The professor’s history of severe migraines could have caused the impairment, the doctor said. Or, it could have resulted from the alcoholic destruction of mammillary bodies in the brain—the professor, though by no counts a heavy drinker, was fond of his daily Scotch. Whatever the cause, amnesia seemed to have overtaken him. The illness had advanced to the extent that the patient seemed to have forgotten a large chunk of his life. He recognised his book on the Taj Mahal, but for the most part everything else seemed to have been erased from memory, except, occasionally, when his mind surfaced from the fog.
He had exhibited a history of ‘little strokes’ in the lead-up to the final collapse. Mehrunisa had witnessed some of those, but perhaps he had experienced others while she had been away.
The notion that her uncle, the renowned scholar, the man who could tell such fascinating, layered tales, was lost to her was like a physical shock. That such a man could lose a chunk of his rich life was horrifying. For Mehrunisa, it was a double whammy. Kaul uncle, the genial, loving godfather was the last link in a chain that connected her to her lost father. And she had lost her only ally—Professor Kaul was her guide and confidant in the attempt to unravel the incidents at the Taj. Whom would she turn to now?
Agra
S
SP Raghav was unhappy. The one-day match between India and Pakistan had gone in favour of Pakistan, the enemy having snatched victory on the last ball by hitting a giant six.
Saala! The match was rigged all right. All these cricketers making money on the side. Who could blame them for indulging in what was, after all, a national pastime: the quest for illicit income? But surely these men could rein in their greed at least when playing The Enemy? Was there no patriotism left nowadays?
Disgusted, he strode to the narrow portico that ran along the colonnaded front of the police station and spat. The station was quiet, with just two constables and him on duty. He didn’t have a family to go home to—his wife and children were in Salem because the boys, in secondary, needed a stable school environment. Besides, he had followed the cricket match and he felt compelled to compensate for the lost hours of work. If only, he shook his head once again, if only Team India had won.
This wasn’t helping. He marched to his room, grabbed his cap, felt for his motorcycle keys in his front right pocket and strode out.
At the gate he turned to the right and sped down the empty road to the Taj Ganj area with nothing specific in mind. The Taj issue had not stopped troubling him. There was more than one thread to the story, of that he was now convinced. The ASI director-general Raj Bhushan had supervised the examination of the change in the epitaph and Quran verse and proclaimed it ‘minor vandalism’. Mehrunisa, though, had been unconvinced. To which the director had quipped, ‘You believe there is a conspiracy afoot! The Taj Conspiracy, shall we label it?’
He had been a policeman too long to be a conspiracy theorist, but something was awry. Where did the second murder, of Nisar the artisan, fit into the equation? What linked Nisar to the supervisor was the Taj Mahal. Were the masked man and Aurangzeb two different men or one?
No wonder he needed the crisp night air to clear his head.
Raghav was cruising down the lane that led to Sirhi Darwaza, the south gate of the Taj complex. It was narrow and lined with shophouses on both sides, their façades painted red in harmony with the Taj forecourt’s red sandstone. That was about all that was harmonious between the utilitarian bazaar and the elegant Taj Mahal. Beyond these lay a jumble of tenements that made up Taj Ganj. He cast a disdainful look at the shops he was passing: Gyan Bookbinders, Aditya Sweets, Arun & Bros. Chemists, Al Guest House, Taj View Motel, Mumtaz Ladies Tailor, Rocky Music. Built by Shah Jahan as a bazaar where a variety of merchandise brought from all over the world could be sold, it was now a miserable market. As was characteristic of small-town India, where man and animal co-existed, there was a large buffalo stable in the lane and an abundant monkey population residing on rooftops. A smattering of cheap hotels and restaurants catered to backpacking tourists. The budget lodges showcased Indian ingenuity: multiple floors piggybacked on narrow plots of land until they could provide a view of the Taj Mahal! Raghav snorted as he veered his motorcycle around a series of festering cow dung cakes.
The Taj Ganj area, raucous with human and animal traffic through the day, sat quiet. Raghav passed a bonfire whose embers glowed dully. A stray dog raised his head to glance at him and a string of lights pulsed intermittently atop a signboard as people slept in the warmth of their homes. He was nearing the arched wooden gate at the lane’s end when he spotted shadows crouching on the right. Their hesitant shuffling aroused his curiosity. Bringing his motorcycle to a stop, he pointed the vehicle’s light in their direction.
