by John Speed
Dadaji moves quietly to the door, ignoring the brothers’ protests. His hand slips into the pocket where he carries the treasure Shivaji gave him. Four dark stones, one of them a clod of earth.
CHAPTER 17
“Why was I kept ignorant about the treasure at that fort?”
Whisper the khaswajara stands facing a muslin sheet hung from a cord, which hides the sultana of Bijapur. “If I might but see you, madam.”
“When will you cease to vex me, khaswajara? No man shall see me,” comes the sultana’s voice from behind the curtain. “Answer my question.”
How did she find out so fast? Whisper wonders. What goes on behind that curtain? Despite his bribes, despite his threats, none of her maids would say. Even the brat would tell him nothing. “You’ve heard, madam?”
“You think I am without resources? I am the sultan’s mother and the sultan’s widow. That was eunuch gold.”
The words sting. Does she know, or only guess? “The Brotherhood may have had an interest, madam. We would be grateful to recover it.”
“And why did you keep this secret from me?”
“I keep many secrets, madam. Many are secrets of yours, madam. Your son, the heir—”
“Enough!” Whisper hears the anger in the sultana’s voice, and knows his hint has met the mark. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Leaning close to the muslin curtain, the khaswajara whispers his plan.
Has it only been three weeks since he arrived in Bijapur?
What a nice man Shaista Khan is, Bala thinks. He should have been lost in the labyrinth of the Bijapuri court without Shaista Khan’s friendship. And more: clothes, money; introductions; advice, intelligent and subtle, all given with offhand nonchalance, more like an uncle than a Mogul general.
Shaista Khan is welcomed everywhere. Odd, thinks Bala, for Bijapur seems terrified of the Moguls. The court flutters with news of Aurangzeb’s campaign against Golconda. Rumors fly that when Golconda falls, Bijapur is next. And no one doubts that Golconda will fall. Maybe that’s why Shaista Khan is received so well. He brings with him a hope of peace. He hints that Bijapur is safe; he suggests—through a tilt of his head, through a shrug—that he has secret assurances.
When Bala galloped into Bijapur, he had a purpose. He spoke well and defended his friends. After twenty days, however, no one seems to care about Shivaji. All the talk of attacking Torna appears to be forgotten. People seem to wonder why Bala is still around. Bala too has begun to wonder. He hasn’t heard from Shivaji for days.
Suddenly his door bangs open. Shaista Khan strides in. “Get dressed,” he commands. “I’ve just had word. Shivaji has been busy.”
Shaista Khan leans on some cushions while Bala dresses. “It turns out that Torna had two lakh hun in its strong room.” At the figure, Bala’s wide mouth drops open. “The eunuchs were working some mischief, a big bribe probably. Who’s on the take, how deep it goes, no one knows. It’s a huge scandal. Afzul Khan executed the Torna captain last night, and that’s just the start. No one knows where it’s all going to end. Also, Shivaji has fortified an old stronghold at Bhatghar, the mountain next to Torna. Also, an entire Bijapuri garrison is on its way here from Singhaghad. Seems the commander took a bribe and handed the fort over to Shivaji. My guess is he’s got a few of those missing huns. Also, Shivaji’s men captured Purandhar fort yesterday. They may have massacred the entire garrison.”
“I don’t know what to say, sir,” Bala says.
Shaista Khan eyes him, like a trainer looking over a colt at an auction. “No. It’s clear you know nothing. All the more reason for you to leave.” He turns and shakes his head. “I knew there was something about that Shivaji. Son of a bitch, he’s good. Tell him that from me, do you hear?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“There’s a horse for you outside. Ride for Poona and slam the gate behind you. I’ll hold things together here for as long as I can.”
Bala chews his lip. “I’m Shivaji’s ambassador. I should plead his case.”
“Ambassador? Shit.” He softens. “Listen, Bala—at best you’re a pawn. They’ll hold you hostage. I don’t know if that would make a difference to Shivaji. In any case they’ll torture you in their spare time. The Bijapuris are devils. Get out while you can.”
“What do you think will happen next, sir?”
