The Taj Conspiracy (16 page)

Night-time in the Taj complex saw increased security: both the CISF within and the police force outside had been strengthened. SSP Raghav was liaising with the police teams that secured the Taj Mahal on a regular basis even as a CBI team was expected to arrive any moment.

He had no jurisdiction over the CISF, which was responsible for the security of the monument within the complex, but Inspector Bharadwaj of that force was onboard and cooperating with him. The inspector had been informed that there was a fresh threat to the Taj Mahal and the complex therefore was put on high alert.

On the sandstone platform, a newly-posted CISF constable patrolled the north side watching the inky Yamuna as he walked. The area beyond was a black swathe and the thin mist did not help matters.

‘Why’re you wasting time here?’ a harsh voice stopped him in his tracks.

The young constable recognised Inspector Bharadwaj of the CISF who was striding down towards him. He looked angry.

‘Do you see anybody enter the Taj Mahal from the riverside?’ he asked. ‘Those were the days of the emperor when he floated up in his fancy boats. Where is the emperor now, hanh?’ He let out a low, sneering laugh.

The constable, visibly nervous, wagged his head.

Bharadwaj patted the policeman on his back. ‘Happens, you’re new on the job. Go,’ he nodded towards the gardens in front, ‘patrol the east wall.’

Delhi

S
SP Raghav was at the residence of Professor Kaul to discuss the pamphlet with Mehrunisa. The ‘proof’ offered that the Taj was a Shiva temple had confounded him—if it could fool him, what would happen if it fell into the hands of the public? He needed Mehrunisa to tell him truth from lies.

She, in turn, was surprised at his sudden appearance. His contrition seemed genuine however, and when he handed her the pamphlet it plain knocked her out. She led her unexpected guest to the living room where they sat now.

As she frowned at the leaflet, Mehrunisa nibbled at a cheese wedge. The low table to her right was aglow with a low-wattage bulb concealed beneath the inlaid marble top; lapis lazuli, agate, jasper, malachite shimmered in intricate arabesque on a marmoreal sea.
Vatican Masterpieces
, which Mehrunisa had been browsing when she was interrupted, rested atop it. Perusing the leaflet, she reached for the wine beside the book. SSP Raghav, sitting upright in an armchair, glowered at the bulbous wine glass.

She had graciously invited him in and offered—
wine
! Raghav was no prude, but the idea of a woman so boldly offering him a drink offended his sense of decorum. He had grown up in a culture where men drank—always to inebriated stupor—while women prepared the savoury accompaniments and afterwards assisted the tottering men to their beds. Anyway, wine was too new-fangled for him.

‘It is rich and fruity,’ Mehrunisa had recommended the Montepulciano red she was drinking with a smile. That was another strange thing—the alcohol he knew was bitter and brisk. So instead he had accepted the offer of tea, which Mangat Ram had appropriately infused with ginger.

Having finished consuming his cup of masala chai, SSP Raghav rose, hooked his thumbs in the loops of his belt, and enquired, ‘Well, what do you make of it?’

‘Clever,’ Mehrunisa said, a note of pique in her voice.

‘Yes, as a layman, I almost believed it.’

‘It is the argument of a sophist: plausible but fallacious.
Aria fritta
.’

‘What?’

‘A lot of hot air, really.’

SSP Raghav started pacing the carpeted floor. His manner was of a medium-weight wrestler anticipating the arrival of his competitor, a heavyweight champion. ‘Look!’ he paused, his right hand cradling the holster on his hip. ‘I don’t think you understand. The people of Agra town, the daily wage-earner, the businessman, the grocery store owner, the housewife, they don’t understand logic and sophisticated arguments in the manner of intellectuals! If we have to prove this pamphlet false, we need to provide concrete proof in layman’s language. You understand?’

Mehrunisa regarded the policeman from her armchair. He was trying not to sound his usual overbearing self, and she detected a note of concern.

‘SSP Raghav, have you heard the story of Michelangelo and a man called Biagio da Cesena?’

The policeman stared at Mehrunisa, his eyes goggling. His expression clearly indicated what he thought of stories, especially those with strange-sounding firangi names! With some effort he kept his composure. ‘Stories are for children and, perhaps, scholars. For a policeman, there are cases to be solved. I came here thinking that you might be able to shed light on the unusual claim made by this leaflet. Perhaps I am wasting my time.’

With an extended arm, Mehrunisa indicated the chair. ‘Please do sit, SSP Raghav and make time to hear a short story. Trust me,’ she flashed a quick smile, ‘you will find it enlightening.’

