by John Speed
“You can when the price is right, Tanaji,” Dadaji says. “This commander has been offering us Singhaghad fort for many months. He’s serious. For one lakh hun, I think he may be trusted.” Tanaji scowls, but before he can speak, Dadaji dives back in: “I’ve never known a Bijapuri to walk away from a deal when actual gold was involved.”
“But the transfer! The transfer is dangerous! What’s to stop him from taking the money and then refusing to hand over the fort?” asks Tanaji.
Shivaji shrugs. “I don’t think he’s smart enough to be dangerous.”
“Hell, I’m not smart, but I’m dangerous. If that commander’s not smart, that’s all the more reason for concern—ask yourself: How did a stupid man come to be commander of Singhaghad?”
“Tanaji is right. The transfer is the moment of danger. The method must be foolproof,” Dadaji says. “But what about the price? Is it worth one lakh hun to get Singhaghad?”
“Without a drop of blood, yes!” Trelochan pipes up. Tanaji rolls his eyes. Now brahmins have military opinions.
“We don’t need another fort!” Tanaji bursts out. “Why do you suddenly need forts, Shahu?”
“You heard Shahu’s story, uncle,” Trelochan says, practically bubbling. “Four stones, four forts—”
“I know, I know, I know,” Tanaji interrupts. “And one of them needs repair, and one of the stones was a clod of earth, and on and on and on.” He pulls on his mustache for fear he’ll start to scream. “I can’t believe we’re basing policy on some stones Shahu found in his hand!”
But Trelochan can’t contain himself. “Four stones, uncle! Each stone represents a fort. The clod of earth is for Bhatghar, which Shivaji is fortifying even now. It is a sacred sign! When the gods speak …”
“Four forts?” Tanaji glares from face to face, making sure he gets each man’s attention. “So where’s fort number four, eh, shastri? We’re about to pay a fortune for a fort, and now you’re practically guaranteeing that we’ll attack yet another fort, just to make the prophecy come true!” Tanaji lifts his hands, appealing to Dadaji. “Is this how we make policy these days, Dada? Some crazy man shits in my hand, and therefore I need to attack Agra?”
“It’s Shahu’s gold, Tanaji. He must decide how to use it, not I,” Dadaji replies.
Tanaji bristles. “Let’s talk about whose gold it is. Who found it, eh? Who bled for it?”
“Shahu bled as much as anybody, uncle,” Trelochan answers, for Shivaji again is looking down, his hands open, palms in his lap.
“Lost an eye, did he? Nearly get himself strangled, did he?”
“Shahu was shot, wasn’t he? Doesn’t that count for something, uncle?”
“If you want the money, Tanaji, take it,” Shivaji says softly.
“Fine!” Tanaji replies angrily. “Fine! I will take it!”
Dadaji clucks his tongue. “There, there, Tanaji; control yourself. Shivaji, this does not become you.”
“It’s not your money, Shahu!” Trelochan insists. “It’s a gift from the gods! You are only its caretaker!”
“Those huns came from Bijapur, not from the gods,” Tanaji scowls.
“How can you be so blind, old fool,” Trelochan shouts back. “The gods are here among us—they are shaping our destinies!” He is too caught up in his fervor to see the frowns of the others. “Why did Shahu succeed at Torna? The goddess sent him a sign, a dream! Five men, taking Torna? Don’t you see that was divine intervention? With no deaths … with only a little blood …”
“More than a little,” Tanaji growls.
“And then the gold, appearing out of nowhere!” Tanaji gasps, but Trelochan rattles on. “The gold, coming with the sign of the stones! It can only mean one thing! The gold must be dedicated to fulfilling the sign!”
“The sign, the sign! I’ve heard enough!” Tanaji stands. “Shahu, don’t tell me you really believe this horseshit.”
After a long pause, Shivaji looks up. “Tanaji is right. I’ve been a fool.”
“No!” Trelochan cries.
“Don’t stop him, now that he’s starting to make sense,” Tanaji says.
“Shahu, don’t be foolish!” Trelochan begs.
“It seems I’m a fool no matter what I say,” Shivaji replies.