‘Who’s there?’ he called out.
A scramble ensued. A hushed, yet frantic, Police! sounded. The shadows were racing now, away from him, toward the crowded shophouses. He hastily put his motorcycle on its stand and gave them chase. His physical ability belied his forty years—it had been a factor in his selection for the ATS, aided by the patriotism he wore on his sleeve. At annual functions, when booze flowed and beer bellies jiggled in carnival bonhomie, it was common to toast, ‘Fit as a fiddle, Raghav has no middle!’ The ‘middle’ alluded to both his trim waist and the fact that in a culture of ‘anything goes’, he was a fastidious man.
Now Raghav drew closer. The lane was ill-lit but he could make out two men, probably youngsters, but their frantic dash was no match for the SSP’s trained sprint. He was closing in when one of them cast a quick backward glance, yelped, dropped what he was carrying and doubled his speed. Raghav neared the bundle that had fallen to the ground with a dull thump, a stack of loose sheets. As he glanced up, he saw the boys were scaling a low wall. Beyond it would lie the narrow courtyard of a house. Doubtless the miscreants would scale more walls in their getaway—the area beyond was a maze of dwellings. He glanced in their direction—they must be local, the swift manner in which they had vaulted across and vanished. Raghav knew it would be futile looking for them in the dense labyrinth of houses. Besides, they had left their booty behind, which he now bent to retrieve.
A4 size paper, printed sheets—it was too dark to read. Screwing up his eyes, he walked to the nearest lamppost that was ten metres away. The light was dull, moths trapped within the glass case reducing the effectiveness. He stood beneath the flyblown lamp and strained his eyes to read what looked like a pamphlet: white background, bright orange lettering and a headline in bold.
As he read it, SSP Raghav knew his instinct had been right. The ‘Taj conspiracy’ was not a hypothesis—it was a work-in-progress! And, if the headline was to be taken at face value, the evil behind the conspiracy was Hindu, not Muslim. His eyes bulged with shock as they scoured the text again:
The Taj Mahal is a Hindu Temple
Brothers and sisters of Agra! You have been fooled for too long. The most famous monument of our city, the world-famous Taj Mahal, is not a Muslim monument built by a Mughal emperor! No! Its actual name is Tejo Mahalya—a Hindu temple that, as per the tradition of conquerors, was converted into a Muslim monument.
Do not take our word for it, we beg you. Read the proof that follows and form your own opinion.
No. 1:
Point to Ponder: Who built the Taj Mahal?
Lie: Shah Jahan
Truth:
Shah Jahan had an affair with his daughter Jahanara after the death of Mumtaz!
Is this the state of a man pining for his wife and building a monument in her memory?
Shah Jahan bought a beautiful building from Jai Singh.
In his own court chronicle, Padshahnamah, Shah Jahan admits that an exceptionally beautiful building in Agra was taken from Jai Singh for Mumtaz's burial.
Using captured temples for burial was a common Mughal practice.
For example Jama Masjid, Delhi; Arhai-din-ka-jhonpra, Ajmer; Gyanvapi Mosque, Kashi … the list is endless!
No. 2:
>
Point to Ponder: The name: Taj Mahal
Lie: Named by Shah Jahan
Truth:
The Taj Mahal is a distortion of Tejo Mahalaya.
The term Taj Mahal does not occur in any court papers or chronicles during or after Shah Jahan's time. That is because the building is an ancient Shiva temple with the Sanskrit name Tej-o-Mahalaya.
How can a burial place be called a mahal?
A mahal is a mansion.
No. 3:
Point to Ponder: Sealed rooms in the Taj
Lie: Serve no contemporary purpose
Truth:
Shiva idols hidden within sealed rooms in the Taj.
Shiva lingams and sacred Shiva idols lie in the sealed rooms on the south side of the long corridor! Who filled in the doorway with masonry? Why are scholars not allowed to enter to examine?
