The Taj Conspiracy (38 page)

The train to Dehradun clanked its way out of Agra station. In a second-class compartment, a man dressed in an olive green sweater and matching trousers sat on a single-seater, the seat opposite him occupied by a couple of bamboo hampers. At a casual glance, it would appear as if an Army orderly was carrying his memsahib’s hamper while she travelled in the comfort of first class. That, however, would be wrong.

Jara, his face shrouded in a monkey cap and a muffler wound around his neck, was heading to his hamlet in the foothills of Dehradun where they still practiced a dying trade: that of snake charmers. He had joined police service to escape being condemned to the life of a snake charmer. However, since his career with the police had been cut short and left him bereft of even a face to call his own, he had turned to the art form. Pandit Sir’s daughter had given him refuge—after all, he had been Omkar Pandit’s loyal driver until the day a car bomb had struck—and on learning about his special skill, had found ways to employ it.

He had used it well: extracting venom from a King cobra, feeding the corpse to the python, training a Russell’s viper to kill—these were skills that needed years of perfection. He had delivered.

Now, though, it was time to disappear—the message had been unambiguous.

He eyed the bamboo hampers: the bottom one was shaped like a large trunk, the top one like a semi-circular lidded basket. They looked harmless, more like some rich lady’s extravagant accoutrements. Nestled within them, respectively in a large burlap and a cloth bag were a giant python and a Russell’s viper. He hoped no nosy passenger would ask him to remove the hampers in order to take the seat. He had made the python sluggish, but the viper was especially tricky. It was known to bite through cloth and the slats of its bamboo hamper were a bit wide....

Jara bent his neck and burrowed his face within the muffler, attempting to appear unapproachable.

Agra

I
n the wake of the mayhem at the Taj Mahal, the Archaeological Survey of India announced special access to the basement rooms for two hours daily for a limited period of time. This was to enable people to see for themselves that there was no evidence of Shiva artefacts in the barren rooms, and to prove that the proposition claiming the Taj Mahal was a Shiva temple once was a complete hoax. Of course, they had quietly taken measures to correct the changes in calligraphy on Mumtaz’s cenotaph, and restore it to its original state.

Meanwhile, the CBI swooped down upon the proprietor of the private TV channel that had broadcast pictures of Mumtaz Mahal’s cenotaph, extracted the footage and instructed him to state, for all future reference, that a storage vault fire destroyed an entire archive of film including that particular footage. The proprietor, under investigation for tax fraud, was most compliant.

Deploying Mehrunisa’s rebuttal-pamphlet, the ASI also issued a full-page clarification in leading dailies citing comprehensible evidence of the Taj Mahal being a Mughal monument. This advertisement also carried endorsements from renowned world historians—which included noted Indian scholars, the Austrian academic acknowledged to be an expert on Mughal architecture, a Harvard Indologist— who certified the marble monument’s antiquity and provenance.

Additionally, the home minister announced an inquiry into the issue to be jointly headed by Shri Kriplani of BHP, the chief representative of the Sunni Waqf Board, and the newly-appointed director-general of the ASI.

Meanwhile, SSP Raghav was recuperating from the gunshot wound in Agra Civil Hospital. Luckily, the bullet had hit the outside of the right shoulder where the thick muscle pad had borne the brunt and saved him, despite the blood loss. He would be in hospital for a fortnight, after which he could resume duty, though he would require a sling for a while. His wife declared she would not leave his side until he was perfectly all right; the children meanwhile were at a relative’s.

The state police chief paid him a visit and conveyed that he had recommended Raghav to the prime minister for a gallantry award.

Late one evening, when visiting hours were over and the nurse had finished her night round, R.P. Singh snuck into Raghav’s private room. ‘Too much healthy food will kill your taste buds for sure, if not you!’ he said, and set a bottle of rum and a bag of samosas on the steel side table.

Raghav guffawed.

R.P. Singh cast a look around and asked conspiratorially, ‘The nurses, are they any good?’

‘Not worth checking in for,’ Raghav grinned.