Dadaji gives Shivaji’s shoulder a shove. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Shahu. Didn’t you know this day would come? I am ashamed to hear you talking about signs and stones. What difference do they make to a man? Don’t turn your back on your destiny.”
“You don’t believe in the stones, Dadaji?” Trelochan asks.
“Those stones are horseshit, shastri. That far I agree with Tanaji. But if they inspire Shivaji to fulfill his birthright, who cares if they’re horseshit?”
He takes Shivaji’s hand. It is an unexpectedly emotional gesture, for Dadaji is the most formal of men. “Shahu, look around you. The walls of the city are complete. You’ve taken back Torna, and you’re fortifying Bhatghar. Singhaghad is in your grasp. It is your destiny to succeed where your father failed. I’ve known that, Jijabai has known that.” Dadaji then looks into Shivaji’s eyes. “Those men outside our gates—the army that’s massing here. Do you think a single man there believes that crappy sign? Do you think they came to fight because of four black stones?”
“No,” Shivaji says. “But they might have come for gold.”
“For gold, or for glory, or to get away from their nagging wives … Men make excuses, Shahu. They do what they want, and then they make up a reason. That’s not why they came, Shahu. Not for gold, not for stones. They came for you.”
“What am I to do, uncle?” Shivaji asks.
Dadaji lets go Shivaji’s hand, his eyes looking far away. “How would I know, eh? My work is over now, and yours has begun. I can depart in peace. I shall be a sanyasi.”
“Like hell, Dada!” Tanaji roars. “We’re in a big mess. You’re not renouncing anything, not now!”
“Please, Dadaji, stay a with us a little longer,” Shivaji says.
“A little longer, yes. But the big mess is yours, Shahu, not mine.” Dadaji laughs, even Tanaji laughs.
“I will consider what to do,” Shivaji says. “Maybe the gods will make my path clear.”
“Listen, Shahu,” Dadaji says. “The path of dharma always looks hard. So if your way isn’t clear, choose the hard road instead of the easy.”
“And about the money, Shahu?” Tanaji asks.
“Maybe the gods will make that clear as well.”
After a moment, Dadaji speaks again. “There’s another matter. This came from Balaji.” The mood of the room changes quickly. “He says that he has put your case to the sultana, Shahu. The arrival of the Torna guard caused a real scene, he says. A letter is being drafted demanding the return of the Torna treasury. I should think we’ll have a delegation from Bijapur arriving any day.”
Trelochan gasps and Tanaji grimaces. “That ties it, Shahu,” Tanaji says. “You want the gods to make things clear? There! Bijapuris at your door! Will you go to war over two lakh hun?”
“Will you hold your tongue? Bala’s letter’s not done,” Dadaji says. “By Bijapur’s accounting—are you listening to me?—Torna’s treasury held nine hundred rupees.”
Tanaji looks up, his lips moving, doing the math. “That’s about—what—a hundred hun? That’s all?”
Trelochan gasps. “But the gold—it’s two thousand times that much!”
“I don’t understand,” Shivaji says.
“I do,” replies Trelochan. “This is the sign you were looking for, Shahu. The gods have multiplied the treasure so you can do their will.”
“There may be other explanations, Shahu,” Dadaji says dryly.
The next evening, Shivaji receives a message from Dadaji and hurries to the old man’s room. “Come in and see,” Dadaji tells him, opening the door. Two or three butter lamps cast a dim glow. On the floor in a cluster sit three men Shivaji has never seen before. They look up and instantly touch their fore
heads to the floor.
“Stop that!” Dadaji exclaims. “They keep doing that,” he complains softly. “This is Shivaji, master of Poona,” Dadaji continues. At once the three men start to bow again. “Enough, enough!” Dadaji says.
From the way they tie their turbans, it is clear that the men are Muslims. “What’s this about, Dada?” Shivaji asks. He turns to the men. “Have you come about the fort?” His voice is harsh, and the men cringe when they hear it. “Have you come from Bijapur? Is this about Torna?”
Dadaji gives a small, calming wave. “Listen,” he tells Shivaji. “Tell,” he commands the men.
