A satisfied, though dry-throated, Shri Kriplani sat back in his chair as the cameras switched off. He had played to the gallery yet ended his speech such that it would elevate him in the eyes of his countrymen, and deflate the communal rhetoric of his opponents.
Agra
R
.P. Singh stood on the balcony of the Taj Ganj police station, munching roasted chana and contemplating the mist that still hovered around. It reflected the state of his mind accurately. Mehrunisa had called to say that she’d found out Raj Bhushan was Aurangzeb. She had explained her reasoning, but it was based on hearsay, not proof. Nevertheless, it added the latest twist in a case that already looked like a dish of seviyan.
As he ruminated on the multiple skeins of the case, people started to gather in the courtyard in front of him. They seemed to be leaking out of the mist and taking form in front of him, dressed variously in shawls, blankets, woolly caps, some coats. Had he missed a memo?
A young man separated from the mass and approached him. R.P. Singh beckoned him inside.
The man seated opposite him did not inspire confidence; less so, his fantastic story.
His mouth concealed behind a hand, Singh scrutinised the young man: long sideburns, longer hair, bell-bottomed jeans fashionably slit at the knees, a denim jacket over a polka-dotted shirt open at the neck—despite the cold day. He was the epitome of a local ruffian from Taj Ganj, the sort who trailed backpacking tourists, and in halting mishmash English promised to show them the best souvenir shops, best restaurants, best whores, best anything. So the logical question was: what was he doing in a police station of his own volition? He would hear the story again, this time for inconsistencies.
Singh wore his best saturnine expression and queried, ‘Aamir? Tell me again why you are here.’
The young man seemed taken aback at the question. He had spent ten minutes detailing the previous night’s event that had rattled the Muslim residents of Taj Ganj. Narrating his story with sound effects, he had made it as graphic as possible. Besides, he was best suited to tell it to the police and convey the fear of the residents: he was, after all, the one with the largest gora clientele. If he could communicate with the firangs, surely he could make one of his own countrymen comprehend him!
Perplexed, he mumbled, ‘Sir, where do I start?’
‘The beginning is usually a good place,’ Singh’s voice was toneless, yet laden with menace.
Aamir’s Adam’s apple throbbed nervously. He began. ‘Sir, yesterday night we were asleep when—’
‘Time?’
‘1.15—I glanced at the clock. It has these glowing hands, you see.’
When R.P. Singh nodded, Aamir continued, ‘So, the locality was asleep. All quiet, as it normally is that late, when a loud voice broke through the night! It was a terrible sound like, like ... a goat being slaughtered at Moharram. Plaintive, pleading. Then shrieks sounded, loud cries, followed by thrashing sounds, and a sound of crackling fire and the air being slashed.... Oh!’
Aamir shivered, his face crushed. Shaking his head vigorously, he whispered, ‘It was horrible! Horrible!’
Singh watched the performance—it looked authentic. ‘What happened next?’
Aamir shrugged. ‘I was terrified but I was also curious. So I went to the window to see if I could make out the source. My room is on the first floor, see. The voices were getting louder. I looked out. And what did I see?’ Aamir had clamped a palm on his mouth.
Considering it was a repeat performance, the boy was managing to render it with commendable passion and consistence.
‘Outside in the street was a van. A Maruti gypsy van. Atop it was mounted a loudspeaker that was blaring those sounds!’
‘And why would that be?’
‘How would I know, Sir? That is why I am here—to beg you to do enquiry into this strange happening. Why would pre-recorded cries and shouts be blared into our neighbourhood in the middle of the night? The van took three rounds of our locality, going up and down the street, making sure everybody was awake and hearing the cries!’
‘What did the sounds remind you of?’
Aamir went still. ‘It seemed like a TV news report on a riot...’
Like any policeman, R.P. Singh knew how to mask his emotions. But at that moment, a terrible fear had gripped him. Cars speeding through neighbourhoods, playing prerecorded sounds of riots and screams, had an ugly precedent. On the eve of the Babri Masjid demolition, most Muslims had fled the neighbourhood, scared out of their wits by such cars. In his mind’s eye Singh saw TV images of urban youths in jeans and yellow headbands, and wild-haired, half-naked sadhus atop the central dome of the mosque. Matter-of-factly, he asked, ‘You think they were trying to scare you?’
