The Taj Conspiracy (23 page)

Mehrunisa had called from Delhi to inform Pamposh of her visit and had been invited, along with Raj Bhushan, to come over after their work was done and spend the night at the haveli. Now, standing at the nail-studded haveli door, Mehrunisa reflected how much had transpired since their last meeting: both the professor and his beloved monument were facing an insidious adversary.

Pamposh, dressed in an orange phiran, greeted her with a hug before turning to Raj Bhushan who stood behind Mehrunisa. Shaking hands with him, she acknowledged with a nod, ‘We’ve met.’

Pamposh led them down a cold corridor to a large room that was fashioned like a study-cum-bar. In one corner, a fireplace was spitting softly, its amber glow gilding the frescoed walls. Mehrunisa had been in the room once before, when she had visited with Professor Kaul to pay their respects to the patriarch, Pamposh’s grandfather. All Mehrunisa recalled from that visit was the old man’s flowing whiskers and beard.

Now she stood entranced by the vibrant honey-coloured frescoes on the walls depicting women in swirling ghagras, bells on their ankles, their slim arms lifted in intricate dance poses. Another wall depicted three men ready to hunt, the central figure an archer taking aim.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Pamposh interrupted her reverie.

‘Wonder how I never noticed it before...’

Pamposh smiled and indicated an armchair with intricately-carved wooden legs. ‘You were a child—there were other things to hold your attention.’ Pinching the thumb and index fingers together, she tugged at the ends of her mouth.

Mehrunisa smiled at Pamposh’s illustration of her grandfather’s walrus moustache. ‘You remember,’ she said.

‘Of course I remember,’ Pamposh shrugged. ‘I remember everything.’ Looking straight into Mehrunisa’s eyes, she said, ‘
Khosh amadid
.’ It was Persian for welcome.

Mehrunisa acknowledged it with a tilt of her head, recalling the many days they had spent together as children under the roof of her godfather, Professor Kaul. They were sufficiently alike yet exotic enough to each other to enjoy their time together as they exchanged Persian and Kashmiri phrases, customs, stories. The only similar feature they shared was a fair complexion. Pamposh was a fiery electric beauty with sparkling dark eyes, dimples, curly hair and a saucy tongue. Mehrunisa, with her grey-green eyes, straight black hair and a quiet demeanour, could slip in the background as Pamposh held court. Pamposh’s vivacity made others in the room fade.

They had shared a closeness that comes from being put in each other’s company at an early age. In the last decade, however, the two had gone their separate ways, seldom meeting, and Mehrunisa wondered how much they had grown apart.

Meanwhile, Raj Bhushan had been studying the mural of the hunters and he now commented, ‘It would date to the late nineteenth century—it has a mix of European and Rajput art. It is probably quite precious, considering the state in which it has been preserved.’

‘My grandfather was fussy about maintaining his heritage,’ Pamposh acknowledged. In the distance a bell rang. Indicating the bar, she excused herself.

Raj Bhushan proceeded to the side table on which a decanter, some glasses and glass bottles were ranged. He studied the offerings and said, ‘There’s cognac, whiskey, gin—what can I get you?’

‘Ideal weather for a cognac, thank you,’ Mehrunisa said, rubbing her palms together. Outside the window, the glass was foggy from a swirling noon mist. She had started on her cognac when Pamposh strode into the room and stopped, resting her right hand in an angle on her waist, her eyes wide with some hidden merriment as she looked at Mehrunisa.

‘There is a man at my door enquiring after you. Claims he is a CBI officer.’ She had a dancer’s trained ability to widen her eyes without lifting her brows. On a whisper, she added, ‘Why is the police after you, Mehroo?’

Mehrunisa shrugged and smiled, ‘Not to worry,’ and deposited her glass on a side table. How had R.P. Singh traced her to the haveli, and
why
, she wondered.

Meanwhile, Pamposh, apparently relieved by Mehrunisa’s response, continued, ‘He’d be quite handsome, except he’s bald. I like a man with a full head and a beard, if possible—the fun is in figuring what all the fuzz conceals.’ With that she gave a slow, naughty wink in the direction of Mehrunisa and Raj Bhushan.

