The Taj Conspiracy

by Someshwar, Manreet Sodhi

  Pamposh tugged at her chin thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I should move in for some time. I could keep an eye on Kaul mama and we could be together, eh?’ Before Mehrunisa could answer, she continued, ‘But what would happen to my children?’

  Pamposh also ran an orphanage for children who had been the victims of riots. Expectedly, most children were from minority Muslim families. To help calm the mind and develop mental toughness, the children were taught yoga. In meditation class, which Pamposh often conducted, the children were taught to recite Om, and various Sanskrit shlokas, as an aid. When the unsuitability of teaching Hindu hymns to Muslim children was broached, Pamposh’s answer was typically pragmatic: what better way to redress the sectarian violence they have witnessed than by emphasising that God is one, no matter in what form?

  ‘I’m here,’ Mehrunisa said simply. ‘Come when you can, like today.’

  ‘Today, right!’ Pamposh clapped her hands and hopped off the sofa toward the table where her bag sat. She rummaged through it, extracted a paper and handed it to Mehrunisa. ‘Read it, while I ask Mangat Ram to get tea.’ She spun on her high heels in the direction of the kitchen.

  Mehrunisa scanned the flyer for a ‘Delhi Kashmir Sammelan’, which listed Pamposh Pandit as a keynote speaker and carried her profile. After she had finished reading it, Mehrunisa reflected how the little girl who had been her summer companion had matured.

  At any given time, Pamposh was a living contradiction. A coin-sized red bindi contrasted sharply with the peaches and cream complexion of her Kashmiri skin. The forehead decoration was a trademark and always worn, whether Pamposh was in a starched cotton sari, jeans, flowing skirt or salwar kameez. Another characteristic feature was the dejihors she sported: a rather distinctive ear ornament, it hung from the helix and was traditionally worn by married Kashmiri Pandit women. Pamposh was not married and the reason she gave for wearing it was, ‘So I never forget where I come from.’ An aureole of black curls framed her heart-shaped face and her triangular chin jutted out in some signal of defiance. Pamposh, whose name meant lotus flower, had no truck with lotus-eaters, nor could the adjective ‘lily’ apply to her. In her diminutive frame—she was five feet-two inches—she packed the energy of a dynamo.

  Pamposh also ran a website called Kashmiri Pandits for Peace in Kashmir, a repository of information on culture, language, religion, and matrimonial services. ‘Displaced Kashmiris’ was a popular section which provided a network for Kashmiris who had fled their homeland in the wake of the Pakistan-backed Muslim insurgency to re-establish connections with people they had known or left behind.

  There were those in the Kashmiri community in Jaipur who regarded Pamposh as emblematic of all that was good and beautiful about Kashmir. A typical Kashmiri beauty— some called her Kashmir ki kali, in a nod to the popular ‘60s Hindi film that showcased the beauty of Kashmir to the rest of India—she had the fire of a blazing chinar in her and a deep-seated love for her homeland. Her website was lauded for its attempt to highlight the plight of Kashmiri refugees to a disinterested India.

  Pamposh’s heels clacked down the hall before she appeared with a tray laden with tea.

  ‘Ta-daa! Look what I got you Mehroo, your favourite!’

  Soon they were digging into the pyaz ki kachoris, sipping ginger tea and chatting as of old. As Pamposh was updating Mehrunisa on the Kashmir Sammelan, she licked some tamarind chutney off a finger and shook her head exasperatedly. ‘But there is this one guy in the organising committee who hates me. Last year he raised such a ruckus, and for no fault of mine.’

  Mehrunisa lifted her brow in question as she savoured the caramelised onion filling.

  ‘Because,’ Pamposh wagged her fingers in the air to indicate quote marks as she switched to speaking in a wheezy voice, ‘“Ms. Pandit is the niece of the famed Kashmiri lover of Muslims, the historian Vishwanath Kaul. In fact, so besotted is that Kashmiri Pandit with the sons of Babur that he has spent a lifetime researching and writing about the very barbarians who have made the Kashmiri Pandits homeless. Oh, what shame!”’

  Pamposh clutched her stomach and began to shake with merriment as Mehrunisa guffawed.

  Holding up an index finger, Pamposh sputtered, ‘And that’s not all.’ In a whispery voice she mimicked, ‘“And why is Ms Pandit, at thirty, still single? Because the households with eligible Kashmiri boys privately wonder what they would do with a daughter-in-law like her?!’”

