The Taj Conspiracy

by Someshwar, Manreet Sodhi

  Those who knew him well were aware of his preference for sugarless tea and Raghav noticed that Haneef chacha’s tea boy had remembered. Of course, Raghav reflected, considering he was Haneef’s most powerful patron.

  Raghav surveyed the seating area that stretched beyond the kebab stall. Several tables were occupied and two waiters roamed the aisles, serving water, flicking flies, taking orders. Meanwhile, Haneef chacha’s son Feroze, who was also the manager of the eatery, was by his father’s side whispering into his ear. Haneef shook his head dismissively. The young man, around twenty, bit his lips. Catching Raghav’s eye, he bowed his head.

  ‘Business good?’ Raghav enquired, unconsciously switching to his policeman’s tone, one quite different from what he employed while conversing with the elderly proprietor.

  ‘Yes sir—with your blessing.’ Feroze cast a nervous glance at his father before giving him a tremulous smile.

  ‘You look troubled.’

  Haneef waved a hand, ‘SSP Sahib, please,’ he indicated the table, before turning to scowl at his son. He ladled the crusty-brown gleaming kebabs out of the wok and deposited them in a plate. His son garnished the kebabs with coriander leaves and added some mint chutney before bringing it over.

  Raghav rubbed his palms before drawing the plate closer. ‘Sit,’ he indicated to the young man, and bit off a chunk of the kabab, savouring the smooth mutton. Smacking his lips, he brought his right hand to his forehead and flicked it briefly to indicate his appreciation. Satisfied, Haneef nodded and turned his attention to the wok again.

  ‘Tell me,’ Raghav commanded, ‘you troubling your father?’

  Feroze shook his head vigorously. ‘No, Sir. But yes, we are troubled.’

  Raghav chewed thoughtfully, watching the young man.

  ‘Have you heard the rumours, Sir?’

  ‘What rumours?’

  ‘There is a rumour going around in Agra city. It used to be there, always,’ he shrugged, ‘one always heard it as part of the stories around the Taj...’

  He eyed Raghav, whose face remained expressionless.

  ‘Sir, there have always been stories around the Taj Mahal, you know. How Shah Jahan was planning to build a black Taj Mahal across from the white, how he chopped the hands of twenty thousand labourers who worked on building the Taj so it could not be replicated. How the Taj is actually a Hindu temple which was snatched by the Mughal emperor. In fact, they claim,’ his tongue flicked out to lick a lip, ‘that the calligraphy on Mumtaz’s tomb says so.’

  Raghav kept his face immobile.

  ‘They say the inscription states that it is a false tomb— anyone who can read Persian can make it out. That is why it went unnoticed thus far—who in India today knows Persian anyway?’

  ‘Who is your source?’

  ‘One of my cousins, Sir, is a guide at the Taj. He told us.’

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘That the Hindu guides have suddenly started elaborating on the story of the Taj being a Hindu temple. It was always part of their stories, but apparently,’ Feroze went whispery, ‘someone has paid them to inform all their tourists about the Hindu origin of the Taj.’

  Raghav leaned forward, popped a whole kebab in his mouth, and muttered, ‘Go on.’

  He shifted in his chair. ‘Not just that, Sir. In this market even, a lot of people have started to sing the hymn of the Taj Mahal’s Hindu origins. I keep my ears open and more and more, I hear it. Now,’ he hissed, ‘there is talk of reclaiming what belongs to Hindus, one way or other. I have seen a couple of young men—they look like college students—roaming about in this market. They look harmless but they have been going into shops methodically—mind you, no Muslim-owned shops— spending time with the shopkeeper and exiting without buying anything.’ He regarded SSP Raghav.

  ‘So that makes them suspect?’ Raghav feigned a scowl as he wondered whether these were the same lads he had almost apprehended with the pamphlets. ‘Perhaps, they are doing market research. You know these big marketing companies send people around asking questions on Lux soap and cooking oil and such stuff!’

  ‘But they would target specific shops, right? Grocery stores or hardware stores? While these men go into every shop except the Muslim-owned ones.’

  Raghav dipped an index finger into the mint chutney and licked it before turning his attention to the manager. The sweat beads on his forehead were not from the spicy kebabs alone.

  ‘Perhaps they are college kids, doing a project.’

