The Taj Conspiracy

by Someshwar, Manreet Sodhi

  ‘It would be worth a look. Besides,’ Mehrunisa paused, ‘Kaul uncle’s niece lives in Jaipur. Perhaps I can persuade her to visit uncle for a while—it may help jog his memory.’

  ‘His niece, hmm?’ He had finished pouring the tea and replaced the teapot in the carved walnut tray. He eyed the placement, shifted the kettle marginally so the spout and handle were aligned in a straight line and sat back satisfied.

  ‘Have you met Pamposh?’ Mehrunisa asked. ‘We spent several vacations together as children.’

  ‘Briefly. Let’s hope she can be of assistance to your uncle.’

  Pakistan-occupied Kashmir

  I

  n his bunker, Jalaluddin scrutinised the folder that had arrived that day. From within it he retrieved several thick stacks of surveillance photographs. A kettle, glass and a bowl of candy stood to his right, so the carpet in front of him lay free of any items.

  Tearing the rubber band off the first bunch, he laid out the pictures in a row on the carpet. The Taj Mahal lay spread out before him, the monument captured from several different angles: the façade and interior of the mausoleum; the two flanking buildings; the gardens and walkways.

  Jalaluddin poured himself a glass of green tea. Over small sips he peered intently at each photograph, as if committing it to memory. Another set of pictures showed the security detail around the monument: sandbags, police in khaki uniforms with metal detectors, the barbed wire barricades, the CCTV cameras, the policeman inside his cell manning the cameras.

  The photos were not the work of an ordinary tourist. What was captured was not the aesthetics of a monument renowned the world over for its beauty, but the security, or lack of it, around it.

  Additionally, the photographs had been clicked at different times—the garments of the visitors and policemen switched from summer wear to sweaters and shawls.

  His man had sent word that police had apprehended him while he was photographing at the monument—the last batch of photographs consequently were in their possession. Let off after a couple of days of questioning, he was lying low.

  Jalaluddin harrumphed quietly as he finished studying the photographs. His jihadis were single-minded in their pursuit. He grabbed some candy and padded to the mouth of the cave where icicles had formed. Sucking on the sweet, he watched the falling snow with approval.

  Agra

  S

  SP Raghav looked around the cramped study where he awaited Professor R.N. Dixit. The constable given charge of going through Arun Toor’s files had compiled a list of contractors and consultants who had worked on the Taj Mahal during Toor’s tenure as supervisor. The name of the retired chemistry teacher had come up—apparently he had been consulted for the recent chemical cleaning of the Taj Mahal. It didn’t seem like much of a lead, but the duty constable was unwell and Raghav had a couple of spare hours, so he decided to pay Dixit a visit.

  The walls of the small room were lined with shelves bursting with books, files, folders, ring binders. Open volumes were splayed atop the shelves, the professor’s desk, even his worn chair. The mess seemed to indicate a man preoccupied with something.... Raghav blinked hard; the musty air was suffocating him. Scraping his chair back, he stood up abruptly.

  A framed photo on the wall above a bookshelf showed the professor with the famous BHP leader Kriplani. Raghav squinted at another picture to its right—an old black and white college picture with names listed below. He walked up to it. Scanning the names, he did a double take: both Kriplani and Arun Toor were listed there. Hmm... so Arun Toor had been a student of Dixit’s at Benares Hindu University; Kriplani, it was well known, was a BHU professor before he turned to politics.

  As Raghav prowled the room his ears pricked up. Amidst the utilitarian household sounds—rhythmic swish of a broom, the wet slap of slippers, the pressure cooker’s whistle—he caught a faint bubbling sound. He went still. It seemed to come from a tall almirah, the upper half of which had glass doors, the bottom half wooden ones. He put his ear to the wooden almirah—the noise was coming from within.

  The wooden doors were bolted at the bottom. Curious, Raghav pulled the bolts and opened the doors, which yielded to reveal a largish storage area, completely barren, at the end of which he could see a wooden panel. Raghav’s unease was growing by the minute. Crouching, he probed the panel. Applying pressure with both hands, he worked the edges. Suddenly, the panel flipped backwards. Raghav coughed. A chemical smell filled his nostrils even as the bubbling sound grew louder. He was staring into pitch dark.

