of course that is not his mission.

  “At times like these we miss our husband,” the sultana says, her muffled voice so soft that Bala has to strain to make out her words. “What do you think that we should do, general?” she says, turning to Shahji.

  “Send a letter, madam. Tell Shivaji to prostrate himself before the throne. Then when he refuses, attack with unassailable strength.”

  “You think he will refuse, general?”

  “He may have changed. It’s been years since I last saw him.”

  “But the leopard, general, as they say …,” the sultana says.

  “Yes, madam, the leopard,” Shahji replies.

  For a long time, the sultana merely sits with eyes closed. Bala wonders if she is well, when she last ate.

  “We have decided …,” she begins.

  Just then her son throws a dozen of his toy soldiers in the air. They land on the marble steps of the dais and spray along the stairs, clanking as they spin to a stop. “They all died,” he explains. “They got blown up by a farang bomb.” Only Afzul Khan laughs. It’s the first time Bala has seen him smile.

  “We have decided to follow a different course,” the sultana says at last. “We will write to Shivaji and demand the return of the treasury. We will regard that return as an indication of his fealty. We will command him to send it, along with the allotment, within six weeks.”

  “And when he doesn’t pay? For he won’t, you know!” shouts Afzul Khan.

  “He’ll pay, nephew,” the sultana says, eyes gleaming not at Afzul Khan, but at Bala. “His father’s fortune is at stake. He’ll pay.” Bala stares right back at the bright black eyes that peer above the veil. He glances for a moment at Shahji, who stands, rigid but pale.

  “Fool, inform that great person Shivaji of our decision,” the sultana continues. “Tell him that he is now the master of his father’s fate, and of his own. Let him show loyalty in actions as well as in words—then he will be honored as his father has been. Or let him prove false, and he will suffer, as his father will. Let
him decide.”

  Bala stands silently, eyes fixed on the sultana’s. “You’re done, sir,” says the vizier’s secretary at last.

  Bala bows deeply. Only as he steps away does he begin to tremble, as the fear he set aside so long falls on him. He steps into the courtyard and his stomach heaves so hard he has to lean against a column.

  From the throne room a grim-faced man approaches, dressed in rich silks, but carrying a simple, ivory-handled dagger. “Good day, sir,” he says to Bala. “I’m Shaista Khan, ambassador of the padshah, the Great Mogul, Shah Jahan.” He looks at Bala’s clammy skin, and his hard eyes soften. “You did well in there. No shame in being frightened now.”

  “I am honored that you would speak with me, lord,” says Bala, struggling to bow. “I only did my best, lord.”

  “Others have done worse. But don’t call me lord. We’re peers,” Shaista Khan replies, ignoring the obvious. “Both of us ambassadors in a far-off land, doing our best to serve our masters.”

  “You are too kind, lord,” Bala replies.

  “Enough formality, lad,” Shaista Khan answers. “Have you established an embassy here in Bijapur yet?” The idea is so ludicrous, Bala can barely keep from laughing, no matter how ill he feels.

  “Stay with me,” Shaista Khan says, with a look that might seem friendly, if it were on a different face, from a different pair of eyes. “I have plenty of room. And I can even lend you some clothes.”

  Bala licks his lips. His mouth tastes sour and he longs for sleep. “But why, if I may ask without offending?”

  “We need to stick together, lad, strangers in this evil court. Evil everywhere you turn. Good men need friends. They must be strong together. Besides,” he adds, “we might have been allies. We nearly were.” Shaista Khan smiles at Bala’s confusion. “Yes. Shivaji’s father had the chance. He might have made a peace with the Moguls. Instead he chose the Bijapuris. You see what a mess that has made of things.”

  “Do you not say ‘Ishvara Allah’? What God wills …,” Bala answers.

  “Good men can change God’s will,” Shaista Khan replies. “The fathers failed to make the peace—Shahji, I mean, and Shah Jahan. But the sons might fix that. Shivaji and Aurangzeb should be allies.” Again Shaista Khan’s wolf grin peeks out from the graying beard. “Your master’s in trouble, lad. Maybe he doesn’t know how much. Aurangzeb is the man he needs.”

  Silently, Bala prays to Bhavani. Whatever does Shivaji have that the Moguls want? He looks into Shaista Khan’s unblinking eyes, and thinks of a cobra hypnotizing its prey.

  “Well, Iron, what will you do now?” asks Tukoji. “Now you’ve taken, Torna, what now?”

  Iron’s friend and cousin Tukoji, the deshmukh of Kari, arrived in Welhe yesterday with his son Jedhe and his nephew Bandal. When they heard the news they galloped there immediately.

  Iron lifts his hands helplessly. “What can I do, Tukoji? The cards are dealt … I’ll play them.”

  “That’s horseshit, Iron.”

  If any other man had said this, Iron might have bristled; instead he grins. “Yes, it’s horseshit,” Iron chuckles. “But Shahu has sent a letter to Bijapur. He marched the fort commander back to Bijapur. He’s garrisoned the fort with the men he brought from Poona.”

  “How many men from Poona?” Tukoji asks, lifting his heavy eyes to Iron as if all this information wearies him.

  “Maybe twenty.”

  “Hmm. Not many. Not enough.”

  “Twenty men could hold Torna for a year,” Iron replies. “Twenty men with the will.”

  “Ah, but do they have the will, Iron?” Tukoji asks, lifting a dark eyebrow. He leans back, sighing. “What do you think about General Shahji these days, Iron?”

  Iron’s face grows still and his eyes narrow. He glances carefully around him, then leans forward to whisper “You know what I think. I’ve sworn wagnak. I’ll kill the son of a bitch like a dog if I ever get the chance.”