  Pamposh burst into another fit of laughter.

  Mehrunisa returned her teacup to the tray and said, ‘Sounds like the convention gets some wolves. Why would you want to be there?’

  Suddenly Pamposh sat up, back upright, looking rather serious. ‘Because Mehrunisa, Pamposh Pandit is a brilliant representative of Kashmiriyat, the ethos of social and religious harmony which is the true spirit of Kashmir. Why, Mehroo, I love you even, and you are half-Persian!’

  Agra

  ‘Y

  ou do understand the import of what I am saying, Kriplaniji,’ Professor R.N. Dixit said, gazing eagerly at the man seated opposite him. A folder was open on the table and papers containing diagrams and text in Hindi and English were strewn about.

  Kriplani did not reply. He studied the man in front of him dressed in a worn blue blazer, an improperly buttoned shirt, grey pants that could do with ironing and greasy silver locks that fell to his shoulder. All the trademark signs of a mad scientist. To that extent, he reflected, Dixit had not changed much since the days when they both taught at Benares Hindu University. Professor R.N. Dixit was acknowledged as a brilliant chemist who, lost in his laboratory, had to be reminded of each class he tutored. At home, he forgot to eat his meals and his wife, sick of the reheating, wondered if he’d know the difference if she served him sawdust. However, to Dixit’s credit, the flipside of his forgetfulness was his laser focus on each project that caught his fancy. He had several patents to his name and retirement had brought him a sought-after consulting practice.

  Kriplani massaged his clean-shaven chin and pondered. The obvious gleam in Dixit’s eyes was due to the project he had just outlined—like him, it was mad, outrageous and yet, if it succeeded.... His toothbrush moustache quivered, vibrating sympathetically to his machinations. At last he spoke.

  ‘You realise what you are asking me to do? At stake is a historical Indian monument. Not any monument, but the most famous one. Any wrongdoing will bring infamy to the person involved. Me.’

  Dixit watched the ex-minister with manic eyes. ‘When it succeeds, imagine what it’ll do for the great glory of Hindutva.’

  And for the glory of himself and his party, Kriplani thought, remembering the dismal result of the general elections six months ago. Perhaps it could provide them with a pivot around which to rally the Hindu vote bank.

  ‘How can you assure me of your absolute secrecy in this matter?’

  Professor Dixit wagged his head knowingly, his silvery locks astir. ‘You’re right to be concerned—you head the largest opposition party in the country. But friend,’ he leaned forward and twitched his bulbous nose, ‘this is me, the same Dixit you’ve known for most of your life. In these troubled times of terror and human bombs, I’ve decided to put my genius to better use. My concern is shining light upon the great and glorious religion of this land. Our home-grown Hindu faith. Taj Mahal—’

  Kriplani held up a hand. ‘Have your tea, Dixitji. I do not doubt you. Still, I would be risking a great deal by agreeing to your plan.’

  The proposition tantalised Kriplani, though. He was an Agra boy, having grown up—like any Agra resident—in the perennial shadow of the Taj Mahal: a weekly family outing meant a visit to the marble mausoleum; eager outstation relatives were duly chaperoned to the world-famous monument; and all school picnics were conveniently held in its sprawling Mughal gardens. Perhaps it was the excessive viewing, or a case of familiarity-breeds-contempt, but even as a child he had found the monument squat and ungainly and the colour of spoilt milk. As an adult he had found
it compared poorly in aesthetics with the grandeur of a Meenakshi temple or the Kandariya Mahadeva temple at Khajuraho—both predating the Taj by centuries. It was the Western historians, drunk on Mughal grandeur, who opined ceaselessly on the Taj Mahal’s beauty. To any discerning Indian there were more worthy monuments in the nation. The only thing about the Taj Mahal that Kriplani had enjoyed as a child was the game of hide-and seek in the monument’s bowels—the belly was at that time still open to visitors. Now it was locked and barricaded, but Kriplani knew it well. The immense potential of it now started to swim up to his consciousness.

  Dixit slurped his tea as he looked around the room. A framed portrait of Krishna on one wall caught his eye. He replaced the saucer with a clatter on the table and pointed his chin in its direction. ‘Do your duty, Kriplaniji, and leave the rest to him.’