‘Not me alone, Sir—the entire mohalla. We are a Muslim locality, mostly.’
‘And why would they do that?’
Aamir’s response was to shrug again.
At that instant he reminded Singh of a forlorn child. He saw a different youth: the long hair was lank with grease, the sideburns distracted from a pimply-red skin, his broken English was an attempt to hoist himself on the social ladder, and his nervously flicking tongue a pointer to his inner turmoil. A young Muslim boy raised in the squalor of the Taj’s shadow, eking out a living in Taj Ganj like so many others.
‘Perhaps,’ Aamir’s Adam’s apple was bobbing furiously, ‘they want to drive us out of our homes.’
‘Is there anyone else who can corroborate your story? Any other witnesses?’
Aamir nodded.
‘Well, call them in.’
‘Sir, better if you could just step out to the porch again with me.’
R.P. Singh pushed his chair back and strode to the door. When he stepped onto the porch, the mist had cleared to show a group of forty to fifty people standing in the open courtyard, huddling in their shawls and jackets against the cold. In the midst of all the men with their hennaed beards and skull caps and the women with dupattas were a couple of white tourists. Pointing at them, R.P. Singh turned to Aamir.
‘They heard it too, Sir, and said they would give evidence.’
‘Hmm...’ Singh wagged his head. With a raised palm he acknowledged the greetings from the gathering. His tongue probing the corners of his mouth, he turned to scrutinise the cement floor.
Aamir’s narration had touched a raw nerve. In his mind he saw a shrieking mob dressed in camouflage-green uniforms, carrying assault rifles as they set fire to mudand-thatch dwellings and shot at villagers who escaped.
Mao and Marx were two chutiyas whose guerrilla followers had plagued his life for a decade. However, their victims were tribals and police—so who was this new joker in the pack?
R.P. Singh dispatched SSP Raghav with the youth to investigate Taj Ganj while he left for Delhi. This development was red-hot. Time to drop in on the home minister, with whom he was acquainted from his Chattisgarh days. He needed his muscle to clamp down on Kriplani, in case he was the Joker; fire forensics to deliver the DNA results; and approve additional security for the Taj Mahal.
Delhi
I
t was dusk. The ASI director-general’s office was quiet except for a faint clattering of a typewriter somewhere in the cavernous colonial building where Mehrunisa was awaiting Raj Bhushan. When she had called his mobile earlier he was on a field trip from which, he said, he would return late evening. She had been waiting for half an hour and would have preferred a stroll in the lawn, but a drizzle had started. She shivered. The room’s high ceiling and large windows were meant to keep the place cool in the searing heat of an Indian summer, rendering it wholly unsuitable even in a mild winter. The occasional shiver she felt had nothing to do with her agenda for the meeting, of course.
The peon walked in, a steaming teacup on a tray with Marie biscuits. ‘Bhushan sahib,’ he said conversationally, ‘was travelling a lot overseas. But when back in the office, he’d stay put. Lately, that has changed. He is visiting various circles.’
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�Is that so?’
‘And to way-out places! Surprise checks!’ he grinned. ‘Keeps them on their toes, he says.’
Hmm, Mehrunisa acknowledged.
‘Now, he is so charged up—hardly ever in the office.’
Something in the man’s words made Mehrunisa pay attention.
Car tyres squealed in the driveway and the peon turned to the window. ‘He’s here,’ he muttered and made to exit hastily.
A short while later Raj Bhushan was sitting opposite Mehrunisa. His hair, probably moist from the drizzle, was slicked back, and despite the day spent working, he looked fresh and ... Mehrunisa’s mind searched for the right adjective. Raj Bhushan was youthful-looking and had evidently freshened up in the washroom before joining her, but tonight he looked positively virile. Virile, yes!
Now he beamed at her, his smile making his mouth upturn wondrously like a monkey’s. An instant later, as he heard her out, it faded.
Sitting upright in the straight-backed chair, Mehrunisa had coolly enquired, ‘Why did you lie about your presence at the Taj the night of Arun’s murder?’ She had decided on a direct approach, betting that an accusation might ferret out the truth.