  Squinting into the darkness, he crawled forward. In the blackness, a blue triangle hovered, above which floated a spectral white. It was so eerie it filled Raghav with trepidation. He glanced back at the study. The almirah was a passage to a room that Dixit frequented. In which case, a light switch had to be close by.

  Raghav breathed his relief and stretched his hand out of the almirah to probe the wall outside. Nothing on the right. On the left wall he found a switch, flicked it on and light washed over a white-painted room. Raghav blinked as shiny glass apparatus, orderly jars and beakers, tidy shelves and clean tables came into view. A beaker bubbled atop a Bunsen burner—the blue flame—that was reflecting off the surrounding glass.

  The laboratory was immaculately clean, a sharp contrast to the mess in the study. From the almirah to the room was a two-foot drop and Raghav jumped onto the floor of the lab.

  He approached the table where a yellowish liquid was bubbling, pinching his nose at the corrosive smell. The beaker was connected to a row of stainless steel cylinders, in turn rigged to pipes, rubber tubing and gauges. Stapled sheets lay beside the equipment. Raghav flicked through them. Some text on radiocarbon dating with accompanying diagrams. With a shrug he tossed it back and looked up.

  Why did Dixit need a secret lab? Was his wife privy to it?

  As he chewed on this thought his eyes skimmed over the room before returning to the table. He turned to leave when a smaller sheet below the stapled document caught his eye. Picking it up, he scanned a couple of hand-drawn sketches and a spidery scrawl that—he screwed his eyes to decipher the writing—said ‘carbon dating the Taj Mahal using a piece of wood from a basement room doorway’.

  Carbon dating the Taj Mahal!

  Raghav recoiled in horror.

  At the police station, Professor Dixit insisted on his right to legal counsel. His mouth set in a mutinous line, he shook his head and refused to answer any questions. Raghav looked at the man with silvery locks, his fly open, his shirt buttoned up wrong and doubted his sanity. He let the professor rant and called R.P. Singh.

  When Singh arrived he hollered at Raghav, even as he eyed Dixit, ‘Have you shoved a bamboo up his backside yet?’ Then, he grabbed Dixit by his collar and dragged him into an empty cell where he accused him of murdering Arun Toor. Patting his bald head, he clucked his tongue and drawled, ‘Get ready for the gallows, Dik-shit—that’s where you’re headed!’ He unclasped his leather belt, slid it out, and with manic eyes, cracked the leather on the brick floor. A stinging whiplash rang through the cell.

  R.P. Singh’s act was a throwback to the archetypal Bollywood villain—the kind even mouldy professors were acquainted with—and Raghav saw the effect as Dixit blanched visibly.

  ‘I-I-I b-barely knew the Taj supervisor.’

  With the next crack of the leather belt, R.P. Singh singed the hair on Dixit’s ankles, striking it within a millimetre of his wrinkled skin.

  Dixit sprang up screaming. Hands folded he sputtered rapidly, ‘I was o-only l-looking to carbon d-d-date the Taj Mahal.’

  R.P. Singh lunged at his throat. ‘Gaandu! In order to prove it was a Hindu temple?’

  Dixit bobbed his head as if his neck had grown a spring. ‘P-p-professional curiosity,’ he quivered.

  Singh shook him like a chicken and cracked the whip again.

  Dixit screamed. ‘Ask Shri Kriplani, the BHP party leader, ask him.’ Tears streamed down his eyes as he wobbled in Singh’s clutches. ‘He�
��ll v-vouch for m-me.’

  At that extraordinary admission, R.P. Singh and Raghav exchanged glances. The same thought had seized them both.

  Was Kriplani the man behind the Taj conspiracy?

  Delhi

  S

  hri Kriplani’s face was set as he went over his options. He had been at it for three hours now. That was when his PA informed him about a CBI officer who wanted to speak with him. Kriplani had taken the phone call and heard a confident drawl; the officer wanted to meet him urgently, he said, to discuss the Taj Mahal.

  It was 9 p.m. and R.P. Singh would be in his office soon. Shri Kriplani had bathed and worn a fresh dhoti-kurta and a crisp khadi jacket. The cold never bothered him: not for him the sweaters and shawls that Delhites swathed themselves in during the short winter. Also, he liked to convey a spartan appearance—in a newly-consumerist nation, it evoked Gandhi’s aura. He looked at himself in the mirror, the trademark red tilak on his forehead, and pleased with the result, he ambled to the sitting room.