No. 4:
Point to Ponder: Hindu design of Mughal monument
Lie: Trident pinnacle atop the mausoleum dome—unique to Indo-Muslim architecture
Truth:
A sacred Hindu motif atop a Muslim tomb?
The trident pinnacle atop the dome is also inlaid in the red sandstone courtyard to the east of the Taj. It shows a kalash holding two bent mango leaves and a coconut.
No. 5:
Point to Ponder: Correct age of the Taj Mahal
Lie: Repairs in the Taj in 1652, thirteen years after construction— normal wear-and-tear
Truth:
The Taj Mahal was built hundreds of years before 1652!
In a letter by Aurangzeb to his father dated 9 December 1652, he reports serious leaks in the Taj Mahal in rainy season. Why should the Taj, only thirteen years old, show symptoms of decay? Wouldn't it be more reasonable to believe that by 1652 it was already hundreds of years old and was showing normal wear-and-tear?
ASI does not permit carbon dating.
Why has the Archaeological Survey of India not allowed the verification of the exact date of the Taj Mahal through the widely-accepted scientific method of carbon dating?
Hindu Brothers and Sisters, the time has come to put an end to this gross injustice. Time to tear off the veil of lies and untruth. Read this proof, pass it on—as a Hindu, it is your sacred dharma! Let the ripples of truth spread through Agra city and to the whole of India!
Jai Shiv Shankar! Jai Ho!
Delhi
R
.P. Singh was in the office of the CBI director special operations where he had been summoned urgently.
‘JCP Rana Pratap Singh. Your middle name is trouble,’ the director said sharply.
His middle name was ‘Pratap’, given by his parents in honour of their famous clansman, Maharana Pratap Sisodia. The Rajput warrior was a thorn in the side of Mughal emperor Akbar through his life, and as R.P. Singh studied the bearded man in front of him, he wondered what he had done to irk the CBI head.
Dressed nattily in a tweed jacket over a maroon pullover, a thick gold watch strapped to his wrist, the director gave the impression of having been interrupted at a party. The wall behind was decorated with framed photographs of the director with dignitaries.
‘Three days into the job and the home minister has assigned a task for you. High priority...’ He twisted his mouth into a sneer.
Then he proceeded to tell Singh that the Agra police had come across a pamphlet that alleged that the Taj Mahal was a Shiva temple. Ordinarily the police would have consigned it to the wastebasket, but the yet unsolved murder of the Taj supervisor had occurred within the mausoleum less than a fortnight back. The two might well be unconnected events, but the Agra police had panicked, pressed the alarm button and called the home minister. And now, the director snorted, the matter has been offloaded upon us.
R.P. Singh groaned inwardly: from the frying pan into fire. He hadn’t even begun savouring Delhi—a relaxed head shave at a fancy barber’s, one leisurely visit to Capitol bar, barely enough time to enjoy the women, who had surprised him with their daring new dress sense, and now he was being sent off to chase a crazed right-winger!
Nonchalantly, he patted his shiny pate and said with a half smile, ‘When a bald guy shows up, something is bound to happen.’
The director special ops kept his mouth pursed in a grim line. His brow darkened as he wagged an index finger in R.R. Singh’s direction. Finally, he said in a raspy voice, ‘You report directly to me.’
That hoarseness indicated a weakness for alcohol. Hmmm ... supercilious and incompetent. R.P. Singh settled back into his chair, crossed his leg and returned an even gaze that did not reveal his thoughts. The force was filled with men like the director, chutiyas in police uniform, who needed men like him. He treated them with casual disdain and they suffered him because, when it came down to the wire, someone had to keep the streets clean. For his meritorious service they gave him medals, souvenirs that he stowed in a drawer in his wardrobe. R.P. Singh had made a habit of going down sewers and exterminating the rats. Precisely why he had been summoned for the task. It was pest control time again.
‘I accept the assignment,’ he said. ‘Two conditions. I get the resources I ask for, no questions asked. And I report back when I have something concrete.’
Delhi
S
SP Raghav wrapped up work at 3 p.m. and set out for Delhi. It was a sunny, cloudless day, rare for winter, yet the policeman’s face was a thundercloud.