If a smile could turn menacing, Raj Bhushan’s just had. It still curved in that deep U, but the mirth had gone out of it. His eyes held her in a fixed stare.
A snort broke the silence. ‘In-your-face? Is that your preferred approach, Mehrunisa?’
‘It has its advantages, don’t you agree?’
‘Meaning what? That I will be startled into coming clean? Why would I, for what proof could you have?’ He leaned forward, his stare still pinning her to the spot.
‘Considering I left none behind.’
The rain had gained intensity; raindrops fell like lead balls on the windowsill, ricocheting in her ears. She wanted to move, make a gesture, a sound, anything that would release her from the trap of Raj Bhushan’s steady unblinking stare from behind his glasses. That stare was so intense ... and its intensity reminded her of someone else ... Arun! Yes, Arun had that same habit. Mehrunisa had seen him exercise it on his staff when he felt they were stalling on a request he had made: he would cock his head and subject his opponent to a mutinous protracted scrutiny. In a couple of intense debates, she had suffered that same treatment. Funny that Arun and his boss should have a similar mannerism. Before Mehrunisa could hold the thought any longer, Raj Bhushan interjected. His voice was soft, even.
Too even, Mehrunisa registered, for a man who had just been accused of a grave wrongdoing.
‘I am a careful man, Mehrunisa. I pride myself on being rational. Too often human beings are driven purely by their emotions—as you seem to be now. You have come into my office, accusing me—although indirectly—of murder. You have not offered any proof in support of your hypothesis, and you sit there, presumably unarmed, in the presence of a supposed murderer. Is that sensible on your part, Mehrunisa?’
He was angry, no, furious, and in that moment Mehrunisa did not know whether Raj Bhushan was genuinely outraged, or if he was a sassy cat toying with an absurd mouse.
‘Yes, I was present at the Taj the night Arun was murdered. But I did not see anything noteworthy,’ he shrugged, ‘anything that could have provided the police with leads. It was a routine meeting, we discussed a few details, and I left. Since I had nothing to reveal, I thought it prudent to avoid telling the police about the meeting. My first priority was to avoid any scandal around the Taj. You know the number of twenty-four-hour news channels in this country? A story like this would have given them fodder for weeks. It was bad timing; you know we’re seeking additional funds for the conservation of the Taj Mahal.’
Mehrunisa continued to regard him stonily.
The director-general gave a long sigh and held up his hands. ‘Look, you’ve heard the phrase: no free lunch. Well, Taj Mahal subverts that particular economic principle brilliantly. For a four-hundred-year-old monument, its structure is remarkably sound—it has survived earthquakes, lightning and floods. Yet, it suffers severely. Ten years ago, iron foundries, glass and leather industries, marble mining and the Mathura Refinery were the culprits, but now the Taj faces new threats. Vehicular population, chronic power shortage, and three national highways that crisscross the city, are adding to the pollution.
‘The sandstone gets less attention, yet it is in a more precarious condition because of its porosity. Not to mention the wearing out of the pavement on the garden walkways and terrace floors from two million annual visitors! And that number is only going to increase. Forty-five million people voted the Taj as a new Wonder of the World—surely some of them will be trudging up here soon!’
Raj Bhushan paused. He stood up, hands on hips and looked squarely at Mehrunisa.
‘The marble is rapidly being stained yellow, the Yamuna stinks to high hell, we are perennially short of funds for maintenance and conservation ... yet, who cares?’
His defence of the Taj Mahal, while spirited, had little to do with the murder of Arun Toor. Mehrunisa veered the discussion back. ‘Why not let the police decide whether your disclosure could offer any leads?’
Raj Bhushan opened his hands and held them out in front of him, ‘I ran the scene over and over in my mind, Mehrunisa. We met in Arun’s study. We were alone. Nobody interrupted us. I left within an hour.’
‘Why didn’t the staff see you? The security guards?’
‘It was a cold night, and wet. Much like tonight. Most of them were probably indoors, I guess, staying warm. And I usually use Sirhi Darwaza.’
