Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  Fifty miles from Rathanbore, Aurangzeb makes camp. He and his guard have built fires, but keep their horses saddled, for they will leave before the dawn.

  As Aurangzeb puts down a wooden bowl of rice and dal, two soldiers hurry up; one a sentry of Aurangzeb’s company, the other a mud-stained courier.

  “The Princess Roshanara sent me, highness,” the courier tells him. He takes out a simple leather tube. “She said to say she had very little time, highness.” Aurangzeb opens it.

  The parchment inside, of course, bears no seal. It is small and completely covered with the princess’s manic script. Aurangzeb peers at the writing by the flickering firelight.

  Brother:

  Father did not die from the poison, but he is too sick to rise. The court is in an uproar, and begs for Dara to take the throne. I am a prisoner in my own room. I beseech you, hurry!

  Aurangzeb reads the words again: “Father did not die!”

  “Is there an answer, highness?” the courier asks.

  Aurangzeb considers. His brows knit. For a long time he is silent. “Tell her that I come as quickly as I can.”

  “Is that all, highness?”

  “One thing more. Ask her this.” Aurangzeb seems to struggle to say the words. “Where is he? Where on earth is Jai Singh?”

  Aurangzeb tears the parchment to shreds and thrusts them in the fire. The courier backs away, frightened by Aurangzeb’s twisted face.

  At the wedding feast, Sambhuji leads Maya up the back stairway of the Rang Mahal. A long receiving line waits outside Shivaji’s door, but Bala hurries Maya inside. “Please don’t take too long,” he whispers. “There are so many waiting.”

  Shivaji, still in his wedding clothes, leans against a satin cushion. He’s removed his turban, and his dark hair falls against his shirt. The sun strikes him like a crown.

  “You look like a king,” she breathes.

  He turns away, embarrassed. “I understand my mother visited you. I apologize for her rudeness. If I had known what she was planning …” He looks at her, and his eyes are dark as night. “If I had known …”

  Lost in his eyes, her mind searches for an answer. “Never mind her words,” she whispers.

  He stares at her and she at him. “I understand you wished to see me,” he says at last.

  It takes Maya a moment to gather her thoughts; suddenly seeing him, suddenly close, she had forgotten her purpose. Finally she says, “I came to say goodbye. Gungama and I are going back to Adoli. We shall rebuild the dancing school and temple that Afzul Khan destroyed.”

  Shivaji’s eyes seem to burn, that look of wild impatience that she first saw the day they came to Poona, but his voice is gentle. “Can I help?”

  “I would ask a favor. It will take money to rebuild, a lot of it.” He nods and Maya goes on. “You know that wedding headdress that I have? Let me sell it to you.”

  “Save that for your wedding day. I will underwrite your project myself. Tell Bala; he’ll give you whatever you need.”

  Maya bows, then falls to the floor and places her forehead at his feet. “Oh, why can you not be a king?” she whispers, then looks up. “Forgive me. I should not have spoken.”

  “I heard nothing,” he replies, “so there is nothing to forgive.” She sees that his eyes are full of longing, too.

  Maya rises, smoothes her sari into place, and bows to leave. “Do you know,” she says at the door, “this was only our third time alone together.” She stands by the door, looking at him, memorizing his face. She turns, certain they will never see each other again.

  “Our fourth time,” Shivaji answers, before the door clicks shut.

  After she fetches their belongings and says her goodbyes, Maya, changes into a simple cotton sari, and joins Gungama in the shastri’s oxcart that will take them to Adoli.

  As they pass the courtyard gates, the din of the wedding feast fades behind them. A lonesome sentry watches them depart. The city streets are so deserted there’s little to hear but the creaking of the cart wheels. Outside the city walls, the tent city is deserted. Everyone’s at the wedding.

  Through the overhanging branches of the mango trees that line the road they can see the Poona hills shining bright in the afternoon sun. By the time they reach the river, the sun has dipped behind the trees. “I hope the ferryman has not gone to the wedding,” the shastri tells them. But it isn’t the ferryman who comes out of the hut; it’s Tanaji, looking very pleased with himself. “This is a very large load.” He winks at Maya. “I must call my helper!”