  Haneef Chacha’s son was unconvinced. ‘No Sir. They are spending too much time inside those shops. Since when did a baniya start spending his time in idle chit-chat?’

  Kinari Bazaar, it was then. He would send a constable in plainclothes to investigate it right away, Raghav decided. If his constable managed to unearth something suspicious, it would be time for a covert operation of his own: a swift distribution of Mehrunisa’s pamphlets refuting the claim that the Taj Mahal was a Shiva temple.

  ‘Will you recognise those college students? Describe them to me,’ Raghav said. He had to catch these boys. They were a link in the chain that led back to the Taj conspirator.

  Delhi

  M

  ehrunisa did not need her regular black tea to rouse her that morning as she sat in the patio of Professor Kaul’s house. The front-page headline of the Hindustan Times jolted her awake.

  Sunni Waqf Board claims the Taj Mahal An Indian Muslim organisation has declared that it owns the world’s most famous monument to love, the Taj Mahal

  She gasped audibly. That made the constable, sitting upright in his wood chair, look at her enquiringly. After the appearance of Monkey-cap in Jaipur, R.P. Singh had insisted on, and provided, police protection for her. The constable was supposedly her new shadow, though he was content to guard the house while Mehrunisa was inside.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ she waved, and turned to the newspaper.

  The Uttar Pradesh Sunni Central Waqf Board declared on Tuesday that the Taj Mahal was a Waqf property and directed that the 17th century monument be registered in its name. A Waqf is a religious endowment in Islam, typically devoting a building or plot of land for Muslim religious purposes.

  The chairman of the UP Sunni Central Waqf Board, Ameer Usman, made the declaration at a packed UP Sunni Waqf Board meeting in Lucknow. The Board says it owns over 100,000 properties in the state of Uttar Pradesh, where the spectacular marble mausoleum is located. It says since the Taj Mahal houses several Muslim graves, it falls under its jurisdiction.

  Since 1920, the Taj Mahal has been governed, managed and maintained by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI). Describing the Waqf Board decision as ‘not in the interest of the Taj Mahal’, a representative of ASI, who attended the hearing, said the organisation would challenge it in the courts.

  The chairman of the Waqf Board said that in the meantime the ASI would continue to manage the monument, and the future management and sharing of revenue from the gate receipts will be decided in consultation with the state and federal governments. However, he added, the Taj Mahal needed better upkeep, and the Waqf Board would strive to improve its maintenance.

  If the Sunni Waqf Board becomes the owner of the monument, it stands to get 7% of the income from this building by law. By one estimate, the ASI earns some 190 million rupees ($4.36m) from the three million-odd tourists who visit the monument every year. They Board would also collect revenues from the 80 villages located around Agra for maintenance of the building and for arranging prayers.

  Some historians say that the Taj Mahal was indeed a Waqf property of which the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan was the custodian. However, the historian Sharmila Thapar is quoted as saying, ‘The Mughal Empire and the emperor no longer exist. Who succeeds him as the custodian of the Waqf? There has been no claim for ages. Just because somebody makes a claim now does not necessarily mean that the monument goes to them.’

  To take her mind off the Taj Mahal, Mehrunisa decided to cook the professor’s favou
rite dish. Shah Jahan, the great aesthete of the Mughal empire, was regarded the creator of that dish. As the thought popped in her head, Mehrunisa grimaced: even in the kitchen there was no refuge from the all-pervasive Mughals!

  Her hair tied in a knot, sweater sleeves rolled up, she rinsed the basmati rice in cold water a couple of times, before dunking it into a sieve. Turning to the counter she watched Mangat Ram who had laid out on a board the ingredients she would require to season the Shahjahani Pulao: black cumin, green cardamoms, sticks of cinnamon, whole cloves and bay leaves.

  Outside, the sun broke through the clouds and its bright light lit the kitchen and washed her with happiness. Smiling, Mehrunisa walked to the window and looked out. Professor Kaul was sitting exactly where she had left him in his cane armchair, a shawl draped over his shoulders, his hands in his lap, his mind—God alone knew where.

  As Mangat Ram shuffled away with a cup of tea for the professor, Mehrunisa sighed and turned to the rice grains. They had fluffed a little and she raked the mound of rice with her fingers, draining the remaining water. Kaul uncle loved Shahjahani Pulao for its intense aroma and the flavoursome fruit topping.