R.P. Singh nodded, stood akimbo and looked at Raghav intently. He was pallid and the injury must hurt like hell. ‘I ...’ he started, patting his bald pate, ‘What you did in the tomb chamber that night in the Taj, you didn’t have to, you know.... You took a bullet for me.’

Raghav shrugged his uninjured shoulder. ‘I’d rather share a rum with you alive than drink it at your funeral,’ he said.

The two men grinned and nodded to each other. R.P. Singh walked to the side table, opened the Old Monk and, looking at Raghav said, ‘I owe you one, my friend.’

‘Ah! To have a dusht devil in my debt!’

R.P. Singh muttered an expletive as he turned to Raghav with upturned palms. ‘Where the fuck do you keep the glasses?’

Delhi

R
.P. Singh was invited to 7 Race Course Road for a half-hour session with the prime minister at his pleasure. What they discussed at Panchavati was not minuted. But when Singh stepped out and donned his aviators, he looked very satisfied. He had let the PM express his gratitude. His work, and the manner in which he conducted it—with absolute disdain for superiors— mandated powerful patronage. The PM’s indebtedness would be of assistance.

R.P. Singh then swung by Professor Kaul’s residence to visit Mehrunisa. It was a bright winter day and they sat on the patio.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked.

During her exertions in the baoli of the Taj Mahal, Mehrunisa had pulled a muscle in her shoulder.

‘The swelling’s reduced. And the anti-inflammatory tablets help. Otherwise, rest is best.’ Mehrunisa grimaced.

‘It was one hell of a job you did.’

‘And yet,
you
got to be in the papers!’

‘Oh! Hell.’ R.P. Singh looked uncomfortable, his neck turning red.

Mehrunisa laughed. ‘I was joking! You did your job. I’m glad I could help.’

‘Exactly! I did my job. You ... did more.’ He paused and looked in the direction of the house. ‘The professor will be happy, Mehrunisa.’

She tipped her head in assent.

‘As am I. If not for you, Toor would have escaped.’ He bent forward and confided that Arun Toor had died in his prison cell with no visible wound marks. Post-mortem had showed it resulted from snakebite. However, the information was strictly confidential since they were still looking to nab the mysterious monkey-cap who was likely a snake charmer as well.

Mehrunisa nodded. ‘What about Pamposh?’

The truth about her childhood friend had confounded her. But perhaps Pamposh was not such a contradiction. The lotus flower, her namesake, rose above the surface of water to bloom, bewitching all with its regal beauty. Yet, at night it closed and sank beneath the surface. In those eight to ten hours that it was submerged in the muddy waters, who could tell what it absorbed from those stygian forces? Every morning when the lotus showed its glowing face to the sun, how hard had it worked to mask the dark forces buried within?

‘She’ll be in jail on non-bailable offence until trial begins. She is being questioned on the co-conspirators. The police is also looking for Toor’s ally in CISF, an Inspector Bharadwaj, who has disappeared. He was responsible for guarding the Taj from the riverside—the fact that boats from Bateshwar could sail up the Yamuna was clearly with his collusion.’

Mangat Ram brought in tea which R.P. Singh offered to serve. As he added milk, Mehrunisa said, ‘So what do you plan to do now?’

‘Enjoy my newfound “saviour-of-nation” status before I’m shunted to the boondocks again!’

There was more laughter and easy banter before it was time for him to depart. Mehrunisa walked him to the door, where he hesitated before turning to face her. Mehrunisa was tall, yet Singh was a head taller as he gazed at her, leaning against the doorframe.

‘Some adventure, hunh?’

A faraway look came into her eyes as she thought of all that had happened within a month. ‘Some adventure,’ she concurred.

‘When this dies down and you feel better, I’d very much like to take you out, Mehrunisa.’ He looked intently at her.

A horn sounded shrilly, repeatedly. R.P. Singh refused to glance back.

Mehrunisa arched a shoulder towards the lane. ‘Someone’s in a hurry.’

He had parked his vehicle at an angle in the lane, which was upsetting some folks.

‘Rrr-ight,’ he drawled but did not move as he studied her. Her grey-green eyes were green now. He had observed them darken before, at times of intense emotion. The tip of her tongue flicked out as she tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. He wanted to run his hands through her hair and smell the mint in them.

