The Taj Conspiracy

by Someshwar, Manreet Sodhi

  The city was situated in a draughty valley but in the winter months the cold rolled across in tidal waves. Her job as a tourist guide, which she’d taken up after majoring in Renaissance studies, necessitated a place in central Florence. The short walk to work and the charming views from her room window offset the steep rental she dished out every month. Traversing the cobblestones of Florence, soaking in the giddy-coloured Duomo, feasting on Michelangelo’s David five days a week, Mehrunisa had been happy. It didn’t last long. An urgent summons arrived from Rome: Maadar was dying.

  An inoperable brain tumour had left her mother with a three-month lifeline. And Maadar was insistent that she would not submit to any radiation nonsense. ‘I love my hair too much,’ she grinned, her voice faintly brittle. Continuing with the adamancy, she announced that she wanted to spend her remaining days in the town she still called home: Isfahan, Nesf-e-Jahan. At that point in time, Isfahan was not just one half of the world, as the Persian proverb went, it was the world.

  Mehrunisa sighed and shifted in the chair. Maadar’s sudden desire to visit Isfahan had been difficult to fulfil. In the thirty-odd years since she had left Iran, Maadar had returned only for an occasional visit. In any case, all that was left in Isfahan was Uncle Massoud, cantankerous with age and infirmity that impeded his painting, and the rambling house. But impending death had made Maadar stubborn. An old family friend visiting them from Tehran had agreed to become the official sponsor for the visit. Mehrunisa had accompanied her mother on the trip, her life in limbo: she was journeying to a past that had been lost, with a mother who, in the near future, would also be lost. However, at Immigration, the authorities had refused them entry. Thus had ended Maadar’s last flight to Isfahan, and with it, her life....

  It was during that trip that her mother had divulged that Mehrunisa’s father, the suave ex-diplomat businessman, had in fact been an undercover agent. A career spy, he had been captured by the Pakistanis once and tortured—the threat was to behead him and display his head on the Line of Control for the Indian Army to see. But he had managed to escape. How, he had never revealed—the fewer details his family knew, the better. And the scar was thereafter masked by the designer stubble.

  The disclosure was prompted by Maadar’s desire to see Mehrunisa shake off the past and find closure. If her little girl who had doted on her father never put his sudden disappearance behind her, how would she get on with her life, find a man, marry and settle down.

  Enough! She shook her head and reached for the lip balm in her bag. Except her hand found her wallet. Withdrawing it, she caressed the picture encased within a plastic sheaf: a couple on a marble bench with the Taj Mahal as the backdrop. Papa had brought Maadar to Agra for their honeymoon, the land of the grandest gesture of love in the world. They were madly in love; enamoured with each other, with life, with art. In fact, art was what brought the two together and was to be an abiding passion thereafter.

  Papa had been in Tehran on work and, during a lunch break, had wandered into an art gallery off Laleh Park. The featured artist for the exhibit was painter, sculptor and muralist, Massoud Abgashi, the flyer informed him as he began a tour. He found the paintings intriguing, he always maintained, the abstract work incorporating traditional elements. However, what entranced him was the elegant gallery owner, who approached him as he gazed at a three-dimensional collage of inks, watercolour and porcelain. ‘What do you think?’ she’d asked.

  He turned to see a woman dressed in an emerald silk shirt and black pants, her green eyes sparkling with some internal mischief even as she smiled at him politely.

  ‘It’s mystifying,’ he managed to reply, mystified that he had managed to speak despite feeling tongue-tied.

  ‘What is?’ Noticing his incomprehension, she elaborated, ‘What is mystifying?’

  ‘Oh! The porcelain,’ he shrugged.

  She burst into laughter before regaining her composure, and responding, ‘Yeah?’ Only her teeth biting her lower lip showed that she was laughing at something.

  It was then that Papa decided to brazen it out. ‘Look, why don’t you spill the secret so I can join in the laughter, and then I would like to ask you out for lunch.’

  Maadar swore that line had come out at jet speed, though Papa always maintained that, while internally quavering, he had affected calm. Nevertheless, the result of it was a long lunch, a brief courtship and a quick marriage—the prospect of a Sikh-Muslim wedding equally unappetising to both sets of parents. Massoud Abgashi was Maadar’s cousin, an eccentric genius who, when unhappy with his work, hurled pots of paint at it. These canvases Maadar rescued and displayed in her gallery. They amplified the artist’s ‘abstract’ compositions, thereby enhancing his prestige. Uncle Massoud, whom Mehrunisa had not met for several years, was now in retirement while the value of his work continued to skyrocket.