The one closest to Dadaji begins to speak. “I am Ahmed, and these are my brothers, Kurshid and Munna,” he says. “We have come here, lords, over this.” Reaching into a leather satchel, Ahmed removes a long tube wrapped in black silk embroidered with golden crescents. The other brothers watch with fierce and anxious eyes as Ahmed extracts a sheet of rolled up parchment. Extravagant Persian calligraphy dances across the ivory page. The bottom of the paper sags beneath a half dozen heavy seals of embossed wax from which hang multicolored ribbons.
“This is a firman from the sultan of Bijapur.”
“I can’t read it,” Dadaji says.
“No one can, lord. It’s supposed to be in Persian, but the writing is so fancy, no one can read it. We all know what it says, though, lord, because it comes with this.” Here, Ahmed again reaches into the bag, and brings out a great key of iron; on its badge, the key-maker has carved a bas-relief portrait of a mountain fort.
“This is why we have come. Our father is … was, I mean … the commander of Purandhar fort, lord. This firman and this key confirmed the appointment.” Ahmed continues, “He fell and broke his back. It took him a long time to die. We buried him at the fort, lord.”
“But what has this to do with me?” Shivaji demands.
Ahmed speaks uncertainly: “By rights the succession of Purandhar fort should fall to us, lord. But, lord, we cannot tell how this should be!” Ahmed starts to bow, but catches himself in time. “So we come to you, lord, that you should in your wisdom settle the matter for us.”
“They want us to decide who will get Purandhar fort, Shahu.” Dadaji lifts an eyebrow to underline the significance of his words.
Shivaji nods, as if this sort of occurrence were commonplace. “But surely the eldest would inherit?”
“Our father was clear that we must share the fort,” Ahmed explains. “The most deserving of us to take the largest share. But forgive us, lord? We can’t choose who is most deserving. Nor do we know how a fort is to be divided into three.”
Shivaji waves that problem off, still concentrating on the brothers’ motives. “Why not send to Bijapur for a judgment?”
Again the three men shift uncomfortably. “Your first thought was right, lord,” Munna says, glaring his brother Ahmed into silence. “By law of the Koran, the eldest would inherit, unless there is a will.”
“Didn’t you say that there was a will?” Dadaji asks.
“Not a written will, lord. This disposition was my father’s dying wish … we all three heard it!” Munna says. He looks to the others. “Our father’s dying wish, lord! If we go to our Muslim judges, they’ll just give the fort to the eldest. Besides, they’d want a bite.”
“A bite? Who?” asks Dadaji.
“The mullahs or whoever,” Khurshid, the middle man, puts in.
Dadaji laughs. “But not us, eh? Not us Hindus?”
Khurshid, reveals his few remaining teeth. “Maybe your bite won’t be so bad. Anyway, you’re a businessman, lord,” he says to Dadaji. “Maybe we can work things out. See here, lord. The monsoons were bad for us, you know? Our roofs are broken. They need thatching, eh? Suppose you delivered us some thatch for our roofs?”
“I’m sure we could arrange that,” answers Shivaji.
“Let’s say we pay you twenty rupees a bale.”
“For twenty rupees a bale you could thatch your roofs with gold!”
“We’ll need a hundred bales, I reckon,” Kurshid continues, and the other brothers grimly nod in agreement.
Shivaji glances at Dadaji and shakes his head. “I think it’s better if we don’t …,” he starts to say, but his eyes drift to the firman, to the key of dull iron.
“Please, lord, we beg you!” Khurshid presses his forehead to the floor. The other brothers join him.
Shivaji glares. “Then stop this horseshit! Two thousand rupees? Tell me the real story and maybe I’ll help you.”
The brothers lift their heads and glance at each other.
“Please, lord,” Munna says. “None of us has slept in days!”
“The story,” Shivaji demands.
“It’s as we told you, lord. Except that we’ve been … well … frightened,” Ahmed says.
“Frightened? Of what?”
“Of each other, lord,” Munna mumbles. Finally he blurts out: “Ahmed threatened to kill Khurshid, lord.” His brothers glare at him, and then at each other. “Then Khurshid swore to kill Ahmed first.”
“And then our dear baby brother here took an oath to kill whichever one survived!” Khurshid spits out.
“Do you think we like this, lord?” Ahmed whimpers. “Why do you think we’ve come to you?”
“Enough,” cries Dadaji. “Send to Bijapur. Let the sultana judge.”
