Raj Bhushan studied Mehrunisa. After what seemed like a long while, he tipped his head in an elaborate bow. ‘Professor Kaul would be pleased with your scholarship, Mehrunisa. I myself am quite impressed. I must admit I had underestimated the depth of your research.’
At any given moment, Raj Bhushan was the epitome of suaveness, yet Mehrunisa could not shake off the feeling that although he had complimented her, he was somehow angry with her.
Bateshwar
R
iding his motorcycle, Raghav was in Bateshwar within an hour. At the railway crossing he showed the signalman the locket and enquired about the temples. The portly railway employee said that locating the temples would be no problem once he passed the crossing—what else was there in the village? However, he was mystified by the locket and speculated that one of the newly-sprung tourist agencies might be behind it. Apparently, the riverside temples had only been getting attention of late.
The road into the village zig-zagged through the Chambal valley, once notorious for its dacoits. When he reached there he found himself, unsurprisingly, in a sleepy hamlet where everyone knew at once that he was a stranger. His policeman’s uniform drew apprehensive glances. Good, Raghav thought as he parked in front of a temple and walked inside. The priest within gaped at him and enquired timidly if he was there for prayers. Deciding it would be one way to get the priest talking, he nodded. The next instant a plate with offerings was placed in his hand and the priest initiated the prayers, pausing to instruct Raghav in rituals, as a couple of temple assistants joined in the chorus. It was over quickly, after which Raghav was invited for a closer look at the presiding temple deity. Interestingly, he sported a moustache and turban, and was dressed like a rich merchant. What is the deity called, he enquired of the priest. Bateshwar Mahadev, a form of Lord Shiva, the priest said. Very different from the Shiva on the locket, Raghav observed, who was a standard blue, clad in tiger skin, Ganga springing from his topknot.
Raghav should visit at the time of the cattle fair, the priest advised, which was when the village came to life. And at the time of Maha Shivratri, of course. Further queries yielded some inanities on the abundant livestock at the time of the fair. He was looking to exit when there was a rustle as another worshipper walked in, and the priest hurried to him.
Outside the temple, Raghav descended the steps to the riverbank. A Naga sadhu sat meditating, his ash-smeared torso naked in the cold except for a shawl draped over his shoulders. A trident was planted in the ground, its three prongs decked with marigold. A shout sounded and Raghav turned to see a boatman waving to him from the ghat.
The boatman had few teeth but was very chatty. He wore a threadbare sweater, scrunched-up dhoti and a thin muffler tied turban-like around his head. Raghav could not turn down his offer of a ride up the Yamuna—a paltry twenty-five rupees.
As they glided past the whitewashed temples, Raghav learnt that there were 101 temples originally, of which less than half remained. He spotted several ash-smeared ascetics on the bank as well.
‘Many Naga sadhus here?’ he asked the boatman.
‘Bateshwar is the home of Shiva, and they are his bhakts.’
The lack of teeth made the boatman’s voice sound like a whistle. Raghav had to strain his ears to catch the words sprinkled in that breathy passage of air.
The boatman waved a scrawny arm at the cliffs rising around them. ‘They live in caves in the mud walls of the ravine. You should see them at Maha Shivratri when they descend upon the ghats.’ He gave a sly toothless grin. ‘Then the cameramen from Delhi come to click more than just the temples!’
Raghav recalled a stint he had done at a Kumbh mela once. Ash-smeared, dreadlocked Naga sadhus were fiercely clannish and a fight had broken out between two groups. It didn’t help that they were high on bhang, which they consumed religiously as Shiva’s favoured drink.
‘You get good business at that time?’ Raghav asked the man.
‘Na,’ he shook his head. ‘Those days when kings and royalty and noblemen used boats are no more. Who has the time? Where do you come from, Inspector?’
‘Agra,’ Raghav replied.
‘And did you come down by boat? No, see! I could take you up to Agra, and drop you right beside the Taj Mahal. But would you be interested? No. No one has the time.’ He clucked his dismay.
