Abruptly, a voice crackled through the air, carried over a powerful loudspeaker. A hush descended on the crowd as all eyes searched for its source.
Brothers and sisters! Welcome to Tejo Linga, the thirteenth Linga of our Lord Shiva! Forget the nonsense you have been told so far. This beautiful marble monument, famous around the world as India’s pride and glory, was not built by any Mughal emperor. No! That is blasphemy! This is the ancient temple of Bholenath, our innocent Lord Shiva. For too long it has been sullied. But the time has come to correct the grievous damage. It is time to reclaim what rightfully belongs to us! And in this the Lord himself has come to guide us. Behold, as in fury, he has set his trident shaking. You all know what that means. Our Lord is in Rudra form, he wants his bhakts to witness his trident trembling. So, come forth! You will find the entrance door miraculously open— come in and witness with your own eyes Mahadev’s trident shaking in fury!
Jai Mahadev! Har Har Mahadev! Jai Bholenath!
The next instant a stampede began. The mob, believing the door would open, headed toward it, forcing their way through. The multiple files of policemen attempted to hold their ground but were brushed aside like soldiers in front of marauding elephants of war. Bamboo staves flew through the air. Plexiglas shields were crushed underfoot. Cameramen crashed to the ground with their equipment.
Raghav flattened himself against the red sandstone wall. The next instant everything blurred as frantic, frenetic human motion obscured his line of vision. The watchtower snipers, the additional police, the chopper, all were useless against the rolling glob of unarmed fanatics.
The offensive on the Taj Mahal commenced from the south side and a simultaneous exodus began from the river-facing north side. The Muslims who had forged their way through a burgeoning sea of Hindu devotees in order to offer namaaz heard the loud chants, sensed the swelling numbers in the Jilaukhana complex, and understood that exit from the south side would be akin to inviting slaughter. An emissary was therefore despatched to Dassehra Ghat to hire a boat. However, Friday being a lean day, no boat was moored on that bank of the Yamuna. So the emissary swam across the river, returning with a couple of dinghys in which the Muslims departed just as the stampede started. The ones who couldn’t clamber aboard leapt into the water and started to swim, a few managing to stay afloat by hanging on to the helping hands thrust from the boat.
However, unknown to them, some ‘Muslims’ had elected to stay behind. Earlier, during prayers in the mosque, Jara, dressed for a change in Muslim garb, his face shrouded in a checked keffiyeh, had climbed out of his subterranean burrow, mingled with the crowd with his accomplices who were also masquerading as Muslim worshippers, and slipped to the boarded-up rooms in the riverfront terrace.
Inspector Bharadwaj of the CISF ensured that they weren’t noticed by the security. He had taken care to put a particularly vigilant CISF officer out of action. Inspector Javed, overcome by chloroform, was slumped inside a locked police van parked in one corner of the complex.
Once inside, they retrieved the Shiva artefacts Jara had spent days storing in a location within the riverfront terrace rooms—in the ceiling of the last room a secret trapdoor opened into an overhead chamber. It was so well concealed as to escape the attention of anyone who did not have prior knowledge of its position. Not a word was spoken as, briskly, each man set to his task arranging the antiques intended for discovery by the Shiv bhakts who were storming in.
Like a tsunami the crowd rolled in, thundering through the gardens and the paved walkways. Squeezing through the narrow entrance, it burst with renewed vigour and diffused rapidly down the complex.
As the first wave approached the mausoleum, the loudspeaker came alive again, urging them to halt before the marble mausoleum. The devotees were to assemble in the gardens to witness another miracle. Once they had beheld the full glory of Mahadeva, the Shiv bhakts could enter and rightfully reclaim the temple. Meanwhile, the voice exhorted, look up, and witness the miraculous shaking trident!
Even as the loudspeaker was issuing its dictum, a cordon of Naga sadhus and young men with saffron headbands formed around the mausoleum. As they stood aggressively guarding the access routes, one of the CISF policemen brandished his rifle at them. The next instant a Naga sadhu leapt up, grappled with him and they rolled to the ground. Another Naga sadhu grabbed the rifle and examined it with glee. Meanwhile, a cop made to assist his colleague when the rifle rang out loudly.
