Tiger Claws by John Speed Read Free Book Online Page A

simple robe, the plainest of men.
    “I am but a beggar on this earth,” Aurangzeb says quietly. “In this as in all things I will obey my father’s will. But is it truly my father’s will that you have spoken, brother?”
    “It is,” Dara replies, looking directly at him.
    “I would hear my father say so.” Aurangzeb looks to his father. The emperor faces his younger son with some confusion, then turns helplessly to Dara—who says nothing—and then to Assaf Khan.
    “It is your father’s will that the siege of Golconda be raised,” Assaf Khan says, hardly glancing at the emperor. Shah Jahan’s eyes have drifted away. “As his vizier, I say this. Hear and obey.”
    Aurangzeb peers at the faces of the courtiers who watch him with anxious fascination, scarcely breathing. He then bows to his father, tapping the floor with his hands three times, and walks slowly from the hall without a word or even glance to Dara. Jumla follows, neither bowing or nodding.
    And as they leave, Basant enters the dark shelter of the purdah chamber of the private palace. In the dim light he approaches Roshanara, kneeling on her cushions “What’s going on?” he asks.
    They stare through the jali at the scene in the audience hall. The nobles have begun to breathe again, and now are whispering with one another. Assaf Khan is speaking anxiously with Shah Jahan. Only Dara seems unaffected, sitting on his golden stool, alone; it seems odd to Basant that no one is talking to him. “What did I miss?” Basant asks again.
    Roshanara turns to him, tears streaming from her eyes. To Basant’s surprise, she throws herself on his shoulder and weeps. Embarrassed, he puts his plump arms around her. “There, there,” he whispers. “There, there.” He doesn’t know what else to do.
     
     
    Basant knows the touch of women on the boil, churning with the heat of passion. He knows the smell and taste of their desire. He knows the thrashing
and squealing, as they clench his head between their thighs and melt into moaning, throbbing delight.
    But he never feels their softness, their yielding. Such gifts, thinks Basant, they save for men, not for those like me. For what has he, deformed and maimed, to offer a woman? Cut off a man’s leg, and even though it is gone he can feel it itch. What happens if you cut off his lingam?
    Can it be that Basant feels something like desire? Is this why, when he holds Roshanara just so, he begins to dream of serving girls and pillows, and sharbats , and swings?
    Here is a secret he would never tell: Sometimes he dreams of being Roshanara’s husband, of being cradled in her arms (sometimes she is naked in these dreams; and sometimes so is he); and she feeds him sweet milk full of sugar from an ivory cup.
    Now his dream is close, now as he holds her. Thoughts of pleasure fill his head; he floats as on a cloud of some unnamable desire.
    Only he is not with some daydream, but with the real Roshanara—and Roshanara shares no one’s dreams. She twists from his embrace and pushes him away. “The hand is dealt. I must not fear my role. It is now: not soon, but now.” She blots her eyes with her palms, as a child might, and she snaps at him: “Come, fool. We have work to do.”
    The familiar twisting dread returns.
    She flips back the veil that covers her face, and peers into a miniature mirror that she wears as a ring on her right thumb. Patting a wayward lock of hair, she scowls at her reflection. Angrily she strides out. The marble walls echo as the heels of her slippers clap against the tiles.
     
     
    Basant, forlorn, forgotten, watches her shadow disappear through the door. He blinks and follows. A taste like acid burns the back of his throat, making his eyes water. A fool might say that I’ve been crying, he thinks.
    They step into the light-drenched hallways of the harem. After the shadows of the purdah room, the bright sunlight of the seraglio bruises his weary eyes. The warming air is already heavy with damp