  Mehrunisa felt like sobbing, as she often did on such reminiscences; told herself No!, and proceeded to shut her eyes tight. With Maadar’s passing, she had decided to come to India to her godfather Professor Kaul, in whose Delhi home she had spent many summer vacations as a child.

  It was Maadar who had divulged how the professor, who was neither family nor colleague, had become a close friend of Papa’s. When Harinder Singh Khosa joined Intelligence, he was sent to Professor Kaul for lessons in Persian culture and language. Later, when he became romantically entangled with Maadar, he sought out Kaul to learn the nuances of Persian culture, and a friendship had developed between the two men. When they married, Kaul was the person Maadar conversed with in Farsi, and when Mehrunisa was born, with both their families still sulking at the undesirable marriage, it was inevitable that he’d be their daughter’s godfather. As Papa became increasingly involved in his work, which kept him away from home for extended periods, Mehrunisa started to spend summers with Professor Kaul where her father could zip in and meet her—it was also where her father knew she could get exposure to Indian culture.

  Since she’d moved to Delhi, Professor Kaul had taken her under his tutelage, and she’d begun work on her project researching Indo-Persian linkages. It was a conscious effort to connect with her roots, the legacy of a Persian mother and a Punjabi father. Of course, she was still figuring her way in the antipodal environment she had moved to. She bemused her countrymen: half Muslim-half Sikh, decidedly Non-Resident-Indian in her bearing. To Mehrunisa, however, these were all irrefutable parts of her self, a self she was attempting to comprehend. Nevertheless, the answers she was looking for continued to be elusive. She was aware of a persistent sense of disquiet and loss.

  Still, her project gave her comfort, as did assisting Kaul uncle with his ongoing work on the Taj Mahal. It hadn’t taken her long to feel at home working on the world-famous monument. The Taj was like her: of mixed parentage—built on Indian soil by a Mughal emperor, its architecture and design reflected its hybrid heritage— Persian, Islamic and Indian; and a monument to loss— built by an emperor in memory of his lost love.

  Yes, the Taj Mahal and she were rather congruent.

  On that comforting thought, she noticed the grey dawn light of winter outside the window. An hour back, she had woken up from some dreadful rehash of the day’s ordeal and sought the reassurance of her godfather’s presence.

  Now she looked in the direction of her saviour, her godfather Professor Kaul, who was snuggled in his thermal blanket. He had insisted he was not sleepy, but a day on the road had taken its toll on him. She was glad to be ensconced in her godfather’s warm house after those hours of interrogation.

  It had helped that the professor was one of India’s foremost historians. Upon her call he had contacted his friend, Raj Bhushan, the director-general of ASI, who had personally vouched for Mehrunisa over the phone to the SSP. Professor Kaul had driven down, and upon assurances to SSP Raghav that she would be available for further questioning if the need arose, she was released.

  She shuddered at the memory, in need of some sleep herself but preoccupied with the state
of her godfather. To all apparent purposes he was healthy and alert but Mehrunisa, who had been living in his home, had witnessed some startling changes in him. He seemed to forget mid-sentence what he was saying; at times, he would fail to recognise the neighbours. Just a fortnight ago, when Mehrunisa had been rifling through his well-stocked study, he had walked in on her and, noticing the book in her hand, had queried, ‘Who is Sharmila?’ Mehrunisa had thought he was joking: Kaul’s harmless rivalry with India’s other eminent historian, Sharmila Thapar, was well documented. She had been about to laugh when she realised he was serious.

  An abrupt movement from the bed drew Mehrunisa’s glance. The professor had bolted upright. Eyes alert, he looked around abruptly, seeking something. Sighting Mehrunisa in a corner, he summoned her with an abrupt flick of his right hand. Mehrunisa walked over and sat on the bed’s edge.

  In a clear, quiet voice the professor said, ‘I need to tell you something while I am still lucid. Don’t interrupt me—it might break the thread of my thought. In which case, I might descend into the abyss again. First,’ he paused, as if summoning all his strength for what he was about to disclose, ‘I think I am losing my mind...’