  Mehrunisa started to sauté the spices in ghee, her mind on her uncle. His abrupt descent into that strange abyss frightened her; that such a great mind could be reduced to so little in a matter of days. Her greater fear, one she refused to acknowledge to herself, was the possibility that perhaps, in the manner of her father, her uncle would also disappear from her. Her father was legally dead, yet his body had never been found. He had left on a business trip to Syria when she was fourteen and never returned. Having quit the Indian Foreign Service, he had started a business of antiques out of Rome—both Maadar and Papa liked Italy enough to want to continue living there. The police had pursued the case for a year. The Indian Consulate had applied pressure on the Italian police, but to no avail. Harinder Singh Khosa had simply vanished. With a shake of her head, Mehrunisa determined not to follow the thought through.

  The onions had browned to a crispness; she proceeded to add the basmati rice. A soft hiss rose from the pan, she stirred the contents thoroughly and lowered the flame. Covering the pan with a lid, she leaned against the counter and watched Mangat Ram shuffle in again. It was either the cold, or empathy with his weakening master, that had enervated the housekeeper as well. Mehrunisa smiled at the wizened old man, feeling immense love for him and gratitude for the comfort of his companionship.

  ‘At least he still likes his tea,’ Mangat Ram quipped, a smile bursting forth from the creased face. ‘He will enjoy the pulao,’ he added, turning to deposit the cup in the sink and running the water. ‘The last time he asked me to make it was when you were about to visit. He said we should make it in your honour though he complained that I do not make it as well as you do. That day Bhushan sahib dropped in unexpectedly.’

  Mehrunisa nodded. She hadn’t met Raj Bhushan since their visit to Jaipur. Apparently the royal family had flatly refused his offer to buy the map.

  ‘So I laid the table for two,’ Mangat Ram continued, drying his hands with a towel, ‘and Sahib, he was in a jovial mood. When I served the pulao to Bhushan sahib, he joked, “You should serve him khichri”.’

  Mangat Ram smiled at the memory. ‘Why offer such a simple dish to a guest when there is rich pulao at home, I asked. Know what he answered?’

  Mehrunisa urged him on with a smile.

  ‘Aurangzeb was fond of khichri, Sahib said. His taste in food was unlike that of his father Shah Jahan, who favoured rich food.’

  Mehrunisa’s mouth fell open. ‘Aurangzeb?’ Her voice was a croak. ‘Who was he calling Aurangzeb?’

  Mangat Ram seemed not to have noticed the incredulous look on her face. Reaching for a head of garlic, he sat on the tall wood stool and started to peel a clove. ‘Bhushan sahib, who else?’

  ‘But why would he call Raj Bhushan Aurangzeb?’

  ‘It is a direct translation of his name. Aurang-Zeb. From Urdu, or is it Persian?’ He wrinkled his nose at Mehrunisa. ‘It means ornament of throne. Raj, ornament; Bhushan, throne.’ Mangat Ram lifted his brows. ‘Living with Sahib for forty years has made me into a small-time teacher as well!’

  Delhi

  M

  ehrunisa paused at the gate. She had headed out of the house after Mangat Ram’s revelation, hoping some outside air would vacuum the fuzz from her mind.

  Raj Bhushan was Aurangzeb!

  It had been staring at her all the time, yet she had not noticed. How could she have missed the connection when even her uncle, in his state of amnesia, had been agitated enough to warn her. Hang on! She was moving too fast. Mehrunisa tugged her pashmina shawl closer around her and attempted to marshal her thoughts.

  First: Aurangzeb was Raj Bhushan, there could be no doubt. Arun, who evidently knew the nickname, had mentioned that he was expecting Aurangzeb. The ASI director-general’s presence in the Taj Mahal was natural—nobody would think twice about the director visiting the preeminent monument on his list. Thereafter, Kaul uncle had cautioned her about the dead Mughal emperor. And now Mangat Ram had divulged that the professor routinely teased Raj Bhushan with that moniker.

  Second: Raj Bhushan did not reveal to the police that he had met Arun on the evening of his murder. Why? What was he attempting to hide? He might have been the last one to see Arun alive. He might have seen somebody who could be implicated. He might have witnessed the murder ... He might be the murderer!