  That’s when Shivaji steps through the doorway. “You didn’t think I’d let you go without a last goodbye,” he says to Maya.

  Tanaji and Shivaji lead the bullock cart onto the raft and tie the bullock’s nose ring to a rail. Then they haul on the rope, towing the ferry across the broad river. The diamond waters dance in the setting sun.

  At the other shore, Shivaji leads the cart from the ferry, and his hand grips the rail just inches from Maya’s. Then they all must say goodbye. With a bow, Shivaji places a purse in the shastri’s hands. “To begin your work,” he says, looking at Maya.

  “It is I who should bow to you!” the shastri cries.

  Gungama insists on giving Shivaji another kiss. “Remember,” she tells him. “Your work has just begun.”

  The oxen tug the cart toward the Adoli hills.

  “We’re not far,” the shastri calls. “Come see the goddess in her new home.”

  “Trust me,” Shivaji calls back. “I hope to see the goddess very often.”

  After the cart has passed the turn, Shivaji points with his chin to the small shrine of Bhavani atop the Poona hillside. “Let’s go to that temple, uncle.” Wearily, Tanaji agrees.

  It’s a steep climb and Tanaji is winded when they get there. Shivaji’s face glows in the setting sun. Tanaji finds a lump in his throat. Like that day by the river, he thinks, when the birds flew by. He wishes he were a poet.

  At their feet the hills turn golden, and the river glows as if lit from beneath. The trees wave gently, and their leaves rustle in the breeze like clapping hands. On the walls of Poona the watchfires have been lit, and from the Rang Mahal comes the sound of dancing. “Look around you, uncle,” Shivaji says. “What do you see?”

  Tanaji’s head sweeps the horizon. The fields of the plateau spread like a great blanket; in the far distance, forests of teak; and on the jagged peaks of far-off mountains, the squared-off shapes of forts. “Land,” Tanaji says at last.

  “Whose land, uncle?”

  Tanaji suddenly remembers when Maya had asked him this same question, months ago. Then the answer had been complicated, but it was no longer. “Your land, lord,” he answers. “Yours.”

  Shivaji smiles. “No, uncle. Ours.”

  On the floor of an abandoned mosque near Khirki, a wandering troupe of acrobats beds down for the evening. In the far corner, a giant stretches on a bedmat, and wraps his enormous arms around the plump figure in a sari who lies beside him. “I never thought I’d come to love this life,” whispers the soft, high voice. “Always moving, never enough to eat. But with your strong arms around me, it’s not so bad.”

  The voice pauses. “Can you hear me, or are you sleeping already?” The giant grunts. “We’ve been together for one year today. Do you remember? One year ago you released me: you freed me from my golden cage into the forest of freedom.”

  The giant presses closer, purring like a big kitten. His companion whispers: “I don’t suppose I’ll ever know how you managed that trick in the river, but I bless you for it. It was worth dying to be born again with you. Oh, Karm, I owe you everything.”

  With that, Basant (for of course it is he) kisses the giant’s hand and snuggles closer to his warmth. Through a high window, the crescent moon beams down and bathes them in silver.

  MAJOR CHARACTERS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE

  Note about nicknames : Nicknames are used in situations of familiarity and intimacy. Shivaji is often addressed by his nick
name Shahu. More typically, nicknames are shortened versions of given names. In addition, the respectful, intimate suffix “ji” may be added or dropped based on context. So in some conversations, Hanuman might be addressed as Hanu or Hanuji.