Mehrunisa thought Pamposh’s gaze lingered on Raj Bhushan’s bearded face far longer than would be considered decent. In that sense Pamposh had not changed, she was still a flirt.

‘So,’ Pamposh asked perkily, her dejihor glinting as she angled her face, ‘does Mehrunisa allow him entry?’

Glaring at her for the double entendre, Mehrunisa walked past saying, ‘I’ll have a word with the officer.’

Mehrunisa could not believe her eyes, yet there could be no doubt. The photograph showed a giant python, some four metres long, ruptured in the middle. From the exploded belly stuck out the remains of a man’s torso and head. Bile rose in her and she lunged for the main door. Throwing it open she rounded the threshold and heaved. As she straightened, R.P. Singh handed her a kerchief.

Mehrunisa wiped her mouth feeling sick and foolish: sick at the gory picture the officer had thrust under her nose, and foolish for having demonstrated weakness.

R.P. Singh studied her with concern. Mehrunisa was still shaking from the exertion. His right hand hovered as if to steady her, but changed course and started to scratch his chin. ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have shown it to you if I could help it.’

Mehrunisa’s mouth was sticky with acid and she wanted to rinse it out. Irritated, she asked, ‘How did you know where to find me?’

Singh shrugged, ‘I called your home.’

R.P. Singh would not have rushed to Jaipur to show her the picture of a ruptured python without reason, she thought, and asked, ‘What’s special about the picture?’

Singh produced a folded sheet from inside his jacket and handed it to Mehrunisa. ‘Copy of the report filed by the investigating constable,’ he said.

Python and dead body found on Yamuna bank opposite Taj Mahal

On Thursday, 20 January, I, Constable Bhole Prasad Dayal stumbled on the remains of a python, and the man it had tried to eat, in the grass on the banks of Yamuna opposite the Taj Mahal. The python was probably unable to digest the body, which caused its stomach to burst, killing it, and discharging the remains of the man.

Further, the body of the man appears to have been sliced in two, which would have had to be done before the snake tried to eat it. I alerted my superior, SSP Raghav of Anti-Terror Squad, who ordered the area to be cordoned off and the body was sent for DNA testing to help identify the person.

The area where the python was found floods easily in the monsoon, and locals have reported sighting a large snake in the undergrowth on occasion.

‘Opposite the Taj Mahal...’ Singh said softly.

Mehrunisa could not get the significance of either report or picture. Was her mind fuzzy from throwing up? She examined R.P. Singh’s face.

‘You don’t see it, do you?’

‘See what?’

‘Here,’ he pulled a cushioned stool from a corner and attempted to get Mehrunisa to sit.

Mehrunisa shrugged his hand away. ‘Don’t patronise me. What is it that I’m not seeing?’

Singh tapped his index finger at the gruesome picture at the spot where the man’s torso emerged from the python’s slit belly. It was a large colour picture and as his finger tapped it repeatedly, Mehrunisa noticed that the man’s torso was clad in a pinkish shirt. As she peered closer at the grainy image, she noticed the man’s face was bearded...

Mehrunisa’s eyes opened wide. Her head jerked up and she looked into R.P. Singh’s eyes. What she saw there confirmed the hypothesis forming in her mind. ‘But ... but ... how could this be?’ Mehrunisa murmured. ‘Who, how-how did this happen?’

‘SSP Raghav is on the case. A DNA test will identify the victim. But it’ll take time. However, if we’re all thinking the same thing, then perhaps we have an ID on the corpse already.’

‘What would Arun be doing in this place?’

‘You mean his corpse. Remember it vanished from the morgue.’

The next instant Mehrunisa’s eyes filled with tears. Her last memory of Arun was the two of them walking back from the tomb towards the Jilaukhana as the supervisor escorted her to the exit. He was smoking, as was his habit. Dressed in one of his trademark colourful kurtas, his beard shaggy, his hair unkempt, he looked like an obsessive lover of the Taj Mahal.

That vibrant, energetic, messy man, full of life and passionate about history, was dead. Had been murdered. What was more gruesome was that his body was found in the belly of a hungry python. What trajectory of fate had taken the Taj supervisor from the splendour of the monument to the innards of a reptile?

