The Taj Conspiracy (28 page)

The peon walked in, a steaming teacup on a tray with Marie biscuits. ‘Bhushan sahib,’ he said conversationally, ‘was travelling a lot overseas. But when back in the office, he’d stay put. Lately, that has changed. He is visiting various circles.’

‘Is that so?’

‘And to way-out places! Surprise checks!’ he grinned. ‘Keeps them on their toes, he says.’

Hmm, Mehrunisa acknowledged.

‘Now, he is so charged up—hardly ever in the office.’

Something in the man’s words made Mehrunisa pay attention.

Car tyres squealed in the driveway and the peon turned to the window. ‘He’s here,’ he muttered and made to exit hastily.

A short while later Raj Bhushan was sitting opposite Mehrunisa. His hair, probably moist from the drizzle, was slicked back, and despite the day spent working, he looked fresh and ... Mehrunisa’s mind searched for the right adjective. Raj Bhushan was youthful-looking and had evidently freshened up in the washroom before joining her, but tonight he looked positively virile.
Virile
, yes!

Now he beamed at her, his smile making his mouth upturn wondrously like a monkey’s. An instant later, as he heard her out, it faded.

Sitting upright in the straight-backed chair, Mehrunisa had coolly enquired, ‘Why did you lie about your presence at the Taj the night of Arun’s murder?’ She had decided on a direct approach, betting that an accusation might ferret out the truth.

If a smile could turn menacing, Raj Bhushan’s just had. It still curved in that deep U, but the mirth had gone out of it. His eyes held her in a fixed stare.

A snort broke the silence. ‘In-your-face? Is that your preferred approach, Mehrunisa?’

‘It has its advantages, don’t you agree?’

‘Meaning what? That I will be startled into coming clean? Why would I, for what proof could you have?’ He leaned forward, his stare still pinning her to the spot.

‘Considering I left none behind.’

The rain had gained intensity; raindrops fell like lead balls on the windowsill, ricocheting in her ears. She wanted to move, make a gesture, a sound, anything that would release her from the trap of Raj Bhushan’s steady unblinking stare from behind his glasses. That stare was so intense ... and its intensity reminded her of someone else ...
Arun
! Yes, Arun had that same habit. Mehrunisa had seen him exercise it on his staff when he felt they were stalling on a request he had made: he would cock his head and subject his opponent to a mutinous protracted scrutiny. In a couple of intense debates, she had suffered that same treatment. Funny that Arun and his boss should have a similar mannerism. Before Mehrunisa could hold the thought any longer, Raj Bhushan interjected. His voice was soft, even.

Too even, Mehrunisa registered, for a man who had just been accused of a grave wrongdoing.

‘I am a careful man, Mehrunisa. I pride myself on being rational. Too often human beings are driven purely by their emotions—as you seem to be now. You have come into my office, accusing me—although indirectly—of murder. You have not offered any proof in support of your hypothesis, and you sit there, presumably unarmed, in the presence of a supposed murderer. Is that sensible on your part, Mehrunisa?’

He was angry, no, furious, and in that moment Mehrunisa did not know whether Raj Bhushan was genuinely outraged, or if he was a sassy cat toying with an absurd mouse.

‘Yes, I was present at the Taj the night Arun was murdered. But I did not see anything noteworthy,’ he shrugged, ‘anything that could have provided the police with leads. It was a routine meeting, we discussed a few details, and I left. Since I had nothing to reveal, I thought it prudent to avoid telling the police about the meeting. My first priority was to avoid any scandal around the Taj. You know the number of twenty-four-hour news channels in this country? A story like this would have given them fodder for weeks. It was bad timing; you know we’re seeking additional funds for the conservation of the Taj Mahal.’

Mehrunisa continued to regard him stonily.

The director-general gave a long sigh and held up his hands. ‘Look, you’ve heard the phrase: no free lunch. Well, Taj Mahal subverts that particular economic principle brilliantly. For a four-hundred-year-old monument, its structure is remarkably sound—it has survived earthquakes, lightning and floods. Yet, it suffers severely. Ten years ago, iron foundries, glass and leather industries, marble mining and the Mathura Refinery were the culprits, but now the Taj faces new threats. Vehicular population, chronic power shortage, and three national highways that crisscross the city, are adding to the pollution.

‘The sandstone gets less attention, yet it is in a more precarious condition because of its porosity. Not to mention the wearing out of the pavement on the garden walkways and terrace floors from two million annual visitors! And that number is only going to increase. Forty-five million people voted the Taj as a new Wonder of the World—surely some of them will be trudging up here soon!’

Raj Bhushan paused. He stood up, hands on hips and looked squarely at Mehrunisa.