  BASANT Eunuch of the first rank, servant to the Mogul princess Roshanara

  SHAISTA KHAN Shah Jahan’s former general, ambassador to Bijapur

  ROSHANARA Mogul princess, daughter of Shah Jahan

  HING Shah Jahan’s khaswajara (eunuch in charge of the household)

  DARA Shah Jahan’s heir apparent

  AURANGZEB Shah Jahan’s younger son, Viceroy of the Deccan

  MIR JUMLA Aurangzeb’s general, a Persian adventurer

  ALU A young eunuch, Jumla’s khaswajara

  JAI SINGH Dara’s general, a Rajput; the king of Amber

  SHIVAJI A Hindu chieftain and highwayman. Also called Shahu

  TANAJI Shivaji’s mentor and lieutenant

  O’NEIL An Irish trader. Also called Onil

  MAYA A devadasi (temple dancer) sold as a slave

  JYOTI Maya’s maid

  JIJABAI Shivaji’s mother

  SAI BAI Shivaji’s wife

  DADAJI Shivaji’s regent, founder and administrator of Poona

  HANUMAN One of Tanaji’s twin sons

  LAKSHMAN Hanuman’s twin brother

  BALA Dadaji’s counselor and Shivaji’s secretary

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  To all avatars, all God’s messengers, all perfect masters, all sadgurus, all qutubs, all walis, all friends of God, all saints, all lovers of God, I bow down.

  —MEHER BABA

  I first heard about Shivaji and Aurangzeb while reading the Australian poet Francis Brabazon’s The Silent Word, where he discusses those ancient foes with his guru Meher Baba. Maybe, as Meher Baba says, Shivaji was an incarnation of Vishnu, much like Krishna or Rama. Maybe that is why his story filled my dreams.

  In 1982, when my obsession began, books about these men and their times were few. At that time, they were not merely minor historical figures, they were practically forgotten. I read through several shelves of books on Indian history at Duke University and the University of North Carolina, and found only about two hundred pages dedicated to them. Finding out-of-print books such as The Grand Rebel or Aurangzeb and Shivaji, in those days before the Internet, was difficult and expensive.

  Sometimes new stimuli transform and overwhelm the individual—all those wonderful, potential addictions like booze, sex, drugs, Haägen-Dazs coffee ice cream, and so on, that finger some button in the brain. I dreamed of those times, daydreamed of them. I became a menace on the road, with my hands on the steering wheel, and my mind in Agra. To the drivers that I ran off the road and scared half to death, I now apologize.

  It was years before I scraped up enough money to visit India. Instead, I transformed my world: eating dal and rice, taking darshan at local temples, spinning with local Sufis. At used record stores I found obscure LPs of vina ragas and qwalis. My Indian friends tolerated my constant pestering questions, and my naïve lectures to them about their own history, about which, quite truthfully, they knew very little.

  By the time of my first pilgimage to the Deccan, I had already written five or six hundred pages of my story. It was pretty shocking to discover that I often had more information about the places I visited than their official guides. In fact, I felt that my visit was a waste of time until I entered Aurangzeb’s tomb.

  The last great Mogul, perhaps the greatest Mogul, has no great marble and sandstone edifice above, no charbagh gardens. You’d probably get lost, as I did, trying to find it in the sleepy town of Khuldabad. There’s a small sign over a set of stairs that leads to a narrow gateway into a courtyard. A simple sidewalk surrounds a plot of bare ground: beneath that ground lies Aurangzeb.

  No one was there but me, no attendants, no touts, no beggars. The utter simpicity of the place was so unexpected that I went back and reread the tiny sign two or three times just to make sure I was in the right place.

  When I sat next to Aurangzeb’s grave, a strange moment occurred. I had a rush of sensations. I come from a pretty dysfunctional family: To be at Aurangzeb’s grave felt like visiting my parents’ house, sitting again at the kitchen table: a sense of great familiarity and deep emotional distress, a sense, for better or worse, of being home.

  I don’t know quite how to tell what happened there. I’ve settled for this description—I felt as if a hypodermic of light pierced my brain and injected a package of a thousand memories. In the days that followed, back in the States, the package opened, the memories unfolded, and this book emerged.

  I have spent more than twenty years working on this book, and it shows. Originally conceived for only my own pleasure, with no expectation that anyone else would read it, I wrote whatever the hell I pleased. No one was writing the kinds of books I loved most anymore: big, sweeping stories filled with large characters, convoluted plots, operatic conflicts, and minute detail; stories based loosely on history but in the end reflecting more the author’s imagination. In my solitude, I chose as models Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Dumas, Scott, Dickens, and Clavell.