“Without you around to kill? They’ll go after Shahji. But Shahji’s tough, and smart—he’ll figure something out. Then they’ll come after Shivaji. He only has a little while to get ready.”
The color drains from Bala’s face. “A little while?”
“Maybe a fortnight, maybe a month. Depends on how much fight Shahji’s got left. My guess is he’ll ask to lead the attack on Shivaji.”
Bala’s mouth drops. “Attack his own son?”
“Right now his own son is single-handedly destroying Shahji’s comfortable position here at court. Now listen—as soon as you get to Poona send messages to the sultana. Eternal loyalty, it was all a big mistake, Shivaji loves Bijapur—you get the idea. Buy as much time as you can. Send copies to me. I’ll do what I can to slow things down. They’re still terrified of Aurangzeb—I can use that. Get going, Bala. You have no time to lose.”
Two days later, Bala sits in Shivaji’s bedroom. “Massacred!” Shivaji whispers, incredulous. “Massacred a garrison? What a hideous thought!” Bala shrugs. “Do you think he was just making this up, Bala? Maybe he wanted you out of the way for some reason?”
“I don’t think so, Shahu. He seemed convinced.”
“That will all be cleared up soon enough,” Dadaji says. “The Purandhar garrison should be in Bijapur in a few days.”
“But what damage will be done in those few days, uncle,” Bala says. “Shaista Khan says we have only two weeks.”
Dadaji’s eyebrows move against one another as though they are wrestling against the thoughts in his head. “Maybe it was me, Shahu.”
Shahu seems stunned. “You would never …”
“Something slipped out when I spoke to those brothers. They might have misinterpreted … they were terrified. Perhaps they thought …”
Bala listens, incredulous. He wonders if Dadaji truly understands the damage he has done.
“There’s something else I need to tell you, Shahu,” Dadaji says, looking very ashamed. “There’s been a mix-up in the strong room. We double-counted some of the money. Look for yourself!” he says, brandishing the account books.
“Let me see them, sir,” says Balaji. His eyes widen as his finger runs down the page. “Dadaji, this isn’t like you! You’ve carried the wrong balance here, and here, and here.”
Dadaji lowers his head. “I resign. I’m making foolish errors, Shahu. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I’m old. My mind’s growing dim. Time I handed over my key, my books.” He unties an iron key hanging on his neck, and hands it to Shivaji. “You’re not without support, you know. Bala can take care of things. Don’t get up. I’ll say goodbye before I leave.”
“Maybe I should go after him,” says Balaji.
“Not this time.” Shivaji seems serious, almost angry.
“It’s a mistake anyone might make, Shahu.”
Shivaji picks up the account book, which has fallen unnoticed from Balaji’s lap, and hands it back to him. “How much do we have?”
“It may take me a while to figure it out exactly …”
“But you found three mistakes. What do those add up to?”
“Maybe sixty thousand rupees less than we thought.”
“That means nothing to me, Bala. Not how many rupees … how much time?”
Balaji nods and leafs through the book. He stares at the invisible slate some more, frowns, looks in the book, frowns more. “Three weeks, Shahu. At current rates. There’s a big payment due the Rajput masons in two weeks. If we can delay that payment, we have four weeks.”
Shivaji sighs. “Three or four weeks? Is that all? I thought …” For a moment, Balaji thinks Shivaji
is looking at him, but realizes that he’s staring at a small altar on a nearby table. There’s a small bronze image of Bhavani, another of Ganesha. “What shall we do, Bala? It’s like we’re burning money.”
“What you’re doing costs a lot. Bribes. Building. Salaries. Weapons.”
“Yes. Weapons. We need cannon, Bala.”
“There must be cannon at your forts, Shahu.”
“Fixed cannon. Good for defense only.”
“Maybe you can put wheels on them, Shahu.”
Shivaji shakes his head. “Also we’ll need to place cannon at Bhatghar once the fortifications are complete. We can cannibalize the other forts for a start, but it won’t be enough if it comes to a war. Without cannon we’re nothing, Bala. What is a wasp without a sting, eh?”
“Maybe there’s another way, Shahu? Are cannon really that important?”
Shivaji winces. “Leave me, Bala. I need to think.”