  His first sight of the CBI officer did not reassure him. The tall bald man was lounging in the sofa and, on his approach, stood up in a leisurely manner. The man extended his hand, Shri Kriplani folded his and indicated he sit down.

  ‘How can I assist you?’

  R.P. Singh leaned forward. ‘What is the nature of your friendship with R.N. Dixit?’

  In his smooth statesman voice Shri Kriplani said, ‘Dixit is a colleague from BHU, from the days when I was a professor.’

  ‘What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘Many things,’ Kriplani smiled blandly. ‘Question is what interests you, Officer?’

  R.P. Singh chuckled. ‘At this time of the day, what interests me is a warm bed ... but work has to be finished, so here I am, doing my job. So, Dixit—are you two close?’

  Kriplani did not rise to the bait. ‘I’ve known Dixit on and off for several decades. He is a brilliant professor, but very absent-minded. In BHU, a clerk was assigned to remind him of every lecture he was scheduled to take. Absorbed in his lab, Dixit wouldn’t remember to eat, forget lecturing the students.’ Kriplani gave an indulgent smile. ‘Archetypal mad scientist.’

  ‘And a brilliant chemist, right?’

  Kriplani stiffened slightly. ‘Yes. I believe he has a healthy consulting practice. He told me so when we met last, after a long gap.’

  ‘But you are in Agra frequently.’

  ‘It is an important constituency.’

  R.P. Singh acknowledged this with a slow swing of his head, his mouth a straight line.

  ‘Do you know where Dixit is at present?’

  Kriplani shrugged.

  ‘In prison. For attempting to carbon date the Taj Mahal.’ R.P. Singh leaned in, eyes fixed on the politician. ‘It is an offence, you know, Kriplaniji.’

  Shri Kriplani smoothed his kurta, which was as yet creaseless. Safety lay in absolute denial. Nobody was aware of his meeting with Professor Dixit. Besides, it was the chemist who had come up with the suggestion of carbon dating—he had just humoured him.

  R.P. Singh’s gaze did not waver. ‘And when someone is conducting such experiments with the goal of inciting communal violence, you know how seriously the law looks at it...’ Eyes intent on Kriplani, he slid a folded sheet out of his front pocket and passed it to him.

  Ordinarily, Kriplani would be affronted at a paper being given to him thus. But this CBI officer was making him wary. Calmly, he proceeded to unfold the paper. It was blank. Anger rose within him and reddened his neck. Refusing to take the bait, however, he held up the sheet for R.P. Singh with a look of mild consternation.

  ‘Oh! My mistake, Kriplaniji, apologies. Here.’ Singh slid over another sheet, smoothed it out himself and spread it on the table between them.

  The Taj Mahal is a Shiva temple!

  Shri Kriplani’s jaw tightened at the sight of the pamphlet. He adjusted his reading glasses, picked up the sheet and proceeded to read the text intently. A man walked in softly carrying a tray which he deposited on the table. On it was a plate of crisp samosas and a hot cup of masala chai.

  The aroma of crushed clove and fried samosas dispersed between them. Shri Kriplani saw Singh’s nostrils twitch even as he pretended not to have noticed the items clearly brought to soften him up.

  As he pretended to read the pamphlet, Kriplani realised the problem was bigger than he’d thought.

  ‘Oh! Look, I am forgetting to serve my guest.’ He glanced at the wall-mounted clock which showed 9.30 p.m. and said in a paternal voice, ‘Long day on the road for a police officer. You must be tired and hungry. Some food will do you good.’

  R.P. Singh lifted an eyebrow in mock surprise, ‘Thank you for the concern. But first, let’s deal with this pamphlet, shall we?’

  ‘Look, Officer,’ Kriplani acted flustered as he thrust out his palms, ‘I don’t know why you’re showing me this.’

  R.P. Singh lifted one shoulder. ‘That’s simple. Dixit has given a statement that he was carbon dating the Taj Mahal on your orders.’