Mehrunisa cleared her throat. ‘Am I under surveillance here?’ she said as a smile played at one corner of her mouth.

‘You’d make an excellent prospect for a close watch.’

The horn pealed again.

‘In case you’ve forgotten the question, Mehrunisa, I’d very much like to take you out.’

She smiled. ‘First name terms would help.’

‘Pratap.’

Mehrunisa tilted her chin at him. ‘I’d like that too, Pratap.’

Delhi

M
ehrunisa woke early. A cool winter morning was warming rapidly in a bright sun. She guided Professor Kaul to the garden where Mangat Ram would lay tea on a wicker table beneath the tree. Sparrows chirruped in the coral bougainvillea, the sky was an effortless blue. Mehrunisa decided to walk in the garden.

Mongrel gypsy—that was how Pamposh had described her. Indecorous, but accurate. She
was
Iranian-Indian and had grown up all over the world ... but the events of the past month had clarified some things for her.

She came to India to research her project, but she had been searching for something else—something that would crystallise what it meant to be Mehrunisa Khosa. Now, due to the elaborate Taj conspiracy, she knew. Pamposh had claimed that since she grew up everywhere, she belonged nowhere. But she had discovered the flip side of that very same coin: she grew up between worlds and so, perhaps, she belonged everywhere. The idea of home didn’t have to be held hostage to physical coordinates—it could be an act of choice. Her roots were not fixed in a piece of land, they were within her. That freed her to love the Taj in Agra and the Duomo in Florence, the quarries of Isfahan where Maadar grew up and the mines of Makrana which gave marble to the Taj Mahal, to marvel at the beauty of Michelangelo’s Pieta and lose herself in the music of Amir Khusro....

Mangat Ram walked in with tea and the day’s newspaper. Mehrunisa joined her godfather and was serving him tea when her eyes fell on the front page. It carried a picture of the Taj Mahal, the monument burnished in mellow light as the sun rose behind it.

A lump was in her throat. She pushed it down, breathed deeply, and with a smile, held up the paper to her godfather. The professor blinked. His eyes flickered. As he scanned the newspaper she saw recognition on his face.

Delhi

A
t a tea party at the residence of the prime minister to celebrate Republic Day, R.P. Singh bumped into Shri Kriplani who congratulated him on saving the Taj Mahal.

‘People should never take the Lord’s name in vain,’ he said with a regretful shake of his head.

Singh raised his brows in response.

‘Now,’ Kriplani said with enthusiasm, as if he were lecturing on his favourite subject, ‘the Taj supervisor misused Shiva’s name. And what did the Lord do? Sent a snake to punish him!’ He paused and wagged his head.

From a gathering of politicians seated at a table in the centre of the room, a voice hailed the BHP leader. He glanced at them before turning back to Singh. Raising his hands skywards he said, ‘It is all Lord’s maya,’ and sauntered off.

R.P. Singh, however, was rooted to the ground. That Arun Toor had died in his prison cell from snakebite was confidential—something only a handful of people knew.
How had Kriplani got to know
?

The next instant someone slapped him on the back. It was an old colleague who was now on the PM’s security detail.

‘What man?’ he jogged his brows. ‘Shri Kriplani was falling all over you! If that man congratulates me, I watch my back. Narada!’

R.P. Singh frowned.

The cop leaned in and whispered, ‘Narayan Ram Das Kriplani. Na-Ra-Da. Always looking to topple the government. Know of the latest wedge he drove between the coalition...’

R.P. Singh led his friend to the porch. As he smoked, his colleague prattled on about the machinations of the Opposition leader which had earned him the nickname ‘Narada’, which was incidentally his Hindi acronym. But Singh was processing a parallel thought.

Kriplani was inextricably linked with the Taj conspiracy. He was Arun Toor’s college teacher, colleague to Professor Dixit, assorted thugs caught at Taj were acquainted with the BHP’s Agra unit ... several times in the investigation the trail had led back to Kriplani but the politician always had an alibi. Except, this time, perhaps.