The Taj Conspiracy (15 page)

Hindu Brothers and Sisters, the time has come to put an end to this gross injustice. Time to tear off the veil of lies and untruth. Read this proof, pass it on—as a Hindu, it is your sacred dharma! Let the ripples of truth spread through Agra city and to the whole of India!

Jai Shiv Shankar! Jai Ho!

Delhi

R
.P. Singh was in the office of the CBI director special operations where he had been summoned urgently.

‘JCP Rana Pratap Singh. Your middle name is trouble,’ the director said sharply.

His middle name was ‘Pratap’, given by his parents in honour of their famous clansman, Maharana Pratap Sisodia. The Rajput warrior was a thorn in the side of Mughal emperor Akbar through his life, and as R.P. Singh studied the bearded man in front of him, he wondered what he had done to irk the CBI head.

Dressed nattily in a tweed jacket over a maroon pullover, a thick gold watch strapped to his wrist, the director gave the impression of having been interrupted at a party. The wall behind was decorated with framed photographs of the director with dignitaries.

‘Three days into the job and the home minister has assigned a task for you. High priority...’ He twisted his mouth into a sneer.

Then he proceeded to tell Singh that the Agra police had come across a pamphlet that alleged that the Taj Mahal was a Shiva temple. Ordinarily the police would have consigned it to the wastebasket, but the yet unsolved murder of the Taj supervisor had occurred within the mausoleum less than a fortnight back. The two might well be unconnected events, but the Agra police had panicked, pressed the alarm button and called the home minister. And now, the director snorted, the matter has been offloaded upon us.

R.P. Singh groaned inwardly: from the frying pan into fire. He hadn’t even begun savouring Delhi—a relaxed head shave at a fancy barber’s, one leisurely visit to Capitol bar, barely enough time to enjoy the women, who had surprised him with their daring new dress sense, and now he was being sent off to chase a crazed right-winger!

Nonchalantly, he patted his shiny pate and said with a half smile, ‘When a bald guy shows up, something is bound to happen.’

The director special ops kept his mouth pursed in a grim line. His brow darkened as he wagged an index finger in R.R. Singh’s direction. Finally, he said in a raspy voice, ‘You report directly to me.’

That hoarseness indicated a weakness for alcohol. Hmmm ... supercilious
and
incompetent. R.P. Singh settled back into his chair, crossed his leg and returned an even gaze that did not reveal his thoughts. The force was filled with men like the director, chutiyas in police uniform, who needed men like him. He treated them with casual disdain and they suffered him because, when it came down to the wire, someone had to keep the streets clean. For his meritorious service they gave him medals, souvenirs that he stowed in a drawer in his wardrobe. R.P. Singh had made a habit of going down sewers and exterminating the rats. Precisely why he had been summoned for the task. It was pest control time again.

‘I accept the assignment,’ he said. ‘Two conditions. I get the resources I ask for, no questions asked. And I report back when I have something concrete.’

Delhi

S
SP Raghav wrapped up work at 3 p.m. and set out for Delhi. It was a sunny, cloudless day, rare for winter, yet the policeman’s face was a thundercloud.

As soon as he had seized the blasphemous pamphlets, he’d rung his boss to update him on the latest twist in the case. It rattled the DIG enough to inform the chief minister who had panicked and shifted the onus to the home ministry. The case was now out of his supervision: the CBI would be crawling all over it soon.

Raghav pursed his mouth bitterly. If only he had paid more attention to that woman Mehrunisa.... Bloody hell! What a bizarre case—the Taj a Shiva temple! But there were enough lunatics in the country and he had forgotten the basic principle of police work—you follow
every
lead. A donkey cart swerved into his way and he swore loudly at the driver. As he craned his neck to glare at him he saw a cowering boy, hands lifted abjectly.

He would be in that position when the CBI officers arrived to lord over him and rub his incompetence in his face. To say nothing of the implications of this failure for his career....

Raghav was still upset with himself when he reached the ASI director-general’s office. He was assigned with updating him and discussing security arrangements in view of the new development.

Raj Bhushan, however, showed little enthusiasm at his presence. The SSP, in his crisp policeman fashion, slid the pamphlet across the director-general’s table adding where he had found it.