  Tukoji takes a long look at Iron. “Shall I tell you a secret? I checked your hands before I embraced you. After all, I too made peace with Bijapur, as Shahji did. Don’t you mean to kill me as well?”

  Iron holds up his hands, spreading his fingers. “No tiger claws for you, old friend.”

  “But why not, Iron? Am I not a traitor, just like Shahji?”

  Iron dislikes thinking. He notes the signs of Tukoji’s prosperity: the stiff folds of his crisply pressed clothing, the heaviness of his turban, the breadth of his belly, the soft refinement of his hands. Iron feels ashamed to be sitting in his cotton jamas. “You made the best of the bad deal, as did I,” Iron says at last. “Once Shahji left us with our dicks flapping in the breeze, it was every man for himself. You made a deal—I made a deal. But that bastard Shahji left us both high and dry.”

  “But what about the son? Kill the son and you’ll punish the father right enough.”

  Iron shrugs. “Thought about it. Didn’t seem right somehow. The boy’s not so bad.”

  “I heard he was a shit.”

  “Maybe … I guess we’re all shits when you come down to it. Still, he’s been respectful to me, and loyal. Besides, this action at the fort will make pain for the traitor Shahji.”

  Tukoji pretends to share Iron’s amusement. “But back to the point, Iron. What will you do now, eh? Think your situation through, Iron. This is your chance to make a new deal with Bijapur. A favorable deal.”

  “Why would Bijapur cut a new deal with me?”

  “Iron, listen: so far as Bijapur is concerned, everything is Shivaji’s doing—the attack, the takeover of the fort, the arrest of the Bijapuri garrison …”

  “Wait, wait,” Iron protests, “Bijapur is bound to hear something about my part. It’s not like I wasn’t there …”

  “Sure. But maybe you only went there to help, eh? Maybe you tried to keep things from getting out of hand. Who’s to say? Iron, listen: Bijapur will think whatever you tell them to think.”

  “You’re confusing me.”

  Tukoji’s heavy lips curl into a dark smile. “There’s still time, Iron. You might send men today to take back the fort from Shivaji’s garrison. You might send a letter yourself to Bijapur, repudiating Shivaji’s actions. Small steps, really, but you might end up in a much better position.”

  “I don’t know. It’s not my nature …”

  Tukoji presses on. “You’ll get invited to Bijapur in honor. You’d get close enough to Shahji to use those tiger claws. And what would that be worth, eh? How much would the sultana pay to be rid of the son of a bitch? If not her, then Afzul Khan, or for that matter the Brotherhood.”

  Iron looks at Tukoji with the cold eyes of an old gambler. What does Tukoji gain from all this … why is he so insistent? “I don’t know,” Iron grunts. “Going against Shivaji … I was just starting to like him.”

  “Enough to face a war? When the Bijapuri elephants stomp this little town of yours to splinters, will you still like Shivaji so much?” Iron says nothing. “Does he even know about your wagnak oath, Iron?” Tukoji asks.

  “Speak quietly. He’s right over there.” Iron glares. “Anyway, how could I take back that fort, with Shivaji’s garrison up there and all?”

  This is what Tukoji has been waiting for. He leans forward to whisper to Iron.

  Seated on the verandah on the other side of the courtyard, Shivaji is preparing pan with his newly met cousins, Jedhe and Bandal. It’s Jedhe’s pan set, and like all of Jedhe’s things, it is expensive. He watches Jedhe set out his pan dan; a matching set of small round gold-enameled boxes for the supari nuts, the betel leaves, the cardamom and clove, and a special box with a small spoon that holds the astringent chunam powder.

  Iron had explained the family tree when he introduced them: how Iron and Jedhe’s father had ridden with Shahji, how the two of them had played together as babies, and so on. An old man’s introduction, full of an old man’s memories. Jedhe had caught Shivaji’s eye with a quick, mocking look at Iron before formally lifting his han
ds to his head to greet Shivaji.

  Iron continued: “This other fellow is Bandal. He just became deshmukh of Hirdas—a month ago, wasn’t it?”

  “It has been ten weeks now, uncle. You came to my father’s funeral.” Bandal bows.

  “Anyway you youngsters are all cousins, you know. Why, you are practically brothers!”

  Soon after Iron leaves, the “youngsters” are enjoying the familiarity even this thin thread of blood tie affords. As family, they forgo the need to find common bonds of friendship. They launch immediately into talk of family members known and unknown, scandals and annoyances. Soon they are laughing.

  Even now Shivaji is chuckling at one of Jedhe’s jokes. He seems to have an endless supply. Jedhe wears a whisper-thin mustache, and his eyes are clear and hard: they dart quickly as he talks, like the eyes of a hunting bird.

  Bandal, a head taller than Jedhe, watches silently, his face so dark it seems smudged with charcoal, his eyes plaintive, never looking directly at either.

  As his hands deftly prepare the pan, Jedhe describes a wedding he attended, focusing especially on the expression of the eleven-year-old bridegroom seeing his twelve-year-old bride. He mimes the boy’s wide-eyed expression: the fear and desire. But there’s more: hidden by his cloak, Jedhe has stuck his hand down his pants; now he pokes out his thumb to mime the boy’s stiffening lingam. He shows the boy: now frantically trying to push it down, now squeezing it between his legs, finally showing it off to his young bride. Shivaji laughs until tears dampen his eyes.

  “Uncle Iron told us you have a farang sword, Shahu,” Bandal says, changing the subject. “Might we see it?”

  “When I get it back … It’s at the smith’s,” Shivaji replies. “I’m having it fitted out as a pata.”

  “A gauntlet sword … excellent. The hand can be a swordsman’s most vulnerable spot,” Bandal says.

  “How did you come to get a farang sword?” Bandal asks.

  “It was a gift,” Shivaji answers. The others wait but nothing further comes.