‘Really?’ Raghav said surprised. It was entirely logical, but he had always seen the Yamuna beside the Taj clogged with plastic and garbage. Here, of course, the water was bountiful. This year though, even the Yamuna behind the Taj was at its high mark. Something about that vision made him pause. He was trying to figure out why when his mobile beeped.
Constable Dayal. Whom he had instructed to examine the undergrowth on the riverbank opposite the Taj Mahal.
‘Yes,’ Raghav barked.
What he heard next made him forget all about Bateshwar, its temples and a leisurely boat ride back to Agra. Clamping a hundred rupee note in the perplexed boatman’s hand, he was off like the proverbial Chambal valley dacoit. Weaving his motorcycle between grain trucks and laden trolleys, he was on site within an hour.
A shaken Dayal met him at the periphery and wordlessly started to lead him. Tall grass engulfed them as they crunched their way inwards where the growth was thickest. What Raghav saw next loosened his bowels—he had to either shit or vomit urgently. He believed he had seen a lot in his two-decade career—rape, murder, bestiality—yet, this plumbed the depths of human depravity.
Sprawled in the crushed grass were two large portions of a serpent, probably a python, ruptured in half. From within the split belly of the beast a partial human body was visible. All manner of bugs were crawling over the raw flesh. Raghav had to look away to keep the rising bile in check. He took several deep breaths and steadied his nerves.
‘Sir,’ the constable whispered, ‘the corpse still has clothes on. See.’
Raghav forced himself to look. Bizarre as it sounded, the ruptured python had indeed thrown up a hacked, but clothed, human cadaver from its belly. The kurta was congealed in gunge, but the colour stood out: vibrant pink.
A frisson of electricity sped up Raghav’s spine. The scene was ghastly, yet it had offered a glimmer of hope—the Taj conspiracy case could be solved ... there was no mistaking that bright pink kurta. He had last seen it on the corpse of Supervisor Toor before it vanished from the morgue.
Diary
M
y mother has always been the centre of my life, and—despite her death ten years back—she still is. When she passed away, at the young age of forty-five, she had the well-preserved look of beautiful women who age so gracefully that their beauty grows, instead of diminishing.
I could not bear to be parted from her. However, death is a given for all mortals. It is also the case that the old die before the young and I knew my mother would exit this world before I did. Two incontrovertible facts that I had to fight. So I trained myself for the eventuality. And if you prepare well, it is amazing how much you can actually accomplish that would normally be deemed impossible.
Now, ten years later, my mother’s presence in my life continues to be strong and I can see her as and when I like. Though, I must hasten to mention, I have to be discreet—I have lost my mother once, I cannot afford to lose her yet again.
She is central to my life and yet, even when scouting my home, none would be able to tell. It is our secret, my mother’s and mine. The pride of my living room is in its centre. During a visit to the interiors of Rajasthan, I came across an old decaying haveli, its habitable areas apportioned into a teashop, a tyre-repair shop and digs where barefoot children ran about playing hide-and-seek. Amidst the general squalor, a remarkable wooden door still hung from an interior room. The panel was partitioned into sixteen squares, and within each square a different animal was carved in relief—a peacock, a pair of monkeys, a tiger, an elephant. It was rather unique and I had the panel pulled from the loose hinges. No one raised a brow; I was a government officer, an
d I handed out some dole in parting. Back in Delhi, I consulted another expert who confirmed my estimate: it was a rare piece dating from the early nineteenth century.
I crafted a centre table using my discovery. My large iron trunk, painted black, topped by the carved teak panel mounted with a thick glass panel. The complete piece looks rather attractive, modern yet traditional, and serves my purpose. Nothing less would do for my mummy. I am sure she is pleased.
Jaipur
P
amposh’s residence—a sprawling haveli—never failed to amaze Mehrunisa. The Pandits had been residents of the city for generations since the head of the family had entered the service of the Jaipur royals. Pamposh had moved to Jaipur to live with her paternal grandfather after her father was killed in a terrorist attack in 1991. Since her father was an only child, there was no other claimant to the sandstone mansion except a reluctant Pamposh.