Raghav hesitated before sitting on the chair’s edge.

Mehrunisa flipped the pages of
Vatican Masterpieces
, tabbed a page, and handed the book to the policeman.

He glanced at the picture.
The Last Judgement
, it said, by Michelangelo. A lot of nude men, and some barely-clothed women, hovering in a blue sky.

As if she was in the Vatican leading a tour group, Mehrunisa began. ‘Biagio Martinelli da Cesena was the Pope’s master of ceremonials. When Michelangelo was painting the Sistine Chapel wall, Biagio criticised the nudes as immoral. Michelangelo, however, was magnifying the Creator’s work by illustrating his finest creation, Man, in his pristine form. Besides, the Last Judgement also means the Resurrection of the dead, and surely, they would not arise from their tombs in clothes! Biagio, however, persisted with his criticism. The fresco was nearing completion when Michelangelo was painting Minos, a mythical king, at the entrance to Hell. Tired of Biagio’s carping, he gave his profile to Minos, adding two ass’s ears!

‘Now, this Minos had a serpent for a tail. If you examine the painting’s bottom right-hand corner,’ Mehrunisa urged the policeman, ‘you’ll see how Michelangelo got even!’

SSP Raghav peered at the picture and located a figure with a serpent twined around it. On further scrutiny, he inhaled sharply. The serpent’s head was biting the poor man’s private parts! He was taken aback. Obviously, this Mehrunisa was a rather forward woman, urging him to look at pictures such as this. Squaring his shoulder, he asked gruffly, ‘The purpose of this story?’

‘
The Last Judgement
was painted five hundred years ago. Each year, millions of Vatican visitors gaze at the Sistine Chapel. Both the painter and his critic are long dead, but Biagio da Cesena has remained forever the guardian of Hell, with ass’s ears and a snake-bitten member. So, the moral of the story is?’

SSP Raghav continued to regard her mutinously.

‘Don’t mess with an artist!’ Mehrunisa couldn’t help laughing, despite the pompous miffed look on the policeman’s face, or because of it.

‘Biagio’s criticism created problems for Michelangelo. So what did the painter do? He inverted his perspective, and created in turn, a problem for Biagio—one that not only made him a laughing stock of sixteenth-century Rome, but turned him into an enduring gag on the Vatican gig!’

With a straight face SSP Raghav enquired, ‘And how does this help us?’

Mehrunisa uncrossed her legs and in one elegant move, stood up. In her long black cashmere sweater, black leggings—ringed at the bottom with multicoloured leg warmers, flowing black hair framing a marmoreal complexion, she looked as fetching as a sculpted Venus, and as resolute as stone. She rolled the pamphlet and tapped it against her open left palm. ‘That the Taj Mahal is a Shiva temple is Bentinck’s personal grievance. This pamphlet makes it public.’

Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she looked straight at the policeman. ‘We need to make the problem
his
alone.’

‘How?’ SSP Raghav was leaning forward from the chair in which he sat grumpily. ‘And who is this Bentinck?’

Mehrunisa narrated the story of Bentinck, the greedy governor-general of British India who had tried to sell the Taj Mahal for its marble, and how her godfather had suggested they call the person behind the conspiracy Bentinck.

‘The Taj Mahal sure has its detractors,’ SSP Raghav said and divulged the ASI director-general’s response to the pamphlet.

Mehrunisa paced the carpeted room, the scroll in her hand. ‘Bentinck is trying to shift the burden of responsibility. He believes, for some reason, that the Taj Mahal is a Shiva temple which has to be reclaimed. However, that problem is solely his since the public is unaware and unconcerned about the,’ she wagged quotation marks in the air, ‘
Hindu
origin of the Taj Mahal.’

She reached the table, paused to sip wine before turning to her guest, the wine glass dangling from her hand.

‘SSP Raghav, when you have a problem, a problem relevant only to you, what is the response of others around you?’

‘They don’t care.’

‘Why?’

‘It doesn’t affect them.’

‘Exactly! People are never interested in the problems of others. The only way to hook them is by demonstrating how the problem affects them—upon which it becomes theirs.’

SSP Raghav nodded. ‘And by claiming that the Taj Mahal is actually a Shiva temple, this Bentinck fellow is trying to arouse the religious sentiment of the Hindus. In effect, making it a problem of the masses.’

He cracked his knuckles. ‘So what is your plan to tackle him?’

