The Taj Conspiracy

by Someshwar, Manreet Sodhi

  Oh! What a blind bat she had been! The swirling picture resolved into a face—one that she was familiar with. And one of his remarks recurred to her, delivered in that cocky, half-mocking voice.

  The genius in the underprivileged world does not innovate; he transgresses.

  Immediately she called R.P. Singh.

  ‘An impersonation!’ Singh exclaimed. ‘Fits right fucking in.’

  ‘Yes! And I think he left those clues in the tomb chamber along with Raj Bhushan’s body.’

  ‘Toor? But why would he do that?’

  ‘I think he wanted us to assume there was a terrorist hand behind the murder—after all, the Taj Mahal has received several threats over the years—and hoped the clues would further deceive us. And they did, for a while. We thought the third eye on the forehead meant a calamity, that “chirag tale andhera” indicated a bomb, and the slit wrist that the Taj Mahal would be desecrated. That’s probably why he told me on the phone that an Aurangzeb was coming to visit him. He guessed we would think Aurangzeb was a jihadi. Also,’ her mouth twisted, ‘it was a private joke, an allusion to Raj Bhushan whom he was planning to kill and replace. He thought while we wasted time following up the terrorist angle, he would have time to pursue his plan to reclaim the Taj Mahal as a Shiva temple.’

  R.P. Singh shook his head, taking in what she was saying. ‘He must have panicked when you stumbled on the altered calligraphy—it threw his plan off track.’

  ‘Right! He played it down because it might have led us to discovering his actual plan.’ Mehrunisa gave a bitter laugh and continued, ‘The thing is, in his trademark warped way, those clues also revealed his actual plan. He was toying with us, testing whether we were clever enough to get his actual intent, and laughing while we scurried around trying to unravel the damned clues!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, take the third eye—it was an allusion to the Shiva temple. Slit wrist? The penalty for theft under Sharia law is severing of the hand. Since the Mughals appropriated Tejo Mahalaya as Taj Mahal, in the spirit of Sharia—an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand—it would be rightfully stolen back and reclaimed as a Shiva temple.’

  ‘And chirag tale andhera,’ Singh said, ‘is to do with a basement—as we’d deduced.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mehrunisa nodded, ‘and the changed calligraphy. The alteration indicated two things: one, Mumtaz’s tomb was counterfeit; two, something was concealed. I think it alludes to the sealed rooms in the riverside terrace. There’ve always been rumours that proof of the Taj being a Hindu temple lies there. I think he’s probably been smuggling in things that will make it look like an ancient temple.’

  ‘That’s why he killed Raj Bhushan, so he could have the run of the place.’

  ‘Yes. As supervisor, he oversaw the change in calligraphy, which was accomplished in a couple of hours. But to change the basement rooms he needed time, and the certainty that he wouldn’t be caught. Raj Bhushan was in the habit of dropping in unannounced, which was why he had to go.’

  ‘Tell me, why didn’t he mention the calligraphic change in the pamphlet?’

  Mehrunisa snorted. ‘That was very clever of him. All his points were allegations. Allegations that are scandalous and lend themselves to reinvention and rumour. Which is why the guides lapped them up—the allegations added to their existing store of myths and stories around the monument. But he had actually implemented the calligraphic change. If the police were to read about the change in the pamphlet, that would force his hand. The police would insist an ASI person verify the calligraphic change. It was in his best interest to let the change in calligraphy build through rumours.’

  ‘Until?’

  ‘Until what?’ Mehrunisa asked, perplexed.

  ‘Until now. Don’t you see ... now is the time he’ll reveal the changes; now is when he’s planning the takeover.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Beats me. But when I lay my hands on this supervisor Toor in director-general disguise, he’ll spit it out. One last question: why was he trying to source the Jaipur map?’

  ‘To destroy it. Evidence that the Taj Mahal was part of Shah Jahan’s grand riverfront scheme would conveniently vanish.’

  ‘He made a huge gamble that he would pull the deception off.’