  Kriplani flushed. ‘That’s a lie!’ he said, sitting upright. ‘You can examine my track record, Officer. I am a true patriot,’ he ticked the finger of one hand, ‘I have no truck with anti-national elements,’ he ticked a second finger, ‘and, surely, Dixit is making unjustified allegations,’ he finished by ticking a third finger. He glowered at Singh, angry furrows in the red tilak.

  ‘Whom will you believe? A lunatic chemistry professor or a respectable people’s leader like me?’

  ‘There is the recorded statement.’

  ‘So, if tomorrow anybody makes an allegation against me, you’ll record his statement?’

  ‘Not just anybody. Ex-colleague, old friend, BHP member...’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Besides, nowadays these things are never hidden from the media. The police may close this case but what if media get wind of the allegation?’

  Kriplani glared at Singh. ‘I’ve always emphasised on national integration—Hindustan is the land of Hindus and several minorities who, however, need to accept that relationship in view of religious harmony.’

  Silence hung between the men. R.P. Singh eyed the samosas, settled back into the sofa, patted his pate and regarded the BHP leader. A deeply rattled Dixit had been let off with a warning—he’d need time to recover from the police treatment. Playing this politician, though, was an altogether different ballgame.

  Kriplani returned the gaze with a benign smile. In a voice smooth as white butter he said, ‘Casting unjustified aspersions on the leader of the largest opposition party in the country is not a sensible course of action for a bright young officer’s career. You know what they say: why pick a fight with the crocodile when you are destined for the pond?’

  R.P. Singh nodded sagely. ‘That is true,’ he said with seriousness. ‘Except, Kriplaniji,’ he paused, ‘I thought you’d give me Lord Krishna’s advice.’

  Kriplani’s brow puckered.

  R.P. Singh leaned forward to gather his aviator sunglasses from the table, and as he did so, said, ‘Karmanya vadhikaraste...’ Do one’s duty, regardless of the fruits of the action—a shloka from the Gita.

  The next instant he was striding out without any farewell.

  Kriplani watched him go: for a big man he was very light on his foot. As his gaze returned to the table, Kriplani pursed his mouth. The food was left untouched. A brown film had developed on the milky tea as the fried samosas sat congealing on the ceramic plate.

  Agra

  O

  n the outskirts of Mathura on NH2, the national highway between Delhi and Agra, was a dhaba that stayed open through the night catering to truckers and night travellers who needed to refuel their stomachs. As R.P. Singh left Kriplani’s office he called SSP Raghav and summoned him there.

  Two hours later the two men were sitting on a manji, the jute cot sagging beneath their weight as Singh had his dinner. Raghav, who had eaten earlier, sipped a cup of tea appreciatively from a k
ulhar. After a daily routine of sugarless tea in chipped glasses, the gingery, sweet, milk tea infused with the earthy texture of clay was heavenly.

  R.P. Singh had finished updating Raghav on the meeting with the BHP leader. He bit into a green chilli, tore a bite of tandoor roti to scoop up a portion of chana masala and scarfed it down. Through the mouthful he asked, ‘Is Kriplani telling the truth? What do you say?’

  Raghav took a last sip and hurled the clay glass into a nearby bush. ‘Does it matter?’

  R.P. Singh’s eyebrows rose. ‘Explain,’ he said.

  Raghav tugged at his lush moustache as he collected his thoughts. ‘Let’s assume that Kriplani is the instigator of the Taj conspiracy. In which case, with your visit, you have called him out. Therefore, he won’t risk continuing with the operation—in which case, the case is closed.’

  A horn blared on the highway, its screech cutting through the cold night air.

  ‘If, however,’ Raghav resumed, ‘Kriplani was trying some foolish carbon dating trip but is innocent of the conspiracy, then the question we still have to answer is: who is the conspirator?’

  ‘Right,’ R.P. Singh wagged his head. Satiated, he pulled back and eyed the steel utensils that had been wiped clean. ‘I was hungry,’ he smiled and burped. He motioned for a boy to remove the plates. Swiftly the cot was cleared and the boy brought a jug of water and a towel. ‘Now this is real service,’ R.P. Singh said happily. Having washed and wiped his hands, he settled back, resting his elbows on the jute cot. The boy reappeared with a bottle of Old Monk and two clay glasses. Raghav’s eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘What!’ Singh laughed. ‘A late night chat with no drink! Who died?’