The Taj Conspiracy (12 page)

Nisar’s eyes were focused on her.

‘But I don’t blame you Nisar. I know you are a
mureed
.’

Mehrunisa paused to gauge Nisar’s reaction. Since he appeared to be a devotee of Nizamuddin and Khusro, she had used the Sufi term for one who was committed to a spiritual teacher. Had she had any effect on him? Two children scampered between them, chasing each other in the courtyard. Mehrunisa noticed that a troupe of qawwali singers had gathered and were readying their musical instruments in the courtyard. A crowd had started to gather around them. Nisar went to join them. Mehrunisa followed and sat beside him.

The next instant, to her great surprise, Nisar started humming a tune. As she looked on, he began chanting and the clarity of his voice impressed her. He was singing one of Amir Khusro’s compositions that had become a rage when a Bollywood lyricist had adapted it for a Hindi film song. Listening to it, she realised something curious: Nisar was singing the even lines from the song, leaving the odd ones out.

duraye naina banaye batiya...

... na leho kaahe lagaye chhatiyan

by blandishing your eyes and weaving tales...

... why do you not take me to your bosom

As Mehrunisa watched him, he stole an occasional glance in her direction. Was Nisar hinting at something? Of course
, of course
!

Nisar had chosen to sing a peculiar number, one that the erudite Amir Khusro had composed simultaneously in two languages: Hindvi, a version of Hindi, and Persian. The first line was in Persian, the second in Hindi and thus it continued, the two languages alternating through the song.

Nisar was testing her! Not taking his father’s word for it, or hers, he was gauging for himself whether he could trust her. And what better way to do it than by checking the veracity of her claims? Through this one verse Nisar could determine how conversant Mehrunisa was with Persian, with the Sufi tradition, with Amir Khusro. She smiled: despite his perplexing behaviour, he was fine.

Mehrunisa was no singer—but what the heck! She recited the Persian lines:

Zehal-e miskin makun taghaful...

... ki taab-e hijran nadaram ay jaan

Do not overlook my misery...

... My patience flows over the brim

Nisar showed no sign that he understood what Mehrunisa was doing. A brief pause, and he resumed his singing.

In the background, the qawwal was singing tirana now: tananana, tananana he sang, lyrically rendering another innovation of Amir Khusro which had become a tradition in Indian classical singing. It was an indication to people that the singing would commence soon. The faithful were now streaming around them, making their way to the qawwal.

Careful not to draw the attention of the people around, she whispered, ‘Nisar, you have to tell me who it was. Who instructed you to change the epitaph and verse? Surely somebody supervised you as you worked.’

Nisar’s face remained impassive

‘Tell me,’ she pleaded. ‘For the sake of the rauza to which your father has committed his entire life.’

Nisar’s mouth quivered as his eyes moistened.

Had the mention of his father hit home?

Meanwhile, the qawwal was addressing his audience, asking for any special song with which to commence his performance. Abruptly, Nisar responded with a request.

The singer acknowledged him. Someone said,
Wah! Wah!
in appreciation. Mehrunisa sat, her hands in her lap, biting her lip as she wondered how to get Nisar to divulge his secret. Her eyes skimmed the sea of Van Gogh colours that encompassed her: white marble pillars topped with gold work, an ochre wall of sandstone, red rose petals on the tomb’s emerald green cover glimpsed through the white filigree.

In the meantime, the singer was midway through his recital, and the crowd was responding with fervent rhythmic clapping. On the periphery of the gathering an old man had risen and was beginning to sway like a dervish. He was experiencing the trance that is often brought about by qawwali—people under its influence said later that it was akin to flying. The singer started to build the song to a crescendo, the applause got more vigorous as torsos began to sway to the forceful beat. As the singer dwelt on a phrase that seemed to have struck a resonant chord, chiming it, Mehrunisa glanced at Nisar. He was immersed in the music, eyes closed. The persistent chime drew her to the lyrics that in her distraction she had ignored thus far. The singer was alluding to the one who had hidden beneath a veil, who had drawn a covering over his face...

Uska mukh ek jot hai, ghunghat hai sansar, ghunghat mein woh chhup gaya, mukh par aanchal dar
.