As soon as he had seized the blasphemous pamphlets, he’d rung his boss to update him on the latest twist in the case. It rattled the DIG enough to inform the chief minister who had panicked and shifted the onus to the home ministry. The case was now out of his supervision: the CBI would be crawling all over it soon.
Raghav pursed his mouth bitterly. If only he had paid more attention to that woman Mehrunisa.... Bloody hell! What a bizarre case—the Taj a Shiva temple! But there were enough lunatics in the country and he had forgotten the basic principle of police work—you follow every lead. A donkey cart swerved into his way and he swore loudly at the driver. As he craned his neck to glare at him he saw a cowering boy, hands lifted abjectly.
He would be in that position when the CBI officers arrived to lord over him and rub his incompetence in his face. To say nothing of the implications of this failure for his career....
Raghav was still upset with himself when he reached the ASI director-general’s office. He was assigned with updating him and discussing security arrangements in view of the new development.
Raj Bhushan, however, showed little enthusiasm at his presence. The SSP, in his crisp policeman fashion, slid the pamphlet across the director-general’s table adding where he had found it.
Raj Bhushan’s jaw muscles clenched—perhaps the reason why the remaining colour seemed to drain from his already wan face—as he studied the leaflet. After a period of contemplation in which the director’s head was bent over the pamphlet, and SSP Raghav—not having been offered a chair—stood upright, Raj Bhushan deposited a paperweight on the leaflet and looked up. He interlocked his fingers, rested his arms on the table, and with a look of mild perturbation asked, ‘So, what can I do for you, Inspector?’
Raghav was taken aback by the director’s casual response. However, he offered politely, ‘SSP Raghav, Sir. And if I may, this pamphlet,’ he pointed to the offending leaflet trapped under the director’s elbow, ‘seems to be another attempt to discredit the Taj.’
Raj Bhushan gave a thin smile. ‘Thank you for your concern, SSP. I am happy to note the attention that you are devoting to Agra’s foremost monument. But clearly, recent events seem to have unduly influenced you—after all, in your trade people get killed all the time. I see no reason to link this leaflet to the supervisor’s murder.’
‘And the changes in the calligraphy?’
Tch! the director clucked in exasperation. ‘Those aren’t changes. Just some tampering, probably by a local lout with time on hand. I suggest you dismiss any conspiracy theory you might have in mind.’
Raghav rein
ed in his response. Perhaps, for a man responsible for hundreds of monuments in India, each in varying stages of decay, a threat to the Taj Mahal— arguably in robust health and perennially under the tourist scanner—was too fantastic. Quietly, he informed him that the case had been moved to the CBI.
‘Oh!’ Raj Bhushan said, a sudden look of concern on his face. He glanced down swiftly at the pamphlet, pushed up his spectacles, and after a few seconds he looked up. ‘SSP,’ the director shrugged, attempting amends, ‘the Taj has always had its detractors. Just a year ago some Agra businessmen started this campaign “Taj Hatao, Agra Bachao”—remove the Taj and save Agra! Do you know why? Because they feel that business is being driven out of Agra since the courts have ordered the removal of polluting factories. Then there are those nutcases who are asking for a share of the annual revenues the government earns from the heavy tourist traffic to the Taj! A share of the profits.’ He snorted his disgust. ‘How ridiculous can people get! But what can we do? Increase security, add a few more guards.’ He eyed the policeman. ‘What would I advise, though?’
He crushed the leaflet into a ball before flinging it across the floor into a bin. ‘Ignore them.’
Agra
‘M
yself, Govind guide.’ The man grinned at the security-frisked couple at the entrance to the Taj Mahal. ‘Ajucansi, Sir-Lady, one oph the wonders oph the world.’
The Emersons had by now experienced enough Indian-accented English to conclude that they would ask for clarification only in dire circumstances. So they nodded and studied the glowing white pearl that loomed before them. In any case, they had read about the Taj, and Mrs Emerson clutched a copy of Lonely Planet India.
Holding up his right palm, Govind guide continued, ‘Now, Taj Mahal has phive main design elements: darwaja or main gate, bageecha or garden, masjid or mosque, mihman khana or rest house, and rauja or Taj Mahal mausoleum.’
The Taj Conspiracy Page 11