She did not like the undue attention and the concomitant assumption of wealth the haveli drew to her. She would sell it off, she complained, except where would she find her roots—that subterranean thing that secures us in this world? Srinagar, she would sigh, had been taken away from her, and Jaipur, she could not afford to lose. Officious relatives suggested she convert the haveli into a heritage hotel and live off tourist earnings. But Pamposh was a woman with a mind of her own. The reports of rising incidents of female foeticide in the state of Rajasthan caught her attention. While the underlying factor was a feudal mindset, it was compounded by the lack of orphanages. The nineteenth-century haveli was built around a central courtyard: Pamposh converted the east L-wing into an orphanage and children’s school; the west served as her residence.
Mehrunisa had called from Delhi to inform Pamposh of her visit and had been invited, along with Raj Bhushan, to come over after their work was done and spend the night at the haveli. Now, standing at the nail-studded haveli door, Mehrunisa reflected how much had transpired since their last meeting: both the professor and his beloved monument were facing an insidious adversary.
Pamposh, dressed in an orange phiran, greeted her with a hug before turning to Raj Bhushan who stood behind Mehrunisa. Shaking hands with him, she acknowledged with a nod, ‘We’ve met.’
Pamposh led them down a cold corridor to a large room that was fashioned like a study-cum-bar. In one corner, a fireplace was spitting softly, its amber glow gilding the frescoed walls. Mehrunisa had been in the room once before, when she had visited with Professor Kaul to pay their respects to the patriarch, Pamposh’s grandfather. All Mehrunisa recalled from that visit was the old man’s flowing whiskers and beard.
Now she stood entranced by the vibrant honey-coloured frescoes on the walls depicting women in swirling ghagras, bells on their ankles, their slim arms lifted in intricate dance poses. Another wall depicted three men ready to hunt, the central figure an archer taking aim.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Pamposh interrupted her reverie.
‘Wonder how I never noticed it before...’
Pamposh smiled and indicated an armchair with intricately-carved wooden legs. ‘You were a child—there were other things to hold your attention.’ Pinching the thumb and index fingers together, she tugged at the ends of her mouth.
Mehrunisa smiled at Pamposh’s illustration of her grandfather’s walrus moustache. ‘You remember,’ she said.
‘Of course I remember,’ Pamposh shrugged. ‘I remember everything.’ Looking straight into Mehrunisa’s eyes, she said, ‘Khosh amadid.’ It was Persian for welcome.
Mehrunisa acknowledged it with a tilt of her head, recalling the many days they had spent together as children under the roof of her godfather, Professor Kaul. They were sufficiently alike yet exotic enough to each other to enjoy their time together as they exchanged Persian and Kashmiri phrases, customs, stories. The only similar feature they shared was a fair complexion. Pamposh was a fiery electric beauty with sparkling dark eyes, dimples, curly hair and a saucy tongue. Mehrunisa, with her grey-green eyes, straight black hair and a quiet demeanour, could slip in the background as Pamposh held court. Pamposh’s vivacity made others in the room fade.
They had shared a closeness that comes from being put in each other’s company at an early age. In the last decade, however, the two had gone their separate ways, seldom meeting, and Mehrunisa wondered how much they had grown apart.
Meanwhile, Raj Bhushan had been studying the mural of the hunters and he now commented, ‘It would date to the late nineteenth century—it has a mix of European and Rajput art. It is probably quite precious, considering the state in which it has been preserved.’
‘My grandfather was fussy about maintaining his heritage,’ Pamposh acknowledged. In the distance a bell rang. Indicating the bar, she excused herself.
Raj Bhushan proceeded to the side table on which a decanter, some glasses and glass bottles were ranged. He studied the offerings and said, ‘There’s cognac, whiskey, gin—what can I get you?’
‘Ideal weather for a cognac, thank you,’ Mehrunisa said, rubbing her palms together. Outside the window, the glass was foggy from a swirling noon mist. She had started on her cognac when Pamposh strode into the room and stopped, resting her right hand in an angle on her waist, her eyes wide with some hidden merriment as she looked at Mehrunisa.
‘There is a man at my door enquiring after you. Claims he is a CBI officer.’ She had a dancer’s trained ability to widen her eyes without lifting her brows. On a whisper, she added, ‘Why is the police after you, Mehroo?’