  ‘He headed the drama club,’ Mehrunisa shrugged. ‘He probably studied Raj Bhushan’s mannerisms during their interactions, and then adopted those along with his dapper clothes and fashionable glasses. Despite their similar build and height, the two were as different as Burberry and khadi, and when the time came, Toor made the switch. I’m sure the lacerated right hand was just a convenient cover-up. Also, Bhushan was a bachelor— which helped. And after assuming his identity, Arun as ASI director-general spent time out of the city rather than in the head office. A perfect way to avoid interaction with Raj Bhushan’s staff who might have figured something was amiss. Also, he was probably looking at a narrow window of three to four weeks—as you said, he’s probably planning the takeover sometime now.’

  Mehrunisa shook her head slowly, as if still in disbelief. ‘Toor was the shape-shifting behrupiya all along!’

  Singh muttered, ‘Aurangzeb was the bloody red herring. Behrupiya-Bentinck-chutiya is the big fish to be caught. Bloody brilliant ... and brilliant deduction, Mehrunisa,’ R.P. Singh said cheerily, adding he would immediately order DNA analysis on the personal items he had plucked from the mysterious Bhushan’s house on the night of the intrusion.

  Delhi

  A

  t noon, Mehrunisa sought refuge in the kitchen. The realisation that Arun Toor, presumed dead but actually alive in disguise, was a cunning deviant; that Raj Bhushan, Kaul uncle’s good friend, was dead; and that the Taj Mahal was in imminent danger, caused a miasma to hang around her. Mehrunisa had turned to the one thing she relied upon to help focus her mind and lift her spirits: cooking.

  When she deliberated on ingredients, chopped, pounded, stirred, a part of her, floating on a cloud of colour and smell, took leave. The act of cooking in some miraculous way engaged the senses and freed the brain. Now, pounding the tomato-basil-garlic into sauce, Mehrunisa was hoping for the same miracle.

  Mangat Ram shuffled in and deposited a red hibiscus flower in the alcove above the kitchen counter. His palms folded, he bowed to the blue-grey statuette of Shiva seated on a tiger skin, a serpent coiled around his neck and a fountain emerging from his topknot. She had seen that idol for more than two decades since she had been acquainted with the housekeeper.

  As he turned to her, she smiled.

  ‘I’ll go to the market for some ingredients for the puja,’ he said. ‘Do you need anything?’

  Mangat Ram had a simple prayer routine. ‘What ritual is this?’ she said, curious.

  ‘Shivratri is tomorrow. I’ll get some bael leaves and incense sticks.’ He turned to the wall-mounted water purifier and flicked the switch on. A low humming started as the machine readied.

  ‘The puja is simple. You bathe the Shivlingam with milk, string up some bael leaves in the alcove and light incense. And keep a fast.’

  At that Mehrunisa raised her brows: at the best of times Mangat Ram was no hearty eater.

  With a wry smile, he said, ‘It is good, occasionally, to free the stomach from its dependence on food.’

  ‘And the story?’ Mehrunisa grinned. Over her years with the professor and his housekeeper, she had figured that in India nothing was done that didn’t have a story behind it.

  ‘There are many stories, you take your pick. I like the one that says that after creation was complete, Parvati asked Shiva which ritual pleased him the most. Shiva said the thirteenth night of the new moon was his favourite. Parvati repeated it to her friends, the word spread, and the day came to be known as Shivratri. So tomorrow you can watch me do the small puja.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Mehrunisa acknowledged with a nod.

  He peered at the Hindu lunar calendar hung beside the water purifier and confirmed, ‘Yes, Friday is Sh
ivratri.’

  There was certainly a wide range of Shivbhakts about— overzealous ones like Arun Toor, habitual ones like Mangat Ram —

  Friday is Shivratri!

  Friday was the day the Taj Mahal was closed to visitors. The day when the mosque within was open and Muslims gathered for prayers. Friday was also Shivratri.

  What better time to reverse the ‘historic wrong’ than Shivratri Friday when the Shiva temple, supposedly defiled by a Muslim mosque, could be returned to its patron Lord? A mosque with its Muslim patrons surrounded by a sea of Shiva devotees....

  Could this Friday be the night when Arun Toor would mount the assault to reclaim the Taj Mahal?

  Mehrunisa flew to call R.P. Singh.

