The Taj Conspiracy (22 page)

‘Vases filled with flowers have a long tradition in Muslim culture, and in the Indian context they are also related to the concept of prosperity. The Muslims were, after all, rulers to their large Hindu majority. Shah Jahan’s vases had a further symbolism. Paradise in the Quran is imagined as gardens—jannat, rauza—full of trees, flowers, plants and flowing waters. Surely, you recall, the Taj Mahal was conceived and constructed as Mumtaz’s house in Paradise?’

Raj Bhushan shrugged.

‘Sometimes,’ Mehrunisa said coldly, ‘I wonder which side you are on.’

‘No wonder in that, my dear,’ Raj Bhushan said as he uncrossed his leg and straightened the crease of his wool pants. ‘I am on the side of enquiry. You could call me a rigorous sceptic.’

‘So you accept nothing with certainty?’

‘Nothing,’ he nodded. ‘What we can do is to make a set of conclusions, and to each conclusion attach various degrees of probability. Now, it is most
probable
that Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal from scratch. However, there also exist other conclusions which are less probable but nevertheless, have some degree of probability.’

‘Such as the one you just espoused: the Taj Mahal as a Hindu temple?’

‘Truth is elastic-plastic, Mehrunisa. Can you be sure of its coordinates? Between the Hindu kalash and the Islamic crescent, where does the finial of the Taj Mahal lie?’

Raj Bhushan picked at some lint from his sleeve and balled it, rolling it between his right thumb and index finger. Mehrunisa noticed his fingertips were curiously yellowish. Also, his breath had acquired a heavy odour—amidst the debate he had forgotten his mouth freshener, the mint pellets that he popped at regular intervals.

‘The Mughals had a history of razing Hindu temples to the ground and building their mosques, tombs and palaces on them. It started, as you mentioned, with the construction of the first mosque in India within the Qutab complex. Aibak went on to demolish the gigantic Vaishnava temple at Ajmer and build a mosque that is known as Arhai-din-ka-jhunpra. Aurangzeb razed Kashi Vishwanath temple at Varanasi, a Jyotirlinga for the Hindus, and erected a mosque in its place.’ Raj Bhushan’s voice was hoarse. ‘History books are littered with examples—’ He choked on his words, his eyes watering. Clearing his throat, he reached for a bottle of water. ‘Excuse me.’

Outside the air-conditioned car, traffic engorged the highway. Besides the trucks, tourist buses and cars, Mehrunisa spotted a camel-pulled cart, the animal majestically lumbering on the roadside, seemingly impervious to smoke or snarl.

‘The Taj Mahal was a Rajput palace purchased by Shah Jahan!’ Raj Bhushan capped the water bottle and turned towards Mehrunisa, his eyes alight with mischief. For just a brief moment she was reminded of her dead friend, Arun Toor, and his sparring, sportive style of debate. ‘In his own court chronicle,
Padshahnama
, Shah Jahan admits it,’ Raj Bhushan continued, holding his hand out, as if urging her to believe. ‘He mentions that a beautiful grand mansion in Agra was taken from Jai Singh for Mumtaz’s burial.’

Mehrunisa gasped. ‘You know that is false!’ she said.

Raj Bhushan smiled his monkey smile before settling back into his seat. ‘Prove it.’

‘The
Padshahnama
was written by Abdul Hamid Lahauri, Shah Jahan’s historian. One statement by Lahauri—“Va pesh az-in, manzil Rajah Mansingh bud”—has been misinterpreted by some to claim that there originally was a palace of Raja Man Singh of Amber which was taken over from his grandson Mirza Raja Jai Singh and converted. Lahauri never mentioned a palace. He recorded over and over again that it was a piece of land that was selected for the burial and it was acquired in exchange of properties from the emperor’s Khalsah-lands, and that the work began from the very foundations.’

Raj Bhushan remained silent, meditative, his eyes pinning her from behind those fashionable spectacles. For a moment Mehrunisa was distracted by that penetrating gaze.

‘Further, there is no record to show that Raja Man Singh ever built a magnificent palace such as the Taj Mahal at Agra. He did commission the temple of Govinda Devaji at Vrindaban in Uttar Pradesh, and a complete record exists of the construction, including the builders’ names. Surely, if he had built something on the grand scale of the Taj Mahal, there should have been something on record in the family archives of the Jaipur royals?’