Raj Bhushan’s jaw muscles clenched—perhaps the reason why the remaining colour seemed to drain from his already wan face—as he studied the leaflet. After a period of contemplation in which the director’s head was bent over the pamphlet, and SSP Raghav—not having been offered a chair—stood upright, Raj Bhushan deposited a paperweight on the leaflet and looked up. He interlocked his fingers, rested his arms on the table, and with a look of mild perturbation asked, ‘So, what can I do for you, Inspector?’

Raghav was taken aback by the director’s casual response. However, he offered politely, ‘
SSP
Raghav, Sir. And if I may, this pamphlet,’ he pointed to the offending leaflet trapped under the director’s elbow, ‘seems to be another attempt to discredit the Taj.’

Raj Bhushan gave a thin smile. ‘Thank you for your concern,
SSP
. I am happy to note the attention that you are devoting to Agra’s foremost monument. But clearly, recent events seem to have unduly influenced you—after all, in your trade people get killed all the time. I see no reason to link this leaflet to the supervisor’s murder.’

‘And the changes in the calligraphy?’

Tch
! the director clucked in exasperation. ‘Those aren’t
changes
. Just some tampering, probably by a local lout with time on hand. I suggest you dismiss any conspiracy theory you might have in mind.’

Raghav reined in his response. Perhaps, for a man responsible for hundreds of monuments in India, each in varying stages of decay, a threat to the Taj Mahal— arguably in robust health and perennially under the tourist scanner—was too fantastic. Quietly, he informed him that the case had been moved to the CBI.

‘Oh!’ Raj Bhushan said, a sudden look of concern on his face. He glanced down swiftly at the pamphlet, pushed up his spectacles, and after a few seconds he looked up. ‘SSP,’ the director shrugged, attempting amends, ‘the Taj has always had its detractors. Just a year ago some Agra businessmen started this campaign “Taj Hatao, Agra Bachao”—remove the Taj and save Agra! Do you know why? Because they feel that business is being driven out of Agra since the courts have ordered the removal of polluting factories. Then there are those nutcases who are asking for a share of the annual revenues the government earns from the heavy tourist traffic to the Taj! A share of the profits.’ He snorted his disgust. ‘How ridiculous can people get! But what can we do? Increase security, add a few more guards.’ He eyed the policeman. ‘What would I advise, though?’

He crushed the leaflet into a ball before flinging it across the floor into a bin. ‘Ignore them.’

Agra

‘M
yself, Govind guide.’ The man grinned at the security-frisked couple at the entrance to the Taj Mahal. ‘Ajucansi, Sir-Lady, one oph the wonders oph the world.’

The Emersons had by now experienced enough Indian-accented English to conclude that they would ask for clarification only in dire circumstances. So they nodded and studied the glowing white pearl that loomed before them. In any case, they had read about the Taj, and Mrs Emerson clutched a copy of
Lonely Planet India
.

Holding up his right palm, Govind guide continued, ‘Now, Taj Mahal has phive main design elements: darwaja or main gate, bageecha or garden, masjid or mosque, mihman khana or rest house, and rauja or Taj Mahal mausoleum.’

Mrs Emerson, comprehension dawning with a phase lag, nodded.

The Taj stood in front of them on a raised square platform with its four corners truncated, forming an unequal octagon.

‘186 × 186 pheet,’ Govind rattled off helpfully, ‘size of the platpharum.’

Mrs Emerson was the more enamoured party. ‘We read that the unique Mughal style combines elements of Persian, Central Asian and Islamic architecture,’ she enquired slowly, seeking elucidation.

Govind muttered, ‘Un-huh,’ unequivocally, and rattled off another series of numbers. ‘41.6 metres, or 162.5 pheet—height of the phour minarets, set, ajucansi, symmetrically about the tomb. Now, the structure, ajunansi, is octa-gonal. Meaning to say, eight sides. Add to that one pinnacle pointing to top, and one foundation. Total ijs therephore ten.’ He held up both palms, the fingers outstretched. ‘Right?’

When the Emersons again looked blank, he continued, ‘Ten is a sacred Hindu number. You see, Hindus believe in ten directions. Any building to do with the royal or divine has this number.’ He smiled smugly.