  Singh said he was in Delhi to arrest Raj Bhushan— DNA tests had confirmed her hypothesis: Arun Toor was alive and masquerading as Raj Bhushan. He was the behrupiya! Singh had an arrest warrant for him but the man had vanished.

  Quietly, Mehrunisa divulged her theory that the monument would be usurped the coming day.

  That took the wind out of Singh who broke into a string of expletives—his focus on January 26 as the date of the attack had him completely overlook the significance of Shivratri for the Shiv-bhakt Toor.

  As he discussed the possibility with her, she heard him barking orders to SSP Raghav on another phone before he hightailed it to Agra.

  Agra

  L

  ate afternoon admission to the Taj Mahal was abruptly halted. There was no prior notice, no explanation forthcoming from the stony security, and irate visitors who had been waiting in a snaking queue, were hurriedly hustled outside. Speculation filled the air and filtered to Taj Ganj and beyond.

  Was it a VIP visit?

  No-no, a bomb scare!

  No! A miracle was expected—Shiva’s trident would shake...

  The police intercepted a call in which a person enquired if the suicide bomber was inside the Taj or not. A battalion of policemen began combing the Taj complex with metal detectors, sniffer dogs, batons and bare hands as they hunted for bombs and mischief-makers. On the commissioner’s orders, two new units were hot-footed to beef up security in the Yellow zone. The security perimeter was extended with barbed wire and sandbags. All vehicles proceeding to the Taj were stopped and diverted. All police stations in Agra were mobilised for combing operations in different parts of the city. Vigil at bus stands and train stations was mounted. Bomb disposal squads had dispersed through the city’s high-density areas and were attempting to do their work unobtrusively.

  But, expectedly, one particular rumour had gathered urgency and Agra residents—in offices, bazaars, restaurants—were whispering about trouble anticipated at the Taj since a Shiva miracle had been predicted.

  Within the Red zone, CISF had an additional posse of men to secure the monument. Snipers in the eight watchtowers, recently erected around the periphery of the complex, were on alert.

  An irate monkey, upset by SSP Raghav’s frisking, lunged at him. Vanar sena, he shook his head. Mehrunisa had called earlier with an idea—it struck him as totally bizarre but under the circumstances any help was welcome. He’d agreed to Mehrunisa’s request and dispatched a man to Sikandrabad that boasted a large number of a particular genus of monkeys.

  Now he mulled over the situation, having encountered nothing out of the ordinary—which was ominous.

  R.P. Singh, heading back to Agra, was in constant communication with Raghav and, apprised of the situation, he was similarly nervous at the apparent calm.

  Prepare to seal the city for tomorrow, he ordered.

  Pakistan-occupied Kashmir

  T

  here was only one thing Jalaluddin prized above Kashmir—Islam.

  Which was why he had struggled with himself the past few days after the news reached him. From his snowy hideout, he insisted on reading a few national dailies and his courier had to trudge on foot through the final miles— in winter that required considerable mountaineering skills for delivery, inevitably with a time lag.

  Jalaluddin flung the paper aside. He had spent an inordinate amount of time on a news article. The new information necessitated the abrupt cessation of his bold plan. But, as he reasoned with himself now, the claim by the Waqf Board on the Taj Mahal made the change of plans imperative. After all, the concept of Waqf had been developed by the Holy Prophet.

  His brows stayed dipped in concentration as he thought through his new course of action. Glancing at his young mujahid assistant he said, ‘Inform our nephews that khala is on the deathbed no more.’

  The mujahid gaped at this completely unexpected order from the commander. Jalaluddin shot him a withering glance. He knew what his trusted lieutenant was afraid to voice: General Ayub would be furious at the operation being called off. Khala, aunt, is on the deathbed—that was the coded message to stay on track. Recovery in the aunt’s health was a coded message to abort the operation the general had sanctioned and backed with a large cache of arms and ammunition. The notion that the plan, once committed, could be rescinded, was out of question. Nobody crossed paths with the general. In the snowy Himalayan region, the enormity of his boss’s action made the mujahid perspire.

  Now Jalaluddin repeated slowly, ‘Khala is on the deathbed no more. Understood? Neither the IJ, nor Kashmir, is beholden to General Ayub. He has sold his soul; we haven’t. If the Sunni Board has declared a claim on the monument, we will respect that claim.’ He paused, the prayer-bead eyes rolling in furious thought.