  I knew a little about writing. I’d written plays, speeches, editorials, essays, and the like. I learned the craft of novel writing on the job. But I was inspired by my subject. Inspired—I use the word in its old sense: to be breathed on, or breathed into.

  Basant, originally an extremely minor character, suddenly shoved himself forward and demanded center stage. The eunuch Brotherhood appeared, and the tunnels under Agra fort (only much later did I discover that these tunnels actually exist). The old hero Iron rode into a chapter unbidden, bringing with him the horrific story of taking Torna Fort. And Afzul Khan showed up in my nightmares.

  Shivaji, whom I had written as a Standard Matinee Hero, withdrew from sight—his words suddenly unexpected and his motivations obscure—and I could no longer figure out what made him tick. Aurangzeb, my plaster villain, became complicated and contradictory, both charming and horrific.

  I spent fifteen years imagining this tale in silence, writing nothing. I visited India perhaps a dozen times, and I spent that time not studying in the usual sense, but absorbing sensations.

  After a windfall gave me enough money to do so, I wrote for about eighteen months: seven days a week, sometimes twelve or thirteen hours a day. I wrote more than three thousand pages. For my own pleasure. My book took on a life of its own. I’ve spent countless hours trying to whip it into some sort of readable shape, and wish, pretty much on the hour, that I’d stuck with my original plan of keeping it private. My obstinate book had other ideas.

  Since I started the story, the world has changed. The Hindutva movement in India lifted Shivaji from obscurity to icon. What had been Bombay Airport was now Shivaji Airport. What had been Victoria Terminus was now Shivaji Terminus. Aurangbad, the city named for Aurangzeb, was renamed Sambhaji-nagar, for Shivaji’s son. And so on.

  And what of Aurangzeb? He had been vilified for years for imposing sharia law on a non-Muslim people. (In fact, he was the first to codify sharia into civil statutes.) But as more Muslims began to demand political expression of their religious beliefs, Aurangzeb was elevated in stature, and they hailed his example. Some began to call him “The Fifth Right-Guided Caliph.”

  These two figures—ignored only a few years before—had now become polarizing rallying points. To describe them as human, with weaknesses and failings that all humans have, became an inflammatory political-religious insult. For articles I have edited on Wikipedia—in what I believe to be a neutral, scholarly way—I have received hateful e-mails full of threats of violence.

  Because of such threats, I have taken a pen name. For if such violence results simply from telling facts about Aurangzeb or Shivaji, how much more insulting will my creative speculation be?

  So, to the readers of this book, I apologize. I’m compelled to say: In this work of fiction, any resemblance to actual persons long dead is purely coi
ncidental. If, in attempting to understand history in human terms, I imagined my characters in ways that offend you, forgive me. They deserve a better storyteller than I. Take comfort that my words can do little damage to their shining memory.

  I give thanks for many friends who suffered through the creation of this sprawling book. The Wolfwriters novel workshop, led by my writing coach Michael Wolf, gave early drafts a sound drubbing; I am forever in their debt. Jean Naggar, agent extraordinaire, held firm to her faith in this story even when I ran off the rails. I can’t thank her enough. Jean led me to Maureen Baron, who managed to cut my “condensed” manuscript to half its length, without, as she had threatened, simply deleting every other word. Daniela Rapp, my editor at St. Martin’s, suffered my flailing conversation and missed deadlines with wonderful humor and grace (I’ll always treasure how she asked, ever so gently, whether one of my more graphic sex scenes could be “a little less moist”). She treated me like an artist, and worked wonders with my book.

  I must also mention with gratitude Tony Thornley and Irwin Jacobs, former president and chairman of Qualcomm. Bought at $10; sold at $1,600; took time off to write the book. Thanks, guys.

  Most of all, I offer my inadequate thanks to my one darling, my dear wife, Barbara. She said this story was determined to be told. Her faith inspired me. She is more precious than jewels. Her ways are ways of delight, and all her goings are peace.