The Emersons exchanged curious glances but before they could confer, Govind launched a broadside. ‘The central dome, like a bulb, is 58 pheet in diameter and rises to a height of 213 pheet. It is surrounded by phour chhatris, domed can-opies. Now this,’ he leaned forward, ‘is a pheature seen mainly in Hindu buildings.’ Drawing back he glanced from Mr Emerson to Mrs to gauge their response. There was none, except irritation. Govind guide rolled his shoulders, gestured to the path ahead with his open palms, and walked in front. His job was to spread the message—the rest was up to people.

They walked down the path leading to the Taj, majestically reflected in the watercourse, when a howling erupted from the garden to the right. A man, his arms flailing, was emitting strange noises. At his feet was poised a rhesus monkey, his face cocked at the man. The next instant a pebble came flying though the air, landing on the monkey’s hind. With a yelp, the monkey bounded off. As the Emersons watched, Govind guide shook an exasperated head. Tapping his forehead with his right hand, he added, ‘These monkeys are a menace. At timej they run with tourist camera.’ Pointing to the Canon slung around Mr Emerson’s neck, he said, ‘You take care,’ and started to briskly lead the way again.

‘But why doesn’t the administration remove the monkeys?’ a concerned Mrs Emerson asked.

‘How many monkeys to remove? And put them where?’ the guide smiled at her. ‘Madam, in this country we worship monkey. For us it is the avatar of Hanumanji.’

When the Emersons looked bemused, he supplied helpfully, ‘Monkey God, Hanuman, rescuer of Sita, wife of Lord Ram, hero of
Ramayan
,’ and resumed walking.

As they approached the mausoleum, the guide resumed his tour-speak. ‘Built in white marble, phull building. And notice the delicate pietra dura work—stone inlay. At one time, precious and semi-precious stones were embedded here. But then, the Birteesh held picnic parties here and for amusement scratched out the stones.

‘Okay,’ he rubbed his hands together, ‘I have something to show you, something special. Not many people know it.’ He led the way in a perambulation of the monument, stopped in front and pointed to the top. ‘See the dome. Now look at the top. What do you see?’

The Emersons crinkled their eyes and peered. As Govind eyed them, they shrugged. ‘A pinnacle, perhaps?’ Mrs Emerson offered lamely.

‘On top of the pinnacle—the design you see?’

Mrs Emerson shook her head.

‘No prablum,’ Govind assured them. ‘An exact replica is available. I will show you. This way.’ He walked towards the red sandstone building flanking the Taj to the right. In the red stone courtyard, he pointed to a sketch on the floor. ‘Replica of the pinnacle on the dome. Look closely. A coconut resting on bent mango leaves placed on a kalash, a pot of water.’ Govind straightened from examining the sketch and declared, ‘A popular Hindu design.’

‘Then
what
is it doing in the Taj Mahal?’ Mr Emerson demanded in exasperation. He had come to see a famed Mughal monument; instead he was getting some religious spiel. ‘Is the Taj not a Muslim monument, built by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan?’

‘No.’

Mr Emerson looked incredulous. ‘Did you say “No”?’

‘Yes. No.’

‘We are seeing the Taj, right?’ Mrs Emerson’s right index finger drew circles in the air. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ Govind nodded, lowered his head and spoke conspiratorially. ‘But everything is not what it seem—’

‘Speak up, man!’ Mr Emerson commanded.

‘The Taj Mahal is actually a Hindu temple.’

Mr Emerson’s eyes narrowed as he sought to determine whether the guide was mentally all there.

‘The truth, ajucansi,’ he pointed to the sketch on the floor, ‘has been hidden for long. You tell me, what Muslim building, mosque, will you see the design of kalash or mango leaf, which is Hindu by nature.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially and said sotto voce, ‘The writing on Mumtaz’s tomb itself says it’s fraud, fake!’

Mr Emerson caught his wife’s forearm, took her aside and whispered urgently into her ear. Turning to Govind guide, he handed him his fees with a measly tip, and said, ‘Thank you. My wife would like to rest. We don’t know how long before we will resume our tour.’s

‘Sir change mind, okay.’ Govind guide pocketed the cash, evidently happy, said, ‘Salaam, Bye-bye,’ and sauntered towards the entrance seeking the next set of visitors.

‘A conspiracy theorist, likely. Forget it, darling!’

However, Mrs Emerson looked unconvinced. ‘There is some monkey business going on. I have a good mind to report him—spreading such lies! As if,’ her voice hushed, ‘there isn’t enough trouble in this country.’