  ‘As should every Muslim! Perhaps, we can get the general interested in some other Indian monument? And this time,’ the brows dipped over the bridge of his nose, ‘one that distinctly belongs to the infidels?’

  Agra

  P

  ast midnight, R.P. Singh stood in the Jilaukhana as SSP Raghav updated him. The dense fog had blurred the contours of everything. The diffused streetlights hovered over floating trees, the ground below vanished beyond a few metres and, at a distance, it was difficult to make out friend from foe. The biting cold had driven them indoors, leaving behind an eerie silence.

  Everything looked in order, Raghav assured him, but that only worried Singh more.

  ‘Do another recce of the four gates,’ he instructed him while he proceeded inside.

  CISF patrolled the lawns, the watchtowers were manned with fresh snipers, shivering bodies marched the periphery of the Taj complex, their breath mingling with the enveloping fog. Except for the click of heavy boots, the monument lay in repose, wrapped in vapours that stirred in the breeze.

  Nodding to the guard on duty, Singh let himself into the mausoleum and stood still, his ears straining for a sound. Mehrunisa had explained how the dome was constructed to amplify sound especially after it had lain quiet for several hours. Nothing. He went into the basement and checked the rooms in the riverfront façade, the very rooms where Jara had spent time doing housekeeping chores. Clearly, the monkey-cap had done a good job for Singh discovered nothing. He was speaking with the constable on duty when his phone rang.

  Raghav’s hoarse voice crackled into the quiet room. ‘Boss!’ he said in agitation, ‘the cop manning the CCTV cameras is dead.’

  R.P. Singh remembered that feeling of a warm muzzle on his forehead.

  One night he had awoken in a government guesthouse in Bastar looking up into the twin barrels of a gun in the hands of a dreaded Maoist. In that split second before his mind took control, Singh prayed for the gun to be fired. Anything was better than being tortured by Maoists. What he was feeling now was distinctly worse.

  ‘And only one camera was operational,’ Raghav’s voice crackled again with urgency. ‘Shit! There is no time to repair the cameras...’

  Singh jolted out of his stasis.

  ‘Forget the cameras,’ he barked. ‘Whatever had to be brought in is already here. Start a thorough search of the complex. And post men on the riverside—any entry or exit from the Yamuna and you throttle the chutiya!’

  Agra

 
T

  he red sandstone terrace, atop which sits the marble platform of the mausoleum, has at its four corners four octagonal towers of three storeys. The towers are not open to visitors, yet they have a functional inner life. Two north towers facing the river have stairs that lead down to exits in the river façade of the sandstone terrace. Of the two south towers facing the gardens, the one south of the mosque houses an elaborate well construction, a baoli; the one south of the Mihman Khana contains chambers leading to toilets at a lower level.

  It was two in the morning: while R.P. Singh roamed the Taj complex like a gladiator and Raghav reconnoitred the premises again, two people were not losing any sleep. Jara, in a thick brown overcoat and his monkey cap, was curled up on a sleeping bag in the circular room that ran deep into the ground in the tower to the south of the mosque. This tower had the same shape as the other towers, but it housed a baoli, a step well below the octagonal chamber of the upper floor, where an open well shaft cut through all floors, descending to three additional levels below ground.

  Between the mosque and the tower to its south is a small windowless room from within which a stairway leads down to the floors below ground and to a landing above water level—it was in this circular underground room that, unbeknownst to the police, Jara and his accomplice rested. The door that led to the stairway was permanently boarded, senior staff had informed police when they began their reconnaisance. SSP Raghav, during his initial recce of the complex in the run-up to Republic Day, had insisted it be unlocked. He had trod down a musty stairway to a cobwebbed windowless cave and coughed his way back. The door was re-bolted, thereafter. It never occurred to Raghav that this room, apparently in disuse and permanently secured, could provide refuge to the man he was seeking.

  But Jara knew the innards of the Taj Mahal better than a mother could read her child’s face. For several months he had prowled the subterranean walkways of the complex. While police searched the basement rooms, he had hidden in another section of the underground labyrinth.