Tiger Claws (9 page)

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Authors: John Speed

BOOK: Tiger Claws
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Aurangzeb considers the board for so long, his eyelids droop sleepily over his dark eyes, “Shall we make a wager?” he says at last.
Jai Singh’s clear eyes flash. “What shall we bet?”
“Wager that service we discussed, general,” says Aurangzeb softly.
Jai Singh stares steadily into Aurangzeb’s sleepy eyes. “Such a wager is not trivial, sir.”
“No,” Aurangzeb answers, eyes hooded, staring at the chessboard. “No, I did not mean for it to be.”
Unconsciously, Jai Singh begins to rub his hands together. “You ask not only for my help, sir, you ask for my honor.”
“Forgive me if I see it otherwise, general,” Aurangzeb says. “Am I not a son of the emperor, beggar though I be? To ask that you help me … does this go against honor?”
“It may,” Jai Singh replies, “if your enemy is Prince Dara.”
“How can my brother also be my enemy?” Aurangzeb asks.
Jai Singh turns away. “And what will you wager on your side, sir?”
“Ask for what you want, uncle.”
Jai Singh’s neat fingers brush his trim, pointed beard. “A promise.”
“What promise?” Aurangzeb asks, surprised.
“Never to come against me. Or my family. Or my heirs.”
Basant can sense the tension in the room. Both men stare fiercely at each other, as though the fate of nations would rise or fall on the outcome. Aurangzeb almost lazily closes his eyes and then, slowly, inclines his head, giving a nearly imperceptible nod. Jai Singh sits ramrod straight.
The wager is made.
Without hesitation, Aurangzeb slides his camel next to Jai Singh’s king. “Danger,” he says.
Jai Singh’s eyebrows rise and his eyes widen. His face looks suddenly very old indeed. He stares at the chessboard, eyes darting from piece to piece. Basant notices that Jai Singh’s hand is small and delicate, like a child’s hand, and though the general is clearly agitated by the game and the wager, his hand is steady. His moves are careful, not indecisive.
“My tutors were fools,” Aurangzeb says while Jai Singh considers. “My tutors taught me Arabic and rhetoric. I wish someone had taught me about my life—about the life of a Mogul prince.” He waves to his manservant and silently motions for him to bring refreshments. Basant realizes the manservant is deaf. “I am the son of an emperor. What fate for me but an early death?”
“You exaggerate,” Jai Singh says, still staring at the board.
“I have but two choices: death—or the throne. I swear I do not seek the throne. But whoever takes it next will kill me.” Aurangzeb shakes his head. “Though I renounce the throne, how is the next emperor to trust me? I am but a beggar, after all. Who trusts the word of a beggar?”
“Yes, I agree. Your fate is certain,” says Jai Singh with no trace of irony. “If the history of your family teaches anything, it is that siblings of the new emperor don’t live long.”
Aurangzeb looks hard at Jai Singh. “If I don’t wish to die by my brothers’ hands, what choice is left me? Shall I say it aloud, uncle? My only recourse is to depose my father and seize the throne myself.” He squeezes
his eyes shut as if his head hurts. “Allah pushes us like
pyadas
on a chessboard. Kill my brothers or be killed myself? Why has Allah, the all compassionate, placed this choice before me?”
Jai Singh stares at Aurangzeb. “But I do not think you can avoid this choice.” He slides his camel across the board. “Danger.”
Instead of looking at Jai Singh’s move, Aurangzeb looks directly at Basant. “Did I not tell my father that I abjure the Peacock Throne? Did I not leave this world behind to prove my vow? For twelve years I wandered homeless, with only the clothes on my back. I dwelt with dervishes and walis. I slept in the shadow of
dargahs
. I lost myself in ghazals and
qwalis
.”
He shakes his head. “Then my father called me back—against my will—to be viceroy of the Deccan. The very post I had left twelve years before! Of course I obeyed. It was not my portion to renounce this world. I resumed my duties as a prince. I married. I had sons. Such was Allah’s will.”
He lifts his hands, appealing to Basant, to Jai Singh, to Allah. “Am I to die for this act of loyalty? Where else but in Agra is filial devotion a death sentence?”