The people in the crowd nearest to the mausoleum cowered and dived to the ground even as the Naga sadhus celebrated. The cordon shouted slogans, waved trishuls and exhorted the assembly to hunker down as the sadhu jigged and brandished the trophy rifle. Inspector Bharadwaj of the CISF shouted to his men to back off, their actions were exciting the crowd and people could get seriously injured.
SSP Raghav, unaware of the action ahead and surrounded by the eagerly muscling bodies in the crowd, allowed himself to be carried forward into the Taj complex. He narrowed his eyes and examined the trident. The pinnacle, viewed from that distance, was no more than a speck atop the dome. One could always claim it was shaking—there was no way to verify it. Nevertheless, people craned their necks, and rewarded their effort by agreeing wholeheartedly that the trident was indeed trembling.
Delhi
F
or once, reality had exceeded his wildest expectation. Shri Kriplani was glued to the television set, the glass of urine forgotten on the sideboard. The Lord fulfilled himself in many ways and here He was manifest in his devout bhakts. The omens were right—he was on track to seize the reins of the nation.
TV channels across the country were attempting to outdo one another in the coverage of the sensationalist development at the Taj Mahal. As they broadcast the continuing action at the monument live, they held panel discussions with eminent intellectuals, bureaucrats, statesmen, and artists in their studios, and laid siege to the headquarters of political parties in order to procure the views of leading politicians.
As the morning wore on, an army of media personnel took position outside. Not wanting to project any sign of excessive keenness, Shri Kriplani pretended to go about his daily business as usual. He was stepping out for a routine meeting when he was waylaid by the vociferous media. Yes, he would answer their questions, briefly.
Shri Kriplani of the BHP spoke directly into the cameras, his eyes bright, his smile sanguine, his black bandhgala jacket crisp against the starched white of his kurta.
No, Shri Kriplani shook his head mournfully, he did not approve of what was happening at the Taj Mahal— but then, it was the will of the people. The ordinary god-fearing citizens of India believed that the trident of Shiva rested atop the monument and was shaking. Surely, such faith could not be trivialised.
But, Sir, it might lead to bloodshed, a reporter quizzed.
Shri Kriplani held up both palms, his smile unfaltering. That is the task of police and security. We leave it to them. Jai Bholenath! Jai Shiv Shankar! He held up his hands in an elaborate namaskar and retreated into his waiting car.
Agra
B
ack at the Taj Mahal, R.P. Singh with several cops had gained entry into the mausoleum before the crowds began their surge into the charbagh. Near the base of the eastern riverfront minaret, at the head of the stairs that led down to the riverfront terrace, his ears pricked up. He came to a halt, motioning the men to be quiet. A snatch of muffled sounds had floated up to him.
The iron railing that closed the upper opening of the stairway was in place, but unlocked!
He held his gun in front of him and crept down the stairs, sliding against the marble wall as he went. It got darker as he descended and he took it slow, letting his eyes adjust. Behind him the men followed with similar stealth.
The gallery consisted of a series of rooms arranged in line along the riverfront. Mehrunisa had guided him through the plan first, after which he had checked the gallery himself a couple of times. The musty air was heavy with chill. A policeman
coughed and quickly clamped a hand on his mouth.
The first room was ahead. Singh motioned for a torch to be switched on. He paused, beckoned two men to cover him, and then spun into the room. It was bare.
A smell of incense floated up the narrow corridor. Their noses twitched. The faint tinkle of a bell sounded, finishing even before it had begun. And a dull glow appeared up ahead.
Blood pounded in his ears as Singh sped softly down the corridor. He burst into the third room, surprising its engrossed occupants. In the dim light of a square room inside the Tahkhana of the Taj Mahal, a Shiva temple was in the process of being built.