The words made Mehrunisa scrutinise her companion. Nisar moved his left palm in front of his face in a deliberate motion. To an onlooker it would signify nothing but to Mehrunisa, it suddenly dawned why Nisar had requested that specific song! The lyrics, in conjunction with Nisar’s particular gesture, meant something. For an instant Nisar looked straight into her eyes before shifting his gaze. He understood that she had understood. And he would reveal no more, for he bowed his head and was lost in the music.

Mehrunisa’s heart pounded in rhythm with the surrounding frenzy. Nisar’s choice of song coupled with his palm gesture meant one thing: mask. The man Mehrunisa was seeking wore a mask, a mask he had removed for Nisar, and what had been divulged had so spooked him that he had almost lost his mind.

Agra

T
he youth were lured to the one-room tenement in Katra Omar Khan in Taj Ganj with the promise of a sign-on bonus of one thousand rupees for a prospective job. In return, all they had to do was to watch a film.

The man on the screen wore orange robes. From beneath the V-neck of his cotton kurta, curly black chest hair crept out. His face was austere and handsome with a flowing black beard, like a meditating sage from the TV serial
Mahabharat
. Despite the plainness of his garb and the looseness of his robe, the man’s muscular frame was virile, and his eyes seemed to study the seated men in front with a piercing intensity. He folded his hands in an elaborate namaskar, elbows jutting out, forearms parallel to his chest. When he spoke, his deep voice resonated throughout the room.

‘You are gathered here today to learn of the biggest hoax that has been perpetrated on you. The hoax that you, in particular, have grown up with. The hoax that is the shame of our great nation, Bharat. The hoax that is the collective tragedy of all Hindus.’

The voice paused, the eyes gored the audience. Then in the manner of those fearless saints who dictated to kings and courtiers, the sage continued to thunder. ‘The time has come to strip off the curtain of falsity that shrouds your eyes. So that you, brave sons of a holy mother, will know how your mother has been defiled by the
grrr-eat
Mughals. The terrible tyranny of the invaders shall be revealed to you. Once you have learnt the truth, you will be free to choose your path. You can choose to avenge your honour, and thereby, the honour of Mother India. Or—’ another long pause, ‘—you can continue to suffer the tyranny of the Mughals. The sons of Babur live in your neighbourhood and they burn you, they loot you and they kill you—at their will.’

The audience watched in silence. The words had found their mark, embedding like shrapnel in the young men’s raw riot-ravaged selves.

The orange-robed sage lifted his right palm in benediction. ‘It is time to begin your education.’

Delhi

M
ehrunisa shivered as she stepped inside the twelve-pillared marble hall. Pulling up the collar of her jacket, she peered around. The hall would close in fifteen minutes—Nisar had chosen this particular time for their meeting. Clearly he was not one for small talk. She glanced at the scalloped arches—in the fading light of dusk they seemed to hover like the mammoth wings of a bird.

After her first meeting with Nisar in the shrine of Nizamuddin, Mehrunisa had twice attempted to ferret out information on the man in the mask. Thus far, though, she had not been successful. Nisar appeared unmoved by her repeated pleas. Except, as Mehrunisa had made to leave the shrine during her last meeting, he had shoved a scrap of paper in her hand.

Diwan-i-Khas, Monday, 5 p.m.

Diwan-i-Khas, the Hall of Private Audience, was located within the Red Fort. It was the chamber within which emperor Shah Jahan would hold private audiences with selected courtiers to discuss important affairs. Over the corner arches was inscribed the famous verse of Amir Khusro: ‘If there be a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this’. Nisar, qawwali-singer, Sufi-poetry-lover, was a tad dramatic, Mehrunisa had concluded as she speculated on his choice of venue.

Standing now in the barren hall she realised the location was appropriate: on a cold winter day near closing time, the Hall was devoid of people and secluded. In their interactions, Nisar had appeared petrified, refusing even to open his mouth in acknowledgement, as if he was being marked. But where
was
Nisar?

The sunless day was briskly morphing to night and she thought to retrieve the torch from her bag as she surveyed the cavernous shadowy hall. Situated in the rectangular chamber’s centre was a marble platform on which her eyes squinted in concentration. At one time, atop the platform had stood the hall’s centrepiece, the fabled Peacock Throne, Takht-e-Taus, of solid gold adorned with peacock figures, their iridescence resulting from countless inlaid precious stones. Mehrunisa was aware, ruefully, of another Indo-Persian linkage in this story: the Shah of Iran, Nadir Shah, had carried off the throne in 1739 during an invasion! The pedestal was barren as a result, but a bundle of some sort appeared to be lying there.