‘By using the same logic. Bentinck’s appeal is to the
Hindu
in Agra residents. Perhaps, there are other elements in their nature that can be appealed to? What is Agra best known for? What puts Agra on the world map? What is the source of livelihood for a large number of Agra residents? One answer: the Taj Mahal.’

SSP Raghav cleared his throat before adding, ‘And recently, it has been declared one of the seven wonders of the new world.’

‘Why would Agra residents jeopardise their potential prosperity for a crazy right-wing allegation? Especially,’ Mehrunisa chewed the last morsel of cheese, ‘when it is brought to their notice that the builder of the Taj Mahal, the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan was three-quarter Hindu?’

‘
What
?’

‘He was born to the Rajput princess Jagat Gossain. His father, Jahangir, was himself born to a Rajput princess, Akbar’s wife. And Akbar allowed his wife to remain a Hindu and to maintain a Hindu shrine in the royal palace. Occasionally, he participated in pujas she performed. So Jahangir’s mother and Shah Jahan’s grandmother was a practising Hindu. As was his wife: Jahangir persisted with Akbar’s religious policy.’

SSP Raghav clucked his tongue. ‘For a fact, it is well concealed.’

‘I guess the Mughal-equals-Muslim tag works as an effective shroud. In fact, most historians agree—Professor Kaul definitely does—that the Mughal family tradition was one of cultural openness and religious cohesion. Babur, the founder of the Mughal Empire in India, was descended from Changez Khan on his mother’s side. Changez Khan participated in Christian, Buddhist and Muslim observances. Timur, the paternal precursor—Babur was descended from him on his father’s side—was inclined towards Sufism. And Sufism, as you know, is a mystical sect that derives from the sensibilities of other faiths. Babur and Humayun were both rather practical about the place of faith vis-à-vis power. Akbar was a syncretist who created a new religion, Din-i-Ilahi, a sort of melding of Muslim and Hindu sensibilities.

‘Imagine if Shah Jahan had opted to follow that part of his heritage. After all, he was more of Rajput-Hindu extraction than Turko-Mongol,’ Mehrunisa said. ‘A tantalising thought. Or a case of counterfactual history.’

When the policeman gave her a puzzled look she explained, ‘It is Raj Bhushan’s favourite form of history. Quite a few historians believe in revisiting the past through reasonable speculation. The Harvard historian Niall Ferguson is a leading champion of counterfactual history, and Raj Bhushan has studied under him.’

SSP Raghav stroked his moustache. ‘You mean to say that the ASI director-general might agree with this speculation that the Taj Mahal is a Hindu temple?’

‘Not
agree
exactly. But he believes in a healthy spirit of enquiry. So he likes to speculate, “What if the Taj Mahal was a Hindu temple converted to a mausoleum?”’

The policeman shook his head. ‘Tell me, what is the difference between the writer of this pamphlet and these counterfactual historians? Both are imagining alternative scenarios!’

Mehrunisa’s response was a shrug. Raj Bhushan was consistent: he had dealt similarly with both the issues that attempted to invalidate the Taj Mahal—the calligraphic changes and the pamphlet. He either set great store by the general delinquency of idle Agra youth, or was the possessor of immense sangfroid.

SSP Raghav muttered darkly, ‘Clearly the job of managing India’s monuments does not consume him...’

Turning to Mehrunisa, he said, ‘What would you suggest?’

‘Design a pamphlet of my own. One that advertises the Taj Mahal as a Hindu by-product, almost. And a rich cash cow for milking. I can count on your support, right?’

‘I’ll check if the pamphlets have already been distributed or if I managed to catch them before the act was committed. I can ensure a quiet and effective distribution of your pamphlets. When do you begin?’

‘Now.’

‘Now?’ A quick check of his wristwatch showed 8.30 p.m.

‘What better time than now? Mangat Ram will rustle up a meal—you haven’t eaten, right?—after which we’ll begin. I’ll prepare the pamphlet but it would have to be transcribed, as you mentioned, into layman’s language.’

SSP Raghav sat there mulling over her suggestion. ‘No point in us distributing a rebuttal if this original isn’t around. In which case, we shall wait for him to play his next card and if it involves the leaflet, we have a counterattack ready.’’

‘Also,’ Mehrunisa continued, ‘you must investigate the underground labyrinth of the Taj complex once again—’

‘One minute,’ Raghav interrupted her, an index finger aloft. ‘What do you mean by “underground labyrinth”?’