A black stone lingam, garlanded with marigold, stood in the middle of a rangoli pattern. Two brass lamps were aglow in front of it. A bare-chested priest squatted beside it chanting softly, a tiny bell in his right hand. Two men were frozen in the act of positioning a marble Nandi bull against the east wall of the room. Clearly, the miscreants were not only intent on establishing that the Taj Mahal was a Shiva temple once, they were determined to set up a functioning temple right away! What better way to reclaim a temple than by initiating ritual puja.
For a couple of breaths, the entire room was in limbo as the two parties goggled at each other. R.P. Singh was the first off the mark as he pointed his gun at them and yelled, ‘Don’t move!’
Instead, two scruffy youths pounced upon him. The cops swung to apprehend the men, the priest started wailing and a thug kicked a constable in the shin and landed him on the floor. A fierce fight ensued.
The men were either fearless or high or both, and while lacking any martial moves they spun furiously, flailed their arms and attacked the cops with fisticuffs, kicks and blows. Brass puja vessels clanged in the room as they were struck amidst thumps and smacks. Finally, the ruffians were restrained and marched off. Singh, bleeding from a cut on his chin, instructed his men to hustle the captives to the riverside where they wouldn’t be visible to the assembly in front of the monument.
Meanwhile, he ordered another unit to quickly remove all signs of a temple and restore the room to its original state. Singh had no knowledge of antiques, but he could have sworn the provenance of the lingam and Nandi was ancient. Arun Toor had ensured that the faking of the Shiva temple was, to all appearances, genuine.
Taking a few men with him he continued his search for the loudspeaker and the man inciting the mobs.
It was nearly 4 p.m., and the feeble January daylight was dying. Dusk had descended abruptly, as it did in the north during winter. The cordon of Naga sadhus and manic young ruffians had held firm.
In the intervening hours, the heaving crowd had forced its way into every inch of available space in the complex. The enterprising folk who first entered the gardens had a ringside view of the mausoleum while the multitude had decided to bide its time. A few had curled up for a quick snooze, others were partaking of snacks and flinging bits to curious monkeys who descended frequently for a hasty grab.
Meanwhile, the ornamental pool—set into a white marble platform where the central walkway intersected the east-west walkway—had become one long pond for washing hands. The elegant cypresses lining the path became makeshift, open-air toilets for full bladders.
Somewhere in the charbagh, closer to the Mihman Khana, Mehrunisa slumped against the enormous trunk of a red silk cotton tree, attempting to straighten out her thoughts.
When the Muslim worshippers decamped from Dassehra Ghat, Mehrunisa, Pamposh, the gnome with his dozen langurs, all under the supervision of the cop assigned by SSP Raghav, had used the same boat to return. They had alighted on the eastern side and, crouching, made their way up to the monument where the cop and his team were allowed entry by the tense police.
Mehrunisa spotted several plainclothes policemen mingling in the crowd, quietly cornering the visible ringleaders and silently plucking them out of the crowd. The saffron youths, visibly intoxicated, were being similarly siphoned away. But it seemed too little, too late. Beside her, Pamposh watched the melee and studied her wristwatch anxiously.
Abruptly the loudspeaker crackled again.
Brothers and sisters, the time has come to witness the miracle you have been waiting for. Our Lord Shiva will reveal himself through his most potent form: the Shivlingam. Arise and behold the spectacle for yourself. So, when our future history is written, you can proudly tell your grandchildren that you were a part of it. Arise! Bring your hands together in prayer. And from your throats, pour forth praise to Lord Shiva! Har Har Mahadev! Jai Bholenath!
The next instant, the marble plinth on which the marble mausoleum stood was bathed in niveous light. From the ill-lit lawns it appeared to glow like a pearl, and the throng, as if with one pair of eyes, was fixated on it. A cylindrical structure swam up from the plinth. Its black stone radiated against the milky-white marble. A gasp rose from the audience. The shivlingam looked majestic as it rose upward, so smooth and noiseless in its ascent that it seemed like an apparition. A clamour broke through the audience as a delirium of sounds filled the air.
The crowd had started to swoon, literally and otherwise, as the effect of the intoxicating bhang and the miracle of a Shivlingam emerging from nowhere sunk in.