In her small room near the temple, Maya rolls a lump of wet mendhi onto a stiff cloth. She folds the cloth tight around the mendhi to a form a flat package, and with a scissors snips off the corner.
Watching from the bed is Jyoti. She holds out her feet unnaturally, letting them dry. Already Maya has traced them, top and sole, intricate twisting lines. Where bits of the mendhi have dried and fallen from her foot, Jyoti’s skin is stained dark orange. “You do this so beautifully,” she says to Maya. “These Ori designs are so much prettier than Marathi designs.”
“Now for your hands,” Maya says. She presses the cloth envelope and squeezes from the cut-off corner a thin string of mendhi onto Jyoti’s palm. Carefully she begins to draw another line, concentrating hard.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Jyoti says.
“Shivaji likes you, and Hanuman is his friend. He will not disappoint you.”
“The mendhi, I mean.”
Maya looks up. “It’s too late now! Besides, you saw it in a dream. It must be right!” She sets back to work.
Jyoti looks at her pretty hands, worrying over them. “But this is what brides do …”
“And the friends of brides, and their families. Don’t you want to be Hanuman’s bride?” Maya looks into Jyoti’s face. How bright she looks, Maya thinks, how frightened. “If it is to be, it is to be. So why worry?”
“Do you really think there is a husband meant for me?” Jyoti asks.
“Hanuman, you mean?” Maya laughs. “You know he loves you.”
“What has marriage to do with love? I have no parents, no dowry …”
Maya stops. Careful not to disturb the mendhi on Jyoti’s hands, Maya puts a slender arm around her shoulder.
“I suppose it makes no difference. It will be or not be.” Jyoti leans her head against Maya’s. “Do you ever dream of a husband, Maya?”
“I’ve had enough of men.”
“A husband would be different though! A home together! Suppers. Children. Bed.” Jyoti’s voice trails off. “Maybe Shivaji …”
“Let’s speak of something else,” Maya says quietly.
On the peaceful verandah of his house in Kari, Jedhe sits amidst a symphony of tiny gold objects, his implements and containers for making pan. He moves slowly, every gesture careful and meticulous. For what else does Jedhe have to occupy his time? Today at least, Bandal is here. He arrived at Kari in a breathless gallop. Bandal had brought news of Shivaji. Their cousin now has taken three forts from Bijapur. Three forts!
Jedhe shakes his head. He had never guessed his cousin would be so daring. It pleases him to think of what Shivaji has done. Jedhe imagines that he too might be capable of daring acts, if only his father would allow him!
“Are you thinking about joining him, cousin?” Jedhe later asks Bandal. “Despite my father’s advice, I mean.”
Bandal shrugs. He and Jedhe are close in age, but he seems so much older … quiet, cynical. “Your father’s a wise man, Jedhe. He has advised me well. While my father was dying, he told me to seek your father’s counsel.”
“You didn’t really need to come all this way. His advice never changes: Do nothing. Hold tight. Be sensible. Think twice.” Bandal laughs, for Jedhe has captured even Tukoji’s frown as he intones his clichés.
“You’re not giving your father enough credit, Jedhe. This is big—big enough to cause a war.”
“Yes, war, or worse.” It is Tukoji himself, come to join them. As he sits beside Bandal, Jedhe hands him a bright green packet of pan. “But maybe war can be avoided. Maybe even some good can come from this misfortune.”
“I don’t see that it’s a misfortune, father,” Jedhe starts to say.
“Sometimes the path of dharma is hard, Bandal,” Tukoji says, ignoring his son. “I think maybe now is such a time. Our hard path is clear. We must ride against our cousin Shivaji.”
“Is there no other way?” asks Bandal.
“He’s only a cousin, my dear boy. Why, you scarcely know him … it’s not such a terrible thing, is it? Assign your men to my command. I will lead them down to Poona. I don’t think we’ll find too much resistance.”
“I’ve heard that Shivaji is assembling his army.”
“If that’s true, all the more reason to move quickly.”
But Bandal’s eyebrows knit together. “It’s not just Shivaji. We’ll have to go against Iron as well, won’t we?” Bandal lowers his head. “I like Iron.”