Basant is struck by Aurangzeb’s passion. Yet to some part of his mind the words sound rehearsed. The prince, Basant thinks, speaks with an underlying apathy that belies his words. But Basant thrusts this thought away, for he is determined to be convinced of Aurangzeb’s sincerity.
Aurangzeb fixes Jai Singh with a hawklike stare. “Do you believe me when I say that I abjure the Peacock Throne?” Jai Singh does not move. Aurangzeb turns to Basant, as if in despair. “Do you believe me?”
“Of course, lord,” Basant says immediately. How can Roshanara even imagine that this humble prince would ever struggle for the throne?
Aurangzeb looks at the chessboard. “My life is a chess game that I am bound to lose.”
“Then take the needle, if you mean this,” Jai Singh replies.
Aurangzeb looks back at Jai Singh, clearly unprepared for this suggestion. “Blind myself, you mean?”
“Even if you do not seek the throne, the winner must eradicate you as a threat.” Jai Singh looks at Aurangzeb sorrowfully. “Will the winner choose to kill you, or only to blind you? The best you can hope for is blinding. History bears this out. Why not avoid the worst? Remove the threat. Take the needle to your eyes. No one wants a blind king.”
Aurangzeb peers into Jai Singh’s eyes. “Are these Dara’s thoughts or yours, uncle? On whose behalf do you speak?”
“You know my feelings, sir,” Jai Singh says.
“Yes, uncle, I do. To understand a man, you need only look to what he wagers.” Aurangzeb nods at the chessboard. “Danger.”
Aurangzeb turns fully to Basant, unexpectedly casual. “The general said ‘Death in three moves,’ did he not?”
“Yes, lord, that is what I heard him say.”
“And how many moves has it been since then?”
“Two moves. lord, I think.” Basant wishes he had paid closer attention.
Jai Singh looks. “Perhaps I spoke too soon,” he admits. “But while I may mistake the timing, I do not mistake the outcome.”
“Allah’s will, and not our own, determines all things, uncle. That is why we must trust in him.” He turns, looking significantly at Basant. “And we must trust our friends as well. How is my sister?”
“She is well, lord.”
“You had an easy journey over the river?”
“Easy enough, lord,” Basant replies, surprised at the simple friendliness of these questions.
“What did you think of Jai Singh’s army?” Aurangzeb asks.
“I scarcely know, lord. I’m sure I didn’t notice it.”
Jai Singh looks up. “You didn’t notice two hundred thousand men? Ten thousand tents? You didn’t notice?”
“I’m sorry, lord. I had many things on my mind,” Basant manages to mumble at last. He doesn’t want to say that he fell asleep as he crossed the boat bridge across the Jumna.
Jai Singh huffs. He reaches out his neat hand to the chessboard and takes Aurangzeb’s camel with his elephant. “Your move,” he says. He glances at Basant and huffs again.
Aurangzeb moves his
pyada.
Jai Singh looks at him. “You see that your elephant is in danger?” he asks. “Take back your move, if you wish.”
Aurangzeb looks at the board and raises his hands resignedly. Jai Singh takes the elephant as if it is a sad duty, but he cannot hide his pleasure.
Aurangzeb moves his camel one square.
Jai Singh is again about to move when Aurangzeb says, as though the thought suddenly struck him, “Danger.”
Jai Singh’s stares at the board. He looks up, mystified. “How can this be?” he asks. “It’s impossible!” He turns to Basant. “Do you see?”
“What, lord?”
Jai Singh now plays both his pieces and Aurangzeb’s, calling out each move. “I move my king. His elephant takes my horse. Danger. Again I move my king, and so his
pyada
here—this miserable little piece—reaches
the final rank and becomes a vizier.” He replaces the pyada with the elegant ivory vizier. “And now my king is dead. So.” Jai Singh tips the king over, gently laying the piece on its side.
“I have won.” Aurangzeb says, bowing his head.
“Take pleasure in your victory, sir.” Jai Singh returns his bow.
“I take pleasure in our wager, uncle,” Aurangzeb answers. “With Allah’s mercy, your service will never be required—we can hope so, at least. But to know that it is now mine eases my beggar’s heart. Those
pyadas
made all the difference, eh, Basant? It is so important to remember the little pieces, is it not?” Aurangzeb sighs. “We must always pay attention to the little pieces.”