  With a sinking heart Mehrunisa watched the man who reminded her most of her father. Losing both parents was clearly no insurance against more loss.

  Professor Kaul’s hands twitched where they rested atop the wool blanket. He was looking straight ahead. Mehrunisa followed his gaze. On the wall opposite the bed was a triptych frame with three mesmerising pictures of the Taj Mahal. Shot by the famed photographer Raghu Roy, it showed the Taj in various moods: pre-dawn, in the bright sun, on a full-moon night.

  ‘Tell me again about Toor’s body and all that you discovered with it,’ Kaul urged now, looking Mehrunisa in the eye.

  Earlier, on the drive back from Agra, Mehrunisa had disclosed to her godfather what she had seen at the mausoleum that morning. Kaul had met Arun Toor, though he could not claim to have known him well. He travelled to Agra infrequently, and it had been the ASI director-general who assigned the Taj supervisor as the point person for Mehrunisa’s project as a favour to Kaul. The professor was a long-term consultant to the ASI on Mughal-era monuments, and with Raj Bhushan, the acquaintance had developed into friendship. The fact that they were both bachelors in the same city helped; aided, no doubt, by their deep love of Indian history. That they swere a quarter-century apart in age did not seem to have come in the way.

  Mehrunisa had the precision of a tour guide and the trained ability to summarise pertinent facts. Once again she recalled for Professor Kaul her discovery of Arun’s body and what she had seen: the third eye drawn on his forehead, the slashed right wrist, the bloody scrawl by his foot that said, ‘Chirag tale andhera’.

  When she finished, Kaul’s face was impassive, his jaw slack—a sign he was churning something in his mind. Mehrunisa, who knew better than to interrupt, waited. As she studied her godfather, she thought what an impressive figure he cut despite his seventy years. His steel-grey hair was swept back from a side parting revealing a high, wide forehead, his brows arched upwards from eyes that could be regarded as too big were they not balanced by the rest of the face. The nose, prominent, angular, was what could be called typically Kashmiri—the kind deployed by cartoonists to caricature Indira Gandhi. The mouth, medium-sized and bow-shaped, rested atop a surprisingly firm chin. His skin was unwrinkled, except for the forehead and the laughter lines around the eyes. What a splendidly handsome man, Mehrunisa thought, and wondered why he had never married.

  ‘Don’t eye me like that—someone might mistake it for love.’

  As Professor Kaul’s eyes crinkled, Mehrunisa started to giggle. This was the man she had always known, not the confused person she had witnessed earlier. Relieved, she clasped him in a hug.

  ‘Chirag tale andhera,’ Professor Kaul said after Mehrunisa had pulled a chair close to the bed. ‘What does it mean to you?’

  ‘Literally,’ Mehrunisa began, ‘the darkness underneath the lamp. The proverb is used to convey that something is amiss where it should not be.’ She paused and looked at her godfather, who urged her on.

  ‘So, why would it be scrawled near Arun’s body? What was he trying to say?’

  ‘Either of two people could have written it: Arun or the murderer,’ she replied. ‘The motive for each would be different, and we can’t determine who wrote it until the forensic report comes in.

  ‘So let’s focus on the text for now. What is it telling us? There is one chirag, lamp, right where the body was found,’ Kaul said, referring to the British viceroy’s gift.

  ‘Lord Curzon’s lamp,’ Mehrunisa nodded.

  ‘And what is literally beneath Curzon’s lamp? The two cenotaphs, which we know are false graves. The actual bodies were buried in a chamber underneath. Are the words referring to that chamber? What are we expected to find there?’

  Kaul ruminated for a while before turning to Mehrunisa. ‘How do you think Toor died?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she shook her head, ‘but he was badly beaten. The wrist was the only open wound I saw.’

  ‘Yes, the wrist.... Wouldn’t a man who has the strength and alertness to cut himself and then write with his blood, attempt to walk out and seek help? Toor knew the night guards were not too far off—why not try and reach them, instead of expending energy on some writing? And wouldn’t the murderer want to make sure Toor was dead before he left? If he had even some familiarity with the Taj, he would know that the supervisor could alert the night security.’

  ‘Well, perhaps the murderer thought Arun would be too weak to call anyone considering how much he was beaten. And perhaps he was; maybe he only had the strength to leave these clues.’