The brothers share a glance. “That’s not possible, lord,” Ahmed says at last. “There may have been some … irregularities … some minor irregularities … regarding the allotment. A more precise accounting might prove embarrassing. In fact, faced with certain alternatives, being killed by one’s brothers doesn’t look so bad.”
Shivaji laughs, and Ahmed joins him, and soon Dadaji and all of them are laughing as well. “That’s why you’re offering to pay us for bringing thatch,” Shivaji suggests.
Khurshid nods. “So that there should be no question of a bribe, lord, in the event our request becomes known. Should any questions ever arise, we’ll be able to say honestly that we came to you merely to purchase thatch to repair our fort.”
“At a fair price?” Dadaji chuckles.
“Let it be Allah’s will that others will pay you equally well, lord,” Munna says.
“We will do what you ask, gentlemen,” Shivaji says instantly, startling Dadaji. “We will pick the most deserving, and decide the method of division. On condition you agree to accept our judgment regardless of who or how we choose.”
“Then we all agree,” Khurshid says, and the others nod.
“I will begin sending thatch tomorrow,” Shivaji continues. “I’ll want a written order for this. I’ll even have my men help repair the roofs. It seems the least I can do. In the meantime, while we speak with you to determine who is most deserving, you will stay here as our guests.”
Once again the three men press their foreheads to the floor. “And we will keep these,” Shivaji reaches casually for the firman and the key. For a moment the brothers stiffen, eyeing him as he rolls the firman into its brocaded tube, and then slips the heavy key into his pocket. But it’s too late to say anything; they’ve come too far to go back now.
“What’s your plan?” Dadaji whispers to Shivaji as he walks him to the door. “I know you have some mischief in mind.”
“Keep them here—don’t let them go back to their fort. Lots of interviews. Lots of questions. Who’s most deserving, eh? Plenty to discuss for a couple of days. And get that written order for the thatch in my hand by dawn.” Dadaji nods, knowing when he’s been given a command. “I need two days, Dadaji. They’ve given me the key.”
“The key to Purandhar, yes.”
“This is the key to Singhaghad.”
Dadaji looks at Shivaji uncertainly. “First Torna, then the gold, then Singhaghad, now this. Bhavani has thrown a treasure into your lap.”
“Now you believe in the sign, uncle?”
Dadaji sighs. “Maybe she has given you this chance only to tempt you.”
&
nbsp; “This is the gift of Bhavani, uncle, not the villainy of Kali.”
“They are both that same one, Shahu,” says Dadaji.
Sai Bai feels a coldness in the room, like the shadow of a passing ghost, and turns to find Jijabai staring at her. “Whatever are you doing?” the older woman scolds. “Have we no servants?”
Sai Bai struggles to keep her face serene, knowing how that bothers Jijabai. “I prefer to look after Shahu’s clothes myself, mother.” She smooths an ironed turban cloth, and places it beside an embroidered jacket. “Especially when he faces trouble.”
“What do you know of trouble?”
“Your son hopes to take a fort, mother, without an army,” Sai Bai shoots back. “Do you think that easy?”
For a moment, for just a moment, Jijabai looks at Sai Bai as though she might reach out, weeping. But she sets her mouth and steels her spine. “This is servant’s work! I never laid out my husband’s clothes.”
“Perhaps you should have, mother.”
Shivaji and Tanaji and a line of twenty soldiers ride on Bedouin stallions outfitted in all their finery: tassles and bell bridles, velvet saddle blankets and silver ornaments. It takes only a few hours to ride to Singhaghad. The sun has burst through the clouds by the time they reach the mountain’s foot. “The rains stopped early this year, Shahu,” Tanaji remarks. He sounds grim. Drought and famine follow a short monsoon.
“It’s Bhavani’s work, uncle,” Shivaji replies. “She is setting all things in motion.” Tanaji says nothing. Around them the rolling fields are covered in golden greens as young plants sprout from the tilled ground. Breezes blow down the mountain. Everywhere birds chirp and caw.
They might be going on a picnic—except for the maces and swords, and spears and arrows, and sharp helmet tips peeking through the tops of turbans, and the glint of mail shirts beneath cotton robes.