Raj Bhushan studied Mehrunisa. After what seemed like a long while, he tipped his head in an elaborate bow. ‘Professor Kaul would be pleased with your scholarship, Mehrunisa. I myself am quite impressed. I must admit I had underestimated the depth of your research.’

At any given moment, Raj Bhushan was the epitome of suaveness, yet Mehrunisa could not shake off the feeling that although he had complimented her, he was somehow angry with her.

Bateshwar

R
iding his motorcycle, Raghav was in Bateshwar within an hour. At the railway crossing he showed the signalman the locket and enquired about the temples. The portly railway employee said that locating the temples would be no problem once he passed the crossing—what else was there in the village? However, he was mystified by the locket and speculated that one of the newly-sprung tourist agencies might be behind it. Apparently, the riverside temples had only been getting attention of late.

The road into the village zig-zagged through the Chambal valley, once notorious for its dacoits. When he reached there he found himself, unsurprisingly, in a sleepy hamlet where everyone knew at once that he was a stranger. His policeman’s uniform drew apprehensive glances. Good, Raghav thought as he parked in front of a temple and walked inside. The priest within gaped at him and enquired timidly if he was there for prayers. Deciding it would be one way to get the priest talking, he nodded. The next instant a plate with offerings was placed in his hand and the priest initiated the prayers, pausing to instruct Raghav in rituals, as a couple of temple assistants joined in the chorus. It was over quickly, after which Raghav was invited for a closer look at the presiding temple deity. Interestingly, he sported a moustache and turban, and was dressed like a rich merchant. What is the deity called, he enquired of the priest. Bateshwar Mahadev, a form of Lord Shiva, the priest said. Very different from the Shiva on the locket, Raghav observed, who was a standard blue, clad in tiger skin, Ganga springing from his topknot.

Raghav should visit at the time of the cattle fair, the priest advised, which was when the village came to life. And at the time of Maha Shivratri, of course. Further queries yielded some inanities on the abundant livestock at the time of the fair. He was looking to exit when there was a rustle as another worshipper walked in, and the priest hurried to him.

Outside the temple, Raghav descended the steps to the riverbank. A Naga sadhu sat meditating, his ash-smeared torso naked in the cold except for a shawl draped over his shoulders. A trident was planted in the ground, its three prongs decked with marigold. A shout sounded and Raghav turned to see a boatman waving to him from the ghat.

The boatman had few teeth but was very chatty. He wore a threadbare sweater, scrunched-up dhoti and a thin muffler tied turban-like around his head. Raghav could not turn down his offer of a ride up the Yamuna—a paltry twenty-five rupees.

As they glided past the whitewashed temples, Raghav learnt that there were 101 temples originally, of which less than half remained. He spotted several ash-smeared ascetics on the bank as well.

‘Many Naga sadhus here?’ he asked the boatman.

‘Bateshwar is the home of Shiva, and they are his bhakts.’

The lack of teeth made the boatman’s voice sound like a whistle. Raghav had to strain his ears to catch the words sprinkled in that breathy passage of air.

The boatman waved a scrawny arm at the cliffs rising around them. ‘They live in caves in the mud walls of the ravine. You should see them at Maha Shivratri when they descend upon the ghats.’ He gave a sly toothless grin. ‘Then the cameramen from Delhi come to click more than just the temples!’

Raghav recalled a stint he had done at a Kumbh mela once. Ash-smeared, dreadlocked Naga sadhus were fiercely clannish and a fight had broken out between two groups. It didn’t help that they were high on bhang, which they consumed religiously as Shiva’s favoured drink.

‘You get good business at that time?’ Raghav asked the man.

‘Na,’ he shook his head. ‘Those days when kings and royalty and noblemen used boats are no more. Who has the time? Where do you come from, Inspector?’

‘Agra,’ Raghav replied.

‘And did you come down by boat? No, see! I could take you up to Agra, and drop you right beside the Taj Mahal. But would you be interested? No. No one has the time.’ He clucked his dismay.

‘Really?’ Raghav said surprised. It was entirely logical, but he had always seen the Yamuna beside the Taj clogged with plastic and garbage. Here, of course, the water was bountiful. This year though, even the Yamuna behind the Taj was at its high mark. Something about that vision made him pause. He was trying to figure out why when his mobile beeped.

Constable Dayal. Whom he had instructed to examine the undergrowth on the riverbank opposite the Taj Mahal.