Mist floated in from the arched, open doorways into the chamber. As she approached the pedestal, she realised that the bundle was a huddled human; some homeless vagrant who had sought shelter in the hall? Her feet echoed and Mehrunisa felt a chill that was not due to the weather. The figure, perhaps Nisar, was crouching, head resting on his knees. She called out to him, her voice sounding tinny to her ears. What nonsense! Mehrunisa reprimanded herself for being dramatic. She touched her kara, the steel bangle that was a gift from her father as a symbol of his Sikh faith, which she wore on her right wrist. She swallowed, hoisted her shoulder bag, and walked to the figure.

‘Nisar?’

He did not move.

Bending down, Mehrunisa shook his shoulder. The body in repose slumped forward. On a gasp Mehrunisa recoiled. Blood pounded in her ears as she grabbed the man’s shoulders and turned him over. Her shriek curdled in her throat. The front of Nisar’s blue sweater was blotched red. His body was cold and slack. Horrified, she registered the expression on the boy’s face—it was one of frozen terror.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mehrunisa sensed movement. She looked around quickly. From a marble column to the pavilion’s right, a shadow unglued and stepped into view. It was a man, dressed in a thick brown overcoat; a brown monkey cap covered his face and head.

There’s no reason to panic, Mehrunisa told herself. He could be a tourist, or perhaps a guard, wearing a knit balaclava to protect his head from the evening chill. Even as she bolstered her confidence, her feet urged her to flee. Meanwhile, the man walked with mincing steps towards her. The thick monkey cap—a purple pom pom perched incongruously on top—obscured his face, covering not just the jaw but the mouth as well.

As Mehrunisa wondered what to do next, the man’s right hand went below his jaw and tugged at the brown cap. In one swift motion it was off and the face was covered no more. It was all the impetus Mehrunisa needed. On a shrill scream, she turned and sped from the marble chamber, aiming for the nearest archway. A leap from the plinth landed her on the green grass. Not a soul was in sight in the garden or the misty courtyard beyond. As she steadied herself, Mehrunisa glanced back. The man was re-masked and marching towards her.

Momentarily rooted, Mehrunisa watched him. For the first time in her life she had seen a human face with no human features! A blotchy blank frontispiece with two holes for eyes and a slit for a mouth. The man was now less than five meters away and in his right hand he held a knife tipped red.

Delhi

M
ehrunisa ran. Naturally lithe, she had never faced weight issues, but at that instant her body seemed curiously ponderous as she thundered down the length of the Red Fort. The building was rectangular and Mehrunisa would have to traverse one full length of two kilometres before reaching Lahore Gate, which would lead her out into the teeming Chandni Chowk market. On any other day, she could have counted on the presence of eager spectators queuing to watch the evening son-etlumière. But it was a Monday, the one day of the week when there was no sound and light show.

A backward glance showed that her pursuer was still in chase, though her sprint had lengthened the distance between them. Now Mehrunisa was passing the Diwan-i-Aam, the Hall of Public Audience, another rectangular structure on a raised plinth. She swung around a corner and, shielded by the plinth, did a quick reconnaissance. To her right, in the distance, was a vaulted arcade, the walls of which were lined with souvenir shops. Mehrunisa could count on human company once she reached there. To her left was the approaching masked man—there was no let-up in his powerful strides.

She had two options: she could strike out for the large open space that led straight to the vaulted shopping arcade on the west. Or, she could cut across the courtyard of Diwan-i-Aam and make for the Drum House on the eastern side directly across from Lahore Gate. The first would expose her to her pursuer; the second would keep her in the shadow of buildings but take longer. Mehrunisa decided time was of essence.

Besides, what could the man do except break into a sprint?. He seemed to have avoided it thus far, perhaps because of his bulky woollens. She would just have to outrun him. Taking a deep breath, clamping her bag under her arm, she plunged into the open.

Mehrunisa ran diagonally across, making for the large north-south street that bisected the open space. Once she reached the intersection she would swing right to the shops. She glanced behind to gauge her pursuer’s response. He seemed to have come to a standstill. Surprised, she continued to look back even as she ran forward. The awkward angle caused her to lose her footing and fall to her knees. The next instant something whizzed through the air, straight overhead. Instinctively, she ducked, clutching her head in her hands. The missile made a soft landing in the gravel. It was a knife. Had she not taken the tumble, it would have found her back!