The manservant discreetly comes near, offering juices from a silver tray. Basant chooses melon mixed with mango, and a candy wrapped in silver foil. Aurangzeb takes only water, a fakir in the midst of splendor.
 
 
Basant knows how Aurangzeb decries extravagance, but his little drink seems sad without a bit of ice to clink against his cup.
In the harem, ice is so common that Basant has forgotten that it is worth its weight in silver. Basant has seen the icewallahs floating rafts of ice down the Jumna while children swim nearby hoping to chip away a piece when no one sees; ice rafts that started in the Himalayas as chunks of glacier a thousand times heavier. Master Hing has told him that ice is the harem’s single greatest expense, more than clothing, food, or gems.
Basant looks through the arches to the river, at the children swimming amidst a herd of sleek black water buffalo in the slow-moving current. Their laughter, he realizes, is mingling with shouts from the garden behind them. The shouts increase, and soon at the entrance a whole crowd of men appears; Aurangzeb’s soldiers. “My lord, I couldn’t stop them,” Alu cries. “Look, this dispatch has just come from the palace.” The men crowd into a tight circle, all eyes on Aurangzeb as he takes the parchment.
General Jumla pushes through the crowd. “Has it come?” he asks.
“As we hoped, general,” Aurangzeb replies. “Please, open it and read it aloud.” Jumla and Jai Singh both seem surprised that Aurangzeb would hand Jumla the scroll without first reading it himself. It is a firman—an imperial order, heavy with sealing wax and ribbon—signed by Shah Jahan himself. Jumla reads aloud and as he reads, his eyes widen with surprise.
Shah Jahan has completely reversed the morning’s decisions. He now
orders the army to attack Golconda and Bijapur without quarter. But the language is so flowery that even Basant has trouble understanding it. At last Aurangzeb translates it into plain soldier-talk: “We attack! The Deccan is ours!” he shouts, and the men cheer.
The firman goes on, however. As if Shah Jahan’s reversal of the morning orders were not surprising enough, he now makes Jumla a
mandsabar
of fifty thousand men and ten thousand horses. In effect, he gives him half the army of the Deccan. Further, the emperor orders that Jumla should lead not only his own troops, but Aurangzeb’s also.
The firman makes Jumla the supreme commander of the Deccan army, a hundred thousand strong. Jumla stops reading and looks up slightly embarrassed. The soldiers look confused, puzzling over what the fancy talk all means. Again Aurangzeb interprets: “Jumla’s in charge, men,” he says. “He’s the general of us all, now.”
The men cheer at first and then their shouts fade. It seems wrong to cheer Jumla while Aurangzeb stands nearby. Aurangzeb, however, congratulates Jumla. His words are plain, though his demeanor is formal. The soldiers cheer uncertainly again.
“That’s all,” Alu says at last. “Let’s leave these men alone—I’m sure they have things to discuss.” Encouraged by Alu, who is backed by Karm’s silent presence, the soldiers slowly turn and walk off.
“Congratulations, general,” Jai Singh says to Jumla. “This recognition must be very satisfying.”
Jumla nods, but seems embarrassed. “Is this what you expected?” he asks Aurangzeb uncertainly. “Is this what you wanted?”
Aurangzeb looks at him coolly. “I am only a beggar, general. I tell you this but I fear you don’t believe me. I am resigned to Allah’s will. I extend my congratulations.” Basant can’t decide if Aurangzeb is the calmest man he has ever known, or the angriest.
“Sketch out the campaign, general,” Aurangzeb says when Jumla bows in reply. “If I may request it humbly, please make haste.”
“For tonight’s meeting, you mean,” Jumla says, then suddenly clasps a hand over his mouth. “Forgive me, lord!” he gasps.
Aurangzeb’s smile never wavers. “I’m meeting with my staff tonight,” Aurangzeb says casually to Jai Singh. “There is nothing to forgive, general.” Jumla, clearly embarrassed, backs out of the room. Basant wonders why such a meeting would cause Jumla to be embarrassed.
“This firman brings unexpected news, lord,” Jai Singh says.

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