  Kaul shook his head and said, ‘Then why not just write the murderer’s name?’

  ‘Because he was a stranger? He was wearing a mask that hid his face? He was ambushed and didn’t get to see his killer...’

  There was a note of desperation in her voice that the professor didn’t miss. The strain of the past twenty-four hours and the lack of sleep were showing. Quietly, he suggested they wait for forensics to reveal the cause of death. ‘That should clarify a few things,’ he said.

  After a few moments of silence, he continued, ‘You should go meet Raj Bhushan, thank him for the phone call to the Agra police and discuss what you saw with him. But wait for him to get better, though.’

  ‘Get better?’

  ‘He wasn’t in office yesterday when I called, and he wasn’t answering his cell phone, so I went over to his house and found him in bed, all covered up, hoarse voice.... A bad case of flu—all that travel, I think.’

  Mehrunisa knew he was alluding to Raj Bhushan’s work on a UNESCO project on World Heritage Management, wherein contemporary Delhi, with its rich heritage and rapid urban growth, was a case study for conservation. That, coupled with his programme to upgrade the ASI, kept him travelling across the country and overseas—so much so that Mehrunisa had never met him.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve seen him like that before,’ said Professor Kaul, his face clouded with uncertainty, ‘he looked ... unusually unwell. Perhaps the news of the supervisor’s murder—’

  Just then, the housekeeper, Mangat Ram, walked in and handed the telephone handset to Kaul. ‘Call from Agra, Sahib.’

  Professor Kaul, his face registering mild anxiety, spoke into the phone. Mehrunisa could catch some indistinct voice, punctuated by static. As Kaul listened, the colour vanished from his face. He hung up and and cradled the handset in his lap, deep in thought.

  ‘Uncle. Kaul uncle,’ Mehrunisa urged softly, ‘who was that on the phone?’

  Eventually he looked up, his eyes vacant until they fell on Mehrunisa. ‘You must be careful, my child.’

  Mehrunisa watched, unsure. She slid her hands forward and found them now in her uncle’s firm grasp. The professor seemed to recover from his abulia. ‘It was SSP Raghav. The forensic tests cannot be performed. He wants to qu
estion you again.’

  ‘Why can’t the tests be done?’ Mehrunisa asked in a shrill voice.

  ‘Because they no longer have a body on which to conduct the tests. Arun Toor has disappeared from the hospital morgue.’

  Agra

  J

  ara stood in the undergrowth bordering the Yamuna’s bank, opposite the Taj Mahal. Nothing much ever happened in these abandoned fields. The spot came to life occasionally as a vantage viewing point for visitors to the famous monument who did not want to pay for the entry ticket but were keen on photographs to flaunt back home. However, they never ventured too far into the thick undergrowth, which was just as well. Jara’s mind went over the events of the last several hours...

  Through the day, mist had hung over the river, circling the Taj and winging its way over the gardens. Midday, the chill had driven people indoors for the warmth of a quilt, and late at night he did not expect to bump into anyone. At the morgue the lone guard, too cold to sit in watch over his dead charges, had deserted his metal chair, probably for the comfort of his little shed at the entrance gate.

  Jara, a brown monkey cap shrouding his face, had slipped inside. Locating the corpse was no problem; he had specific directions, and the corpse was still in its distinctive pink kurta. The city of Agra was not exactly teeming with forensic experts, he was told, and a doctor was scheduled to examine the body only the next morning.

  Jara hated the smell of formaldehyde and the cold, slippery feel of the dead, but an order was an order, and he had never disobeyed one. A stiff, long, male human body was not the easiest thing to transport so he had brought his tools along. These were rather basic: a hammer and a saw, the teeth of which he had sharpened that morning.

  A couple of determined blows to the knees saw the kneecaps break. That would enable him to fold the legs the way he wanted. Next, he struck at the shoulder blades, which proved tougher, taking several hard knocks before splintering. With pressure, he managed to fold the chest. The trickiest bit followed—sawing the body in two. Lifting the kurta, he chose the spot at the waist, keeping the navel as a benchmark. First, he tied down the corpse’s head and thighs with separate leather belts, fastening the straps under the narrow steel bed. The body was frozen— rigor mortis had set in—and he knew no blood would gush out. Yet he looked away as he took the saw to the waist.