Mehrunisa shrugged and smiled, ‘Not to worry,’ and deposited her glass on a side table. How had R.P. Singh traced her to the haveli, and why, she wondered.
Meanwhile, Pamposh, apparently relieved by Mehrunisa’s response, continued, ‘He’d be quite handsome, except he’s bald. I like a man with a full head and a beard, if possible—the fun is in figuring what all the fuzz conceals.’ With that she gave a slow, naughty wink in the direction of Mehrunisa and Raj Bhushan.
Mehrunisa thought Pamposh’s gaze lingered on Raj Bhushan’s bearded face far longer than would be considered decent. In that sense Pamposh had not changed, she was still a flirt.
‘So,’ Pamposh asked perkily, her dejihor glinting as she angled her face, ‘does Mehrunisa allow him entry?’
Glaring at her for the double entendre, Mehrunisa walked past saying, ‘I’ll have a word with the officer.’
Mehrunisa could not believe her eyes, yet there could be no doubt. The photograph showed a giant python, some four metres long, ruptured in the middle. From the exploded belly stuck out the remains of a man’s torso and head. Bile rose in her and she lunged for the main door. Throwing it open she rounded the threshold and heaved. As she straightened, R.P. Singh handed her a kerchief.
Mehrunisa wiped her mouth feeling sick and foolish: sick at the gory picture the officer had thrust under her nose, and foolish for having demonstrated weakness.
R.P. Singh studied her with concern. Mehrunisa was still shaking from the exertion. His right hand hovered as if to steady her, but changed course and started to scratch his chin. ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have shown it to you if I could help it.’
Mehrunisa’s mouth was sticky with acid and she wanted to rinse it out. Irritated, she asked, ‘How did you know where to find me?’
Singh shrugged, ‘I called your home.’
R.P. Singh would not have rushed to Jaipur to show her the picture of a ruptured python without reason, she thought, and asked, ‘What’s special about the picture?’
Singh produced a folded sheet from inside his jacket and handed it to Mehrunisa. ‘Copy of the report filed by the investigating constable,’ he said.
Python and dead body found on Yamuna bank opposite Taj Mahal
On Thursday, 20 January, I, Constable Bhole Prasad Dayal stumbled on the remains of a python, and the man it had tried to eat, in the grass on the banks of Yamuna opposite the Taj Mahal. The python was probably unable to digest the body, which caused its stomach to burst, killing it
, and discharging the remains of the man.
Further, the body of the man appears to have been sliced in two, which would have had to be done before the snake tried to eat it. I alerted my superior, SSP Raghav of Anti-Terror Squad, who ordered the area to be cordoned off and the body was sent for DNA testing to help identify the person.
The area where the python was found floods easily in the monsoon, and locals have reported sighting a large snake in the undergrowth on occasion.
‘Opposite the Taj Mahal...’ Singh said softly.
Mehrunisa could not get the significance of either report or picture. Was her mind fuzzy from throwing up? She examined R.P. Singh’s face.
‘You don’t see it, do you?’
‘See what?’
‘Here,’ he pulled a cushioned stool from a corner and attempted to get Mehrunisa to sit.
Mehrunisa shrugged his hand away. ‘Don’t patronise me. What is it that I’m not seeing?’
Singh tapped his index finger at the gruesome picture at the spot where the man’s torso emerged from the python’s slit belly. It was a large colour picture and as his finger tapped it repeatedly, Mehrunisa noticed that the man’s torso was clad in a pinkish shirt. As she peered closer at the grainy image, she noticed the man’s face was bearded...
Mehrunisa’s eyes opened wide. Her head jerked up and she looked into R.P. Singh’s eyes. What she saw there confirmed the hypothesis forming in her mind. ‘But ... but ... how could this be?’ Mehrunisa murmured. ‘Who, how-how did this happen?’
‘SSP Raghav is on the case. A DNA test will identify the victim. But it’ll take time. However, if we’re all thinking the same thing, then perhaps we have an ID on the corpse already.’
The Taj Conspiracy Page 17