  Kriplani smiled. The mad scientist was oblivious to the hive of possibilities his initial idea had germinated in Kriplani’s mind. The government of India did not sanction the procedure, so God had sent a transgressor his way. Leaning forward, he asked, ‘Carbon dating the monument, you said? How will it work?’

  Raipur, Chhattisgarh

  T

  he commissioner of police Arvind Pradhan had the good looks of servicemen who made it to the position of ADC to the state governor. R.P. Singh could easily picture Pradhan standing stiffly behind the governor, gazing straight ahead, oblivious to cameras. Besides looks, Pradhan had the smarts to make it to that coveted position. It was not luck that had led to his appointment as commissioner of police in a state locked in a battle with its own people, the embattled Maoists. Pradhan knew how to pick resourceful subordinates, was unsparing in the demands he placed on them, but protected them fiercely. In that cabal, R.P. Singh was a favoured lieutenant. But this time around, Pradhan’s handsome brow was knitted.

  He clucked his tongue before glaring at R.P. Singh. ‘You’ve gone too far this time. The instructions were clear—bring the goddamned man in. The CM wants to hold talks with the Maoists, simple. Media was agog, there was advance talk of a breakthrough, we had everybody taped up—human rights people, journalists, activists—and then you go and screw things up!’

  He shook his head. ‘Bad! Things are looking very bad for you.’ His eyes goggled at Singh for his apparent passivity as he sat across from his superior, hands resting on his lap, a picture of serenity.

  It was not the first time R.P. Singh was taking the rap and there was nothing new he could add in his defence. The commissioner had been briefed and he was aware that if the Maoist leader had not been killed, he would have killed Singh—either way, there would have been no Maoist leader engaging in talks to parade before the world. Only, Pradhan’s best resource—who had delivered several of the ‘hits’ that had zoomed him up the career ladder—would have been felled.

  However, walls have ears and Pradhan was ensuring that the CM’s umbrage was conveyed in no uncertain terms to his errant subordinate. It had become difficult to open a daily and not find a photograph of the slain man or read a headline about the government’s atrocities.

  ‘I have gone through the report you submitted,’ Pradhan glanced at the computer on his desk, paused as he settled back into his red chair, ‘and have forwarded it to the CM’s office. They want to order a probe to investigate whether you acted rashly.’

  R.P. Singh listened intently as he sat relaxed, one leg resting atop a knee.

  ‘Meanwhile, they want you sent on leave.’ The commissioner moved his tongue against one cheek. ‘However, that would be a waste of time, right?’

  ‘Sir,’ R.P. Singh responded with respect.

  ‘Instead you’ll spend the next six months with the CBI in Delhi, Special Branch.’ Pradhan watched him with reproach before lowering his voice. ‘I am parking you there Singh, keep your head below the radar for once,’ he hissed.

  ‘Sir,’ R.P. Singh said.

  One of the three phones on the desk rang. The commissioner eyed it briefly before picking it up. The tone of his voice informed Singh that he was speaking to a senior journalist. Singh groaned inwardly—only a political scandal or a battle between the Bollywood Khans would energise the media away from this Maoist death. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to get away from it all for some time. Delhi would be a pleasant diversion. The metro was buzzing with fresh drinking holes, the alcohol available was world-class, and women were no problem.... That facet of his life was entirely lost to him since he had been posted to the badlands of Bastar. A day lounging in the air-conditioned hum of a high-end bar was the polar opposite of lurking in dense vegetation on the trail of a Maoist with reptiles and bison for company.

  He was seeing happy visions of Delhi when the commissioner replaced the phone, swore and looked up. He mimicked a high-pitched voice as he said, ‘Naxal movement is growing because it is people’s struggle transformed into a power struggle—would you agree, Sir?’

  R.P. Singh pursed his mouth to prevent the laughter from bubbling out.

  Pradhan blew air and shook his head vigorously. Turning his attention to Singh he continued sotto voce, ‘Six months of paid holiday, Singh. Relax in Delhi and cool that head of yours before you are back.’ Raising his voice, he said, ‘You’ll pick up some strategic skills with the CBI which will come handy when you return. Remember the battle with the Maoists will not be won overnight.’

  R.P. Singh nodded quietly. A break from gaandu Maoists wouldn’t be bad. Besides, he had a license to chill!

