The Taj Conspiracy (33 page)

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 Shivratri.’

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.

Now, he slept as there was still time. The other person in the room, though, sat in padmasana, meditating, his chest rising and falling calmly.

Above them, police corps scurried about, oblivious to what lay deep beneath their feet.

Delhi

M
ehrunisa had started from Delhi early, hoping to benefit from scarce traffic as she drove the two hundred kilometres to Agra. Beside her sat Pamposh.

Late the evening before, Pamposh had descended unannounced upon Professor Kaul’s house, greeting her uncle with, ‘Herath Mubarak!’

‘What’s that?’ Mehrunisa asked.

‘It’s Shivratri tomorrow,’ Pamposh grinned, ‘the most auspicious Kashmiri festival.’ After fussing about her uncle, she commented on Mehrunisa’s wan face, and insisted on accompanying her to Agra.

Now, early morning light glinted off the tiny mirrors in her red phiran—another one from her collection of embroidered Kashmiri robes—and lit her face with crystal parallelograms. Her dejihor caught the light as she swung her head to smile at her friend.

Mehrunisa returned a weak smile and turned to focus on the road.

As the highway approached Agra, vehicular traffic started to increase. R.P. Singh had ordered Agra to be sealed, so, as per SSP Raghav’s instructions, she was to contact an officer at the police naka who would let them through. Mehrunisa slowed down as cars began to pile up ahead and behind her. A thicket of humanity had also sprung up on the highway. Suddenly Pamposh screamed. A monkey had landed on the glass window beside her. His turbanned keeper peered at the women from behind the animal. Mehrunisa checked to make sure the doors were locked before glaring at the man.

Taj! Taj!

She squinted at the traffic as the cries rang out. A young man with long hair, a bright yellow headband holding it in place, face scruffy with stubble, was herding a group along. Lowering her window, Mehrunisa poked her head out and shouted, ‘What’s happened?’

Before he could answer, a woman’s head popped out from behind him. Her face was filled with awe as she raised her palms heavenwards and spoke in a sing-song voice. ‘Praise to the Lord Shiva! His trident is summoning us.’

Before Mehrunisa could process the woman’s gushing chatter, another face popped up, a man. ‘The Lord is showing us a miracle. If you want to witness it, hurry to the Taj! Hurry!’

‘Wait! What miracle are you talking about? What trident is this?’

‘The trident on top of the Taj Mahal,’ the youth in the yellow headband said eagerly. ‘The pinnacle, haven’t you noticed it? It is Shiva’s trident and now it is shaking. Know what that means?’