A cold dread clutched Mehrunisa’s heart as she eyed the picture again. Before she could escape to the door, she gagged again.

However, this time, the evidence of her dismay and weak stomach was splayed on the shirtfront of R.P. Singh.

Pakistan-occupied Kashmir

J
alaluddin curled his toes under a blanket as he studied the sheets in front of him. Outside, a howling wind hurled the falling rain with fury, routinely pelting some icy showers into the hideout. Stormy weather had cut him off from his courier for two days now. It made things difficult, but the inclement weather hampered the kafir army too....

The flashlight cut a bluish-white swathe through the dark and Jalaluddin peered closer to read. His brow line dipped over his hooked nose as he crouched closer. On the rough wall his shadow looked like a giant raptor swooping to seize its prey.

There were several options of attack. A sutli bomb was the noisiest—its explosion could be heard within a one-kilometre radius. It was easy to source, being a popular firecracker at the Hindu festival of Diwali. He gave a twisted smile. A sutli set off close to the entry gate would divert and distract police for enough time to allow a suicide bomber to smuggle himself in from the main gate.

Another would come in from the riverside. They would quietly bide their time until police reassured visitors that all was fine.

Jalaluddin’s eyes moved to the rear of the cave. Nothing was visible in the pitch black but he feasted his eyes nonetheless on what lay covered beneath a tarpaulin. It had arrived two days back before the weather turned hostile. AK rounds, Pika rounds, some RPG rounds, two-and-ahalf kilograms of RDX, twelve bundles of IED wire ... his chest swelled with the count. The ISI sure knew how to arm an operation.

A gust of wind made the flashlight wobble. Jalaluddin adjusted the beam and returned to the plan.

When the monument was throbbing with people again, two suicide bombers would simultaneously pull the plug. As the two men ascended heavenwards, the kafirs would be blown apart, their limbs scattered around their wrecked world wonder.

Jalaluddin stroked his beard, liking what he read. The scene of devastation made him puff up in satisfaction before he proceeded to study the next plan.

Jaipur

R
.P. Singh cleaned his shirt as best he could and then joined the others in Pamposh’s living room, warm from the crackling fireplace. He showed the photograph to the curious gathering, and as it was passed around, he watched their reactions closely: Pamposh, about to vomit, trotted on high heels to a washroom; Raj Bhushan tensed up visibly; Mehrunisa looked morose.

Pouring himself a large peg of Johnnie Walker—Gold Label, he noted appreciatively—Singh settled in a high-backed chair. Raj Bhushan’s head was bent over as he read the police report intently. Singh sipped the whiskey, felt the warm silky texture down his throat, his eyes never leaving the director-general. The man intrigued him.

SSP Raghav had narrated how casually the ASI director-general had dismissed the pamphlet. If the police thought the threat was serious, then why was the man unconcerned?

Pamposh returned then, and standing in the centre of the carpeted room, raised a hand. ‘No more gruesome chatter!’ She gave a shaky smile, ‘Unless you want me to puke and ruin the party.’

Turning to R.P. Singh, she asked formally, ‘I realise you are here on work, and I don’t want to come in the way of police business. So, how can I help?’

R.P. Singh stood up gallantly and shrugged. ‘My work here is done. However,’ he held up his whiskey glass, ‘considering I’ve joined the party, may I stay?’

‘Of course,’ Pamposh smiled broadly before she walked over to a high bar stool and perched on it.

Meanwhile, Raj Bhushan had finished his perusal of the report and kept it aside stiffly. He joined the hostess at the bar, consulted her softly and when she pointed to the drinks cabinet, said ‘Ah!’, and proceeded towards it.

R.P. Singh decided to steer the conversation to the pamphlet alleging the Taj Mahal was a Shiva temple. Contrary to what he had declared to Pamposh, his work wasn’t done until he had witnessed Raj Bhushan tackling the controversial subject.

‘I heard you were shown the pamphlet confiscated in Agra—the one that claims the Taj Mahal is a temple. What do you think of it, Mr Bhushan?’