‘The marble is rapidly being stained yellow, the Yamuna stinks to high hell, we are perennially short of funds for maintenance and conservation ... yet, who cares?’

His defence of the Taj Mahal, while spirited, had little to do with the murder of Arun Toor. Mehrunisa veered the discussion back. ‘Why not let the police decide whether your disclosure could offer any leads?’

Raj Bhushan opened his hands and held them out in front of him, ‘I ran the scene over and over in my mind, Mehrunisa. We met in Arun’s study. We were alone. Nobody interrupted us. I left within an hour.’

‘Why didn’t the staff see you? The security guards?’

‘It was a cold night, and wet. Much like tonight. Most of them were probably indoors, I guess, staying warm. And I usually use Sirhi Darwaza.’

The Taj Mahal complex could be entered through one of three gates leading into the Jilaukhana, the forecourt. The east and west gates were those commonly used by tourists. The south gate of Sirhi Darwaza—from Taj Ganj—was more difficult to reach.

‘Why would you use the south gate? You’ve to go through a crowded bazaar to access it.’

‘Routine—helps avoid the tourists.’

‘At night?’

Raj Bhushan blinked. ‘Habit, I said.’

‘Was any staff aware of your visit?’

‘I have a key to let myself in. Besides, my visit was not pre-planned. I happened to be in the vicinity, inspecting the new excavation at Fatehpur Sikri. I dropped in to discuss a few things with Arun.’

‘Was he expecting you?’

Raj Bhushan smirked, ‘You make a good interrogator, Mehrunisa—never losing track.’ He paused before answering. ‘I called him. From my mobile phone. I guess you will want to get the records checked?’

Mehrunisa stayed silent.

Gamely, Raj Bhushan continued, ‘But you haven’t told me how you figured out I was at the Taj Mahal that evening.’

Mehrunisa proceeded to divulge Arun’s remark to her regarding a visit from Aurangzeb, and her discovery of that particular moniker in relation to Raj Bhushan. However, she refrained from disclosing Professor Kaul’s warning.

Raj Bhushan looked amused, like he was laughing at some private joke. ‘That’s good deduction Mehrunisa, except it’s not proof.’

‘What is so amusing?’

‘You. You would make a fine Miss Marple but for your age. So, what is the verdict? Guilty or not?’

Mehrunisa knew her one strength was a quality regularly attributed to her, albeit deprecatorily: glacial. Now, summoning her best imperturbable façade, she said with a hint of a smile, ‘Inconclusive, shall we say, on grounds of insufficient evidence.’

‘How courteous, my dear,’ Raj Bhushan said with a tilt of his head. ‘And now, you’ll have to excuse me, I do have other matters to take care of, besides clearing my name.’

With a genial smile, he started to walk her towards the door. At the arched doorway, he said, ‘My regards to Professor Kaul. Does he remember me?’

Mehrunisa looked him straight in the eye.

‘He remembers Aurangzeb.’

Bateshwar

T
he head priest of the main temple at Bateshwar squinted his eyes at the pamphlet. It was late evening, the prayers were done and he was getting ready to close. The youth who had handed it to him was dressed in baggy pants, coarse sweater and an orange headscarf. In the glow of the brass lamps, the priest studied his face and knew he was not a local.

The youth started to speak in a curious monotone. His eyes, though, burned with fire as he narrated how his father was set aflame by the Muslims, how a guru showed him the way to Lord Shiva, how he was saved. The day of the great unveiling was on the horizon when the Truth would be revealed to all.

Read on, the youth jabbed at the paper.

The priest, befuddled, turned to the paper in his hand.

The Taj Mahal is a Shiva temple.

Why, he had heard that story before! He read the text slowly in the manner of one who doesn’t spend much time reading. He had studied till Class 2 and then begun assisting his father. His family had been priests at the temple for generations. It was the largest of the riverfront temples, by virtue of which it had been ordained as the main temple. Which was the way it had been for a long time.

Now, though, visitors came for the Chambal safari, took boat rides to view the 101 temples and stopped for darshan. He had slowly seen the temple he presided over grow in importance. The gathering of Shiv bhakts over Shivratri had swelled. The temple coffers were brimming like never before. If, indeed, the Taj Mahal was to be declared a Shiva temple, the path ahead was paved with increasing prosperity. If the Taj Mahal joined Bateshwar as a Shiva pilgrimage centre, and even a fraction of its traffic came to Bateshwar’s main temple....

He stopped reading midway. There was enough proof here for any doubter. Besides, whoever had crafted this document, was indeed very knowledgeable. A man stepped into the temple. He was dressed in a kurta-pyjama, sleeves rolled up to reveal bulging biceps, his hands clasping the orange muffler around his neck. His eyes bored into the priest as he sauntered forward out of the shadows. The priