The Taj Conspiracy (17 page)

It was Mehrunisa’s turn to look surprised. ‘Oh! I thought you had examined the basement area for a bomb...’

‘Yes—the lower tomb chamber, beneath the ceremonial tombs, the cenotaphs. We checked those thoroughly. What else is there that constitutes a labyrinth?’

Mehrunisa went very still for a moment. The memory of a young girl huddling in the dark against a cold basement wall as hours crawled by chilled her. She shivered, then shook her head determinedly. ‘SSP Raghav,’ she said quietly, ‘get ready for an all-nighter. You need a refresher on the Taj complex. In the case of the Taj Mahal, what you see is not what you get. And the conspirator is clearly someone who knows the Taj inside out.’

She walked out of the room and returned with a stack of thick hardbound books that she placed on the dining table. Briskly flicking through one, she beckoned the policeman.

‘The Taj Mahal has several subterranean levels. In the Mughal era these had a functional inner life. Now, of course, they are closed to visitors...’

Agra

S
SP Raghav stood in front of the Taj Mahal mausoleum, his eyes glued to the walkway. He had reached Agra late morning armed with a ‘proof’ pamphlet that listed incontrovertibly that the Taj Mahal was indeed a Mughal monument, and with a new appreciation of the underground layout of the Taj Mahal.

However, the DIG had busted him with a command to report to the CBI officer assigned to the case who would await him at the Taj. Raghav had hotfooted it here, but he had been waiting for an hour now and there was no sign of the CBI officer. Lack of sleep and the bright noon sun were making him grumpy as he glanced at his watch again.

The son-of-a-gun had instructed that they meet directly at the monument. Rana Pratap Singh, ex-JCP Chattisgarh, now with CBI, was two ranks senior to him, several ranks notorious, same age—forty—and his new boss on the Taj case. If the average Indian prayed not to get involved with the police at any point in their life, it was because of officers such as R.P. Singh. His mobile beeped.

‘I don’t see you SSP,’ a voice drawled.

Raghav scoured the gardens, ‘I am right here, Sir.’ It being lunch hour, tourists were few.

‘Where?’

‘In front of the mausoleum.’

‘The enemy I know sneaks up from behind.’

Raghav spun on his heels and dashed to the northeast side of the platform. A boat was drawing up, a tall man astride at the prow. The sun glinted off his bald pate and his aviators.

Talk about arriving in style, Raghav observed with disdain before he hurried to meet him. The riverine traffic in winter was usually low. However, that year the Yamuna’s level was higher owing to heavy monsoon rains that had caused the river to flood several plains.

With a lithe jump the man landed at Dassehra Ghat, straightened and walked up to the waiting SSP. As they shook hands, Raghav registered a firm grasp. As he led the way up to the platform R.P. Singh resumed the conversation like they had never been interrupted. ‘Shah Jahan, it is said, had a river patrol. Do
we
have one?’

‘Sir?’ Raghav was not sure he had heard correctly. It did not help that his new boss was six-foot plus, which forced him to tilt his head up as he spoke.

R.P. Singh came to a halt at the north side of the platform. He crossed his arms across his chest and surveyed the Yamuna. ‘The water level is high enough for boats. Put a constant watch here; I don’t want even a dog to swim up. Understood?’

Raghav looked at him, but could only see his reflection nodding its head rapidly in the CBI officer’s dark glasses. ‘Yes, Sir.’

Then R.P. Singh proceeded to walk around the complex as Raghav detailed the security arrangements that had been put in place. When they had finished a complete tour, R.P. Singh rattled off additional security he wanted: erection of watchtowers, a twenty-four-hour patrol of the riverside, dedicated monitoring of the CCTV cameras.

Finally, they halted in front of the Jilaukhana. Tourist traffic had begun to build up and a long queue snaked in front of the entrance. They walked to the east gate outside which R.P. Singh hailed a vendor and bought a paper cone of roasted chana. Raghav refused the offer of chickpeas as they stood watching the security guards frisk the visitors. His new boss had fantastic aim, Raghav grudgingly acknowledged as, from the corner of his eye, he saw him toss chana from waist-level to his mouth and never miss. What had he heard about Singh competing in the Asian Games shooting competition...?

‘Who is Aurangzeb?’

The question came out of nowhere. Now, as Singh observed him, his face bland, a discomforted Raghav had to confess he had no idea.

‘Hmmm. At least you’d know who
was
Aurangzeb?’

It was the oldest trick in the police manual. R.P. Singh had deliberately caught him off-guard and was now driving home who was boss.

In a tight voice Raghav said, ‘Mughal emperor. Shah Jahan’s son.’

‘Traitorous chutiya,’ R.P. Singh drawled. ‘Did an inside job on his father. This Aurangzeb is a mole inside the Taj Mahal. Start looking for him, SSP. We find him, we’ll solve the Taj conspiracy.’

Delhi

I
t was time to meet Mehrunisa, R.P. Singh decided, and wearing his best private-school demeanour he descended on the professor’s house.

The CBI officer who likened his job to that of a jamadar—keeping the streets clean of terrorist-Naxalitefundoo rubbish—and whose name figured on the hit lists of several militant organisations, had another side to him.

An alumnus of Mayo College, the private boarding school pitched as the Eton of India, Singh kept that facet in habitual abeyance. It served no purpose when chasing Maoists in mosquito-infected jungles or when interrogating low-lives. This particular feature was switched on when he was meeting genteel folks or superiors who could help his career trajectory.

Dressed in grey slacks, a black cable-knit wool sweater and black patent leather loafers, he stood at Professor Kaul’s doorstep early morning. When the door opened he saw a statuesque woman who surveyed him with grey-green eyes. Surprised, he switched the skirt-chaser within him to sleep mode and brought to life the occasional gentleman. Showing his identity card to an unsure Mehrunisa, he informed her that the ‘Taj conspiracy case’ had been assigned to the CBI and that SSP Raghav was reporting to him.

Mehrunisa led him to the patio that looked onto the garden, motioned to a cushioned cane chair, and asked, ‘How can I help you?’

R.P. Singh sat down, tipped his head in thanks and said, ‘Let’s start at the beginning. Perhaps you can take me through the calligraphy changes and their import.’

Mehrunisa recounted her discovery of Arun Toor’s body at the mausoleum, the three things she had noticed with it, and the changes in the epitaph and Quran verse.

R.P. Singh heard her out without interruption, listening intently with his black eyes narrowed.

She had finished recounting how she had located the artisan Nisar, when Mangat Ram interrupted them. Mehrunisa excused herself to oversee Professor Kaul’s breakfast in the dining room.

R.P. Singh observed the well-preserved lawn as he mulled over all that he had heard. The woman made sense. Why hadn’t SSP Raghav seen it? Because he was convinced of an Islamist angle. That was what happened when you headed the Anti-Terror force, you saw everything through the filter of terror. Raghav had heard of ‘Aurangzeb’ and his mind—programmed to go on high alert at the mention of a jihadi—zoomed into a probable terror plot.

R.P. Singh did not blame him. If he was back in Chhattisgarh and heard of the incidents around the Taj, he’d have blamed the Naxals! The gaandu Maoists were all he ate and shat—they had totally engulfed his worldview.... Now, he had the benefit of an outsider’s perspective. He would see things clearly for a week, after which he’d probably also be too deeply involved to pull back for a different perspective.

He was itching for a smoke. However, that would ruin the persona he was carefully presenting to Mehrunisa whom he could see from where he was sitting on the patio. He observed how the professor seemed to be performing his actions as if asleep. After she had fed the professor, Mehrunisa and Mangat Ram escorted him to a spot in the garden. A weak winter sun was trying to grin its way through a smattering of clouds. Mehrunisa placed a shawl on the professor’s lap, tucking the folds on both sides. On re-joining him, she made sure to sit such that she could glance in her uncle’s direction.

‘Shall we?’ R.P. Singh asked her and Mehrunisa nodded.

‘This man who pursued you in the Red Fort—he would have caught up with you unless you are a trained athlete? I am not doubting your story, please understand. I am trying to get a picture of this alleged murderer.’

‘He seemed to shuffle, as if the bulk of his clothing was hindering his movement.’

‘Hunh. And did he say anything?’

‘No. Nothing at all. In fact,’ Mehrunisa paused as she remembered the man wrenching off his woollen cap, ‘now that I recall, he appeared curiously soundless. No grunt, no exclamation...’

R.P. Singh pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. ‘The face with no features is probably due to severe burns. The fact that he shuffled indicates a problem with walking. He might have some sort of brain injury...’

‘How’s that?’

‘Severe charring that erased all facial features could have damaged the brain of this monkey-cap—’

‘
Monkey-cap
!’ Mehrunisa smiled. ‘You make him sound comical.’

‘Oh no,’ Singh said hastily, ‘it was just a descriptor. What would you call him?’

‘Bentinck.’

‘Bentinck? Why?’

Mehrunisa narrated, again, the story of the British governor-general.

‘And you think he is Bentinck?’ R.P. Singh asked.

Mehrunisa shook her head. ‘No. Bentinck would not risk exposing himself. His strength is that he is hidden. An unseen enemy is more powerful, and he knows that. Monkey-cap is more likely Bentinck’s henchman...’

Abruptly a drizzle started. Mehrunisa ran into the garden. As she attempted to lift Professor Kaul to his feet, R.P. Singh appeared at the other side, steadying him. As they shuffled to the house, Mangat Ram joined them with an unfurled umbrella. The winter monsoon, which had hovered reluctantly in the skies for the past few days, had finally opened up. The thin rain, so contrary to the deluge of summer, fell noiselessly over the garden.

In Agra it had rained through the night and the sky had still been overcast when R.P. Singh had departed for Delhi that morning. The showers brought to mind a surging Yamuna, a vision that bothered him for some reason.

Agra

S
SP Raghav checked out the security at the Taj Mahal again, to the visible consternation of Inspector Bharadwaj. Raghav put it down to territorial angst: Bharadwaj probably appreciated his intruding upon his territory as much as he did the CBI. He shrugged and walked on, leaving the CISF inspector in the gardens where he was checking the central walkway. It being a Friday, the monument was closed to visitors and Bharadwaj had taken the opportunity to run a thorough check of the premises.

Most people are unaware that inside the Taj Mahal complex is a functioning mosque that is open only to Muslim worshippers every Friday. Raghav himself had discovered this upon his posting to Agra. Shah Jahan had conceived the Taj Mahal as Mumtaz’s home in paradise and the mausoleum set in a garden was ultimately a tomb chamber. How had the woman Mehrunisa described it—he scrunched his eyes in recollection—ah! ‘the pinnacle of Mughal funerary architecture’.

Pleased with his memory, Raghav perambulated the mosque. It was shortly after noon. The worshippers, around a hundred men, had washed themselves at the ablution tank and were inside the red and white building.

Raghav, dressed deliberately in plainclothes, donned a skullcap that he had carried in a pocket and stepped inside the vaulted building. The worshippers stood facing one wall—Kaaba, he presumed. Those in front knelt, others stood behind them, all with their hands cupped, eyes shut.

Raghav scrutinised the men—all perfectly ordinary, lower-middle class, residents of Taj Ganj most likely.... Finding everything in order he crept out. It was then that he sighted a lone man skulking around the northwest tower behind the mosque. The towers were not open to visitors.

When Raghav crept up on him, he saw him clicking pictures, but his camera was focused on the riverside. Raghav clamped one hand on the man’s shoulder and with the other snatched the camera.

‘Hey!’ The man rounded on him angrily and swore.

Raghav’s hand shot out and caught the man by the scruff of his neck. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Let me go,’ the man squirmed and pointed to his skullcap. ‘I came for the prayers.’

‘Is that so? Then why are you not in the mosque?’

‘Neither are you!’ The man pointed at Raghav’s head and started to wriggle harder. But Raghav’s hold was firm. The next instant he smashed his foot hard on Raghav’s and twisted suddenly to free himself. Instead he found his wrists handcuffed behind him.

Raghav brought his face within inches of the man’s and said darkly, ‘Time to start praying!’

He hauled him to the police station for questioning. Several hours of interrogation, questions interspersed with blows, yielded nothing. The man, bruised and battered, insisted he was a worshipper, yet could provide no proof of residence. And the digital camera had revealed his peculiar photographic preoccupation—the photos were all of the north side of the monument capturing its rear, the terrace gallery and the views of the monument from across the Yamuna.

This unusual interest bothered Raghav and he wondered if he had missed this man’s accomplices, one of whom might be Aurangzeb....

Delhi

M
ehrunisa and R.P. Singh sat quietly under the patio awning, sipping tea as rain fell around them. At one point, Mehrunisa looked up and yelped in surprise. Professor Kaul’s face was framed in the window of his bedroom, which looked out onto the patio. He was gazing in their direction, his eyes alert. She clasped her mouth in amazement—Professor Kaul had not got out of bed of his own volition for almost a week.