The Taj Mahal complex could be entered through one of three gates leading into the Jilaukhana, the forecourt. The east and west gates were those commonly used by tourists. The south gate of Sirhi Darwaza—from Taj Ganj—was more difficult to reach.
‘Why would you use the south gate? You’ve to go through a crowded bazaar to access it.’
‘Routine—helps avoid the tourists.’
‘At night?’
Raj Bhushan blinked. ‘Habit, I said.’
‘Was any staff aware of your visit?’
‘I have a key to let myself in. Besides, my visit was not pre-planned. I happened to be in the vicinity, inspecting the new excavation at Fatehpur Sikri. I dropped in to discuss a few things with Arun.’
‘Was he expecting you?’
Raj Bhushan smirked, ‘You make a good interrogator, Mehrunisa—never losing track.’ He paused before answering. ‘I called him. From my mobile phone. I guess you will want to get the records checked?’
Mehrunisa stayed silent.
Gamely, Raj Bhushan continued, ‘But you haven’t told me how you figured out I was at the Taj Mahal that evening.’
Mehrunisa proceeded to divulge Arun’s remark to her regarding a visit from Aurangzeb, and her discovery of that particular moniker in relation to Raj Bhushan. However, she refrained from disclosing Professor Kaul’s warning.
Raj Bhushan looked amused, like he was laughing at some private joke. ‘That’s good deduction Mehrunisa, except it’s not proof.’
‘What is so amusing?’
‘You. You would make a fine Miss Marple but for your age. So, what is the verdict? Guilty or not?’
Mehrunisa knew her one strength was a quality regularly attributed to her, albeit deprecatorily: glacial. Now, summoning her best imperturbable façade, she said with a hint of a smile, ‘Inconclusive, shall we say, on grounds of insufficient evidence.’
‘How courteous, my dear,’ Raj Bhushan said with a tilt of his head. ‘And now, you’ll have to excuse me, I do have other matters to take care of, besides clearing my name.’
With a genial smile, he started to walk her towards the door. At the arched doorway, he said, ‘My regards to Professor Kaul. Does he remember me?’
Mehrunisa looked him straight in the eye.
‘He remembers Aurangzeb.’
Bateshwar
T
he head priest of the main temple at Bateshwar squinted his eyes at the pamphlet. I
t was late evening, the prayers were done and he was getting ready to close. The youth who had handed it to him was dressed in baggy pants, coarse sweater and an orange headscarf. In the glow of the brass lamps, the priest studied his face and knew he was not a local.
The youth started to speak in a curious monotone. His eyes, though, burned with fire as he narrated how his father was set aflame by the Muslims, how a guru showed him the way to Lord Shiva, how he was saved. The day of the great unveiling was on the horizon when the Truth would be revealed to all.
Read on, the youth jabbed at the paper.
The priest, befuddled, turned to the paper in his hand.
The Taj Mahal is a Shiva temple.
Why, he had heard that story before! He read the text slowly in the manner of one who doesn’t spend much time reading. He had studied till Class 2 and then begun assisting his father. His family had been priests at the temple for generations. It was the largest of the riverfront temples, by virtue of which it had been ordained as the main temple. Which was the way it had been for a long time.
Now, though, visitors came for the Chambal safari, took boat rides to view the 101 temples and stopped for darshan. He had slowly seen the temple he presided over grow in importance. The gathering of Shiv bhakts over Shivratri had swelled. The temple coffers were brimming like never before. If, indeed, the Taj Mahal was to be declared a Shiva temple, the path ahead was paved with increasing prosperity. If the Taj Mahal joined Bateshwar as a Shiva pilgrimage centre, and even a fraction of its traffic came to Bateshwar’s main temple....
He stopped reading midway. There was enough proof here for any doubter. Besides, whoever had crafted this document, was indeed very knowledgeable. A man stepped into the temple. He was dressed in a kurta-pyjama, sleeves rolled up to reveal bulging biceps, his hands clasping the orange muffler around his neck. His eyes bored into the priest as he sauntered forward out of the shadows. The priest gulped on recognising the Agra strongman who was also the go-to man for the local BHP leader.
The Taj Conspiracy Page 21