‘Yes,’ Raghav barked.

What he heard next made him forget all about Bateshwar, its temples and a leisurely boat ride back to Agra. Clamping a hundred rupee note in the perplexed boatman’s hand, he was off like the proverbial Chambal valley dacoit. Weaving his motorcycle between grain trucks and laden trolleys, he was on site within an hour.

A shaken Dayal met him at the periphery and wordlessly started to lead him. Tall grass engulfed them as they crunched their way inwards where the growth was thickest. What Raghav saw next loosened his bowels—he had to either shit or vomit urgently. He believed he had seen a lot in his two-decade career—rape, murder, bestiality—yet, this plumbed the depths of human depravity.

Sprawled in the crushed grass were two large portions of a serpent, probably a python, ruptured in half. From within the split belly of the beast a partial human body was visible. All manner of bugs were crawling over the raw flesh. Raghav had to look away to keep the rising bile in check. He took several deep breaths and steadied his nerves.

‘Sir,’ the constable whispered, ‘the corpse still has clothes on. See.’

Raghav forced himself to look. Bizarre as it sounded, the ruptured python had indeed thrown up a hacked, but clothed, human cadaver from its belly. The kurta was congealed in gunge, but the colour stood out: vibrant pink.

A frisson of electricity sped up Raghav’s spine. The scene was ghastly, yet it had offered a glimmer of hope—the Taj conspiracy case could be solved ... there was no mistaking that bright pink kurta. He had last seen it on the corpse of Supervisor Toor before it vanished from the morgue.

Diary

M
y mother has always been the centre of my life, and—despite her death ten years back—she still is. When she passed away, at the young age of forty-five, she had the well-preserved look of beautiful women who age so gracefully that their beauty grows, instead of diminishing.

I could not bear to be parted from her. However, death is a given for all mortals. It is also the case that the old die before the young and I knew my mother would exit this world before I did. Two incontrovertible facts that I had to fight. So I trained myself for the eventuality. And if you prepare well, it is amazing how much you can actually accomplish that would normally be deemed impossible.

Now, ten years later, my mother’s presence in my life continues to be strong and I can see her as and when I like. Though, I must hasten to mention, I have to be discreet—I have lost my mother once, I cannot afford to lose her yet again.

She is central to my life and yet, even when scouting my home, none would be able to tell. It is our secret, my mother’s
and mine. The pride of my living room is in its centre. During a visit to the interiors of Rajasthan, I came across an old decaying haveli, its habitable areas apportioned into a teashop, a tyre-repair shop and digs where barefoot children ran about playing hide-and-seek. Amidst the general squalor, a remarkable wooden door still hung from an interior room. The panel was partitioned into sixteen squares, and within each square a different animal was carved in relief—a peacock, a pair of monkeys, a tiger, an elephant. It was rather unique and I had the panel pulled from the loose hinges. No one raised a brow; I was a government officer, and I handed out some dole in parting. Back in Delhi, I consulted another expert who confirmed my estimate: it was a rare piece dating from the early nineteenth century.

I crafted a centre table using my discovery. My large iron trunk, painted black, topped by the carved teak panel mounted with a thick glass panel. The complete piece looks rather attractive, modern yet traditional, and serves my purpose. Nothing less would do for my mummy. I am sure she is pleased.

Jaipur

P
amposh’s residence—a sprawling haveli—never failed to amaze Mehrunisa. The Pandits had been residents of the city for generations since the head of the family had entered the service of the Jaipur royals. Pamposh had moved to Jaipur to live with her paternal grandfather after her father was killed in a terrorist attack in 1991. Since her father was an only child, there was no other claimant to the sandstone mansion except a reluctant Pamposh.

She did not like the undue attention and the concomitant assumption of wealth the haveli drew to her. She would sell it off, she complained, except where would she find her roots—that subterranean thing that secures us in this world? Srinagar, she would sigh, had been taken away from her, and Jaipur, she could not afford to lose. Officious relatives suggested she convert the haveli into a heritage hotel and live off tourist earnings. But Pamposh was a woman with a mind of her own. The reports of rising incidents of female foeticide in the state of Rajasthan caught her attention. While the underlying factor was a feudal mindset, it was compounded by the lack of orphanages. The nineteenth-century haveli was built around a central courtyard: Pamposh converted the east L-wing into an orphanage and children’s school; the west served as her residence.