  Agra

  M

  ehrunisa drove to Agra from Delhi in pursuit of the only lead she had. Despite the misgivings of the SSP and the ASI director-general, she was intent on identifying the artisan who had altered the calligraphy on Mumtaz’s tomb. She would start by meeting the two families in Agra claiming direct descent from the artists who had worked on the mausoleum in the seventeenth century. The finesse of the alteration suggested someone hailing from either clan, and Professor Kaul had supplied the names of the two patriarchs: Hafeez Gul and Hajji Nizam Naqshbandi.

  At the entrance to the narrow lane in which was located one address, she parked her car. Marble stores and craft shops, many of which had adjacent open courtyards that served as workshops, flanked the alley. Mehrunisa could see inlay-workers squatting on low wooden slats, barefoot, their heads bent in concentration, cutting hardstones with bow saws, the technique unchanged since Mughal times. Extreme skill was needed to saw stones such as agate, jasper and heliotrope into tiny crescents, circles, ovals and other delicate shapes. A lapidary sat fitting the minute pieces into a tabletop, arranging them in place before fixing them with glue, to create the desired pattern. The work took its toll on the eyes of craftsmen, who usually quit after twenty-odd years to avoid going blind.

  She came to a halt outside a nondescript house whose nameplate said Hajji Nizam Naqshbandi. The door was open. Stepping over the threshold she saw a woman hanging clothes on a line. ‘Salaam-e-lekum,’ Mehrunisa called out.

  ‘Walekum as salaam,’ said the woman as she dried her hands on her cotton dupatta and came forward, her face questioning.

  Mehrunisa recollected the information Professor Kaul had provided on this artist. Apparently Hajji had overseen the replacement of damaged or deteriorating pieces in the Taj all his life, supervising the men who worked under his keen eyes. A follower of the Naqshbandi Sufis, an ancient order of Islam, he had kept up the traditional involvement of the mystic Sufi brotherhoods in his art.

  Mehrunisa introduced herself to the woman and explained that she wished to meet Hajji Nizam Naqshbandi. She was doing a project, she added, on the Taj Mahal, and needed to speak with the man who had worked on the monument for forty years.

  The woman scrutinised Mehrunisa, taking in the straight black hair, the grey-green eyes, the fair complexion. ‘You are Persian,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Mehrunisa said, taken aback at the certainty in the woman’s voice. ‘I’m half-Persian—my mother’s side. How did you know?’

  The wom
an snorted. ‘My husband has spent a lifetime carving Persian beauties. High forehead, large eyes, sharp nose, prominent chin. You have a strong face. Your parents couldn’t have named you anything else.’ She pointed to a chair opposite a string bed. ‘Sit down. I’ll make some tea.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Mehrunisa protested.

  ‘Then how will we talk? Hajji saab has gone to see the doctor—he’ll be a while.’

  ‘Oh! Is he unwell?’

  The woman walked to a room located in a corner of the central courtyard. It had a chimney and a narrow window through which a steel object glinted. Probably the kitchen, Mehrunisa thought.

  ‘He’s as unwell,’ the woman’s voice floated out, ‘as any man who has lost a son.’

  The family was bereaved and she was intruding on them! What should she do? She looked around, noticing the stone-paved patio, tufts of grass springing through the crevices, paint peeling from the walls, the clean but sparse quarters— Mehrunisa could see that the chief artisan of the Taj Mahal was a poor man indeed. The woman reappeared with two cups of tea and a plate of spicy potato puffs on a tray. She deposited it on a wooden table beside the bed, handed Mehrunisa her cup and lowered herself slowly on the bed. Poor knees, she indicated with a wry smile.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Mehrunisa murmured. ‘I had no idea, otherwise I would not have intruded.’

  The woman waved her apologies away. ‘No, no. Not the way you think,’ she sighed, ‘thanks to Allah! Only, our son seems to have lost his mind.’ She mopped her brow with one end of her dupatta. ‘So many times I told my husband, don’t train him to be a karigar, don’t. Hajji saab has devoted his entire life to the monument’s upkeep, and what does he get in return? After forty years of service, he is still employed on daily wages by the Indian government! A skilled artisan treated like a common labourer. But Hajji saab loves his work.’ Her eyes filled with pain, her mouth crushed with sadness as she sat, hands folded in her lap.