  On the last thought Mehrunisa gasped. Even the police was working on the premise that Aurangzeb was either the murderer, or directly linked to the murder. But this was too improbable. ASI director-general Raj Bhushan did not seem the murdering kind. Besides, why would he want to kill the Taj supervisor? They were dissimilar—were their relations strained? Had they had a falling out? But surely, as the ultimate authority, he could always have fired Arun if they had work problems—so why murder him? No. Then why not inform the police that he had met Arun on the night of his murder? Was he trying to avoid a scandal—the police would have questioned him and the media would have got nosy? Perhaps he had nothing concrete to disclose and decided therefore to stay silent?

  Watch out for Aurangzeb! That was what her uncle had said. What should she be watching out for? What did the professor know? And how did he know it?

  She would talk to Professor Kaul. While she may not know Raj Bhushan well, her godfather still did. If Mehrunisa voiced her misgivings, maybe Kaul uncle would be roused out of his state to say something.

  She went inside to call R.P. Singh right away.

  Delhi

  S

  hri Kriplani was furious. So enraged was he that he was in danger of choking on his own animus: the glass of yellow piss he had drunk in the morning after his daily constitutional had tasted pungent enough to make him gag.

  The first urine of the morning was a snapshot of his previous day: clear, with a pleasant aroma meant he had eaten healthy and thought pleasantly. However, the previous day’s news report had put his mind in turmoil, his acidity had acted up, and he had slept fitfully as he strategized through the night; the result, therefore, was cloudy, foul-smelling urine. At such times he felt he should take an occasional break from urine therapy....

  But the essence of urine therapy was predicated on harmony between input and output. It was a daily reminder to stay calm and think with a cool head. Today, he needed that.

  The Waqf Board’s statement asserting a rightful claim to the Taj Mahal had made headlines in all the top dailies.

  The Board chairman had been interviewed on TV channels where, contrary to expectations, he turned out not to be a bearded, skull-capped mullah but a rather telegenic young fellow. Now, a TV crew was waiting to interview Shri Kriplani.

  Any other time he would have had a field day.

  The sons of Babur were a most militant minority. When not cosying up to their Muslim neighbour and assisting in terror attacks on Indian soil, they were bent upon usurping India’s
heritage!

  If the plan of carbon dating the monument had worked, he’d have declared the Taj Mahal was indeed an ancient Hindu temple and delivered a body blow to these rabid foreigners. Instead, with that CBI officer on his heels, he had had to relinquish that effort. Things were looking bad....

  He inhaled deeply. For a seasoned politician, every setback was an opportunity. It was time to play the elder statesman for TV cameras and assorted reporters gathered outside.

  Shri Kriplani was a consummate performer as he parlayed his personal wrath into Hindu umbrage at the Muslim hijacking of Indian treasures. Legs crossed, his dhoti tucked in neatly, he faced the TV camera resolutely and began his withering speech.

  ‘The Waqf Board has claimed the Taj Mahal. Tomorrow they will claim Qutab Minar, the Red Fort, Humayun’s Tomb ... where will they stop? The Parliament House? Why not? They will claim the building was designed by a British architect but the labourers who worked on it were Muslims, mostly; so, rightfully the Parliament House should also be theirs. Once the ball is set rolling, where does it stop?

  ‘Fact is, the Mughals were invaders. Where did the money for building these lavish monuments come from? From the Hindu masses. How did the Mughal Empire become the richest in the world? By robbing the Hindu subjects. Did they bring these riches and wealth with them from their mother countries of Turkey and Mongolia? Penniless, on horseback, they rode into our motherland and ransacked it. They looted us for centuries and today they want to legalise what they have looted. Shabash! What is the meaning of Hindustan, I ask? Simple. Hindu-stan: the land of Hindus. The Land of Hindus! This is my answer to the Waqf Board and any and all Muslim boards and to the Muslims of India. Understand the meaning of Hindustan, and live here.

  ‘Ours is a great nation. Through the ages it has embraced outsiders and absorbed them into its fabric. A mother never lets go of her children, even when some of them persist in being difficult.

  ‘In a few days the prime minister will give his annual speech from the Red Fort—it is a time for unity, not for petty squabbles. Jai Bharat! Jai Sri Ram!’