“Everyone likes Iron, lad. But when he sees us marching on Poona, he’ll do his sums and join us.”
“We should be joining Shahu, not moving against him!” interrupts Jedhe. “Why should we be whores for Bijapur? What has Bijapur ever done for us?”
“They’ve made us rich,” Tukoji says with dark finality. “Where do you think your wealth comes from?”
“Then let’s be poor. Poor and free. What’s wrong with that?”
Tukoji rises to his feet and towers over Jedhe. “I’m glad your mother isn’t alive to hear. You don’t know what it was like before the truce, before the traitor Shahji surrendered. War everywhere. Famine, drought. Babies dying, widows wailing. Join Shivaji and you’ll bring it all back. You want the blood of children on your hands?”
“Better to die fighting, father,” Jedhe answers quietly. “What are we to Bijapur? They take almost half of everything we produce.”
“They give back, fool. You’ve done quite well on what they give back!” Tukoji turns to Bandal, waving a finger. “And if we work together, much more will be given back. If the traitor Shahji proved anything, it’s that Bijapur pays for loyalty—they pay bloody well.” With that he storms off.
“Well,” says Jedhe after a while, “that was pleasant.”
“Do you have a different idea?” Bandal asks after a long silence. “Maybe you’ll find me ready to listen.”
“But isn’t he coming back, father?” Sambhuji tugs at Shivaji’s hand, trying to get his attention, for Shivaji’s eyes are focused in the distance. “Father!”
“Probably not,” Sai Bai answers, seeing Shivaji’s empty stare. “Trust Dadaji to pick the least convenient moment.”
Despite the noonday sun and the cloudless sky—for the rains have finished very early this year—the air is cool in the courtyard. At last, his door creaks open, and Dadaji emerges one last time from his room. He clutches his bare chest as the breeze chills him, and shuffles in his bare feet toward the gates where Shivaji and the others wait. His soft belly hangs over the small lungi wrapped around his loins. The rest of his body is thin, almost emaciated, and the skin droops like old parchment from his slender frame. He has shaved his head. Now walking awkwardly in bare feet on the rough ground, he looks like an ungainly naked bird.
Sambhuji runs to him laughing, and Dadaji seems flustered until at last he laughs too, and takes Sambhuji’s hand. “Well, isn’t this a good joke, Sam,” Dadaji says, as Sambhuji leads him toward his parents. There Dadaji lowers his head. “An old man’s last foolishness. Wish me well, my dear boy.”
Shivaji wraps his
long arms around the old man, and he holds him there a long time, his face pressed into Dadaji’s neck.
“You know, I had a thought as I was getting ready, Shahu …” Tears pool up in Dadaji’s eyes. “I couldn’t bear to see what’s coming next. I couldn’t bear to see you war against your father.”
“The gods grant it does not come to that, uncle.”
“But it will, won’t it, Shahu? How can you avoid it? It is the nature of war: father against son, brother against brother. But I don’t need to see it. I’ve already seen too much.” He presses a hand to Shivaji’s cheek. “But Shahu, think, think, think when you do it. Think of Sambhuji here. Think what it would be like for him to draw his sword against you, or you against him. You’ve hardly seen him, still Shahji is your father. Remember that!”
At this Jijabai sniffs impatiently. Dadaji turns to her. “What good is a life built on scorn?”
“You dare ask me this?” she replies, lifting her head imperiously.
“And why not? What difference does it make to either of us now? Your life is empty, Jijabai, more than mine. You should follow my example.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t walk away so easily. I keep my promises.”
Dadaji seems about to answer, then shrugs. He shuffles over to Balaji, who falls to his knees and presses his head to the old man’s bare feet. “I have no heir, Bala. I leave everything to you.”
“You do me too much honor, Dadaji,” Bala says.
“It isn’t much,” Dadaji laughs. “I’ve left you some notes.” He pats Bala’s round bald head, and then his own, now newly shaved. “Two bald men, eh? Take care of Shahu, Bala. Don’t let him get into too much trouble.”
“Where will you go, uncle? Will you head straight for Kashi?” Shivaji asks, raising himself to his knees.