The loudspeaker came on again, announcing that since the devotees had witnessed the sign of Shiva, they were to ascend the plinth, perform their own abhiskekha, and bathe the lingam.
At the announcement, people scrambled to fetch water from the central channel for the ritual washing. Trampling over each other, they jostled towards the eerily glowing black stone.
The riverfront terrace yielded nothing more. R.P. Singh made his way back up the north tower and hurried across to the mausoleum with his men. He could hear the melee and knew that any minute the mob would be tearing inside the tomb chamber. He sent a few cops to man the chamber from outside.
Where was the damn loudspeaker? The transmitter, receiver, wires, audio source, something to give it away...
Around the octagonal chamber he went, flashing his light into corners that were bare as always. He searched in the niches, examined the filigreed screen, poked around the cenotaphs, scrutinised the patterned floor, but found nothing suspicious. He looked up at the cavernous roof faintly lit by the perennial flame of Curzon’s lamp. Its shimmering bronze, inlaid with gold and silver, caught his attention. Flask-shaped, it was a natural storage area and likely to be overlooked. Additionally, it was positioned right above the cenotaphs.
With a silent apology for defiling its sanctity, Singh clambered atop Mumtaz’s cenotaph, torch in mouth. Standing on tiptoe, he tilted the lamp to check if the transmitter had been placed there.
A shadow filled the doorway. Singh looked up. In the light of the torch he saw a masked man with a gleaming knife in his hand. Singh squinted, trying to read the face as he shone the light on him. The masked man swung his head to avoid the glare, and his kaffiyeh slipped to reveal a featureless face.
The psycho monkey-cap chutiya!
Singh ducked, removed the torch from his mouth and switched it off. The man lunged towards him just then, jabbing the air in front of his nose in the darkness. Singh caught his knife-wielding wrist and thrust his boot into the man’s groin. With an Aagh! Jara dropped the knife and doubled over.
As Singh caught his breath a shot rang out. Monkey-cap had a pistol aimed at him. Singh scrambled, lost his balance and toppled. As the man made to pull the trigger again, a dark form flew at him, thrusting an elbow into the assailant’s neck.
Jara gave a muffled yelp.
The man who had jumped into the fray swore and toppled sideways clutching his chest. Blood oozed thickly onto the marble floor. SSP Raghav had been shot.
Pakistan-occupied Kashmir
I
n his snowy hideout Jalaluddin listened intently to the radio his mujahid assistant had excitedly handed to him.
An anxious voice announced that a mob of Shiv bhakts had laid hostage to the Taj Mahal with the claim that the trident atop the mausoleum dome was shaking. T
hey claimed that the trembling of Shiva’s trishul was a sign that the monument was a Shiva temple waiting to be reclaimed. The grave male voice said the police estimated the number of people crowded into the Taj Mahal complex to be in the thousands. However, they affirmed the situation was under control.
Jalaluddin looked up with a smile of pure delight spreading on his rough face: bared teeth, crinkled eyes, whiskers twitching in humour. He laughed a deep-chested theatrical laugh as he handed the radio back to the young mujahid. ‘Time for some fresh tea and toffee to celebrate! They don’t need us,’ Jalaluddin sneered, as the men gathered in the cave smirked joyously. ‘The kafirs are their own worst enemies, they’ll destroy themselves!’
Agra
L
ed by young men with shiny faces and manic eyes, eager people swarmed up the plinth of the mausoleum as they headed to the riverfront rooms where the promised proof of Shiva lay. However, the mob found nothing in the barren rooms and retreated sullenly.
They prowled through the tomb chamber, descended to the lower chamber— where the only items of note were the twin tombs—and the riverfront rooms, then ran across the sandstone platform in search of some visible signs of Shiva.
Single-minded in their pursuit, they did not notice a bleeding Raghav coiled up on the marble floor.
Meanwhile, R.P. Singh gave chase to Jara. As he reached the door the shuffling man disappeared into the crowd. However, to Singh’s stupefaction, the crowd was in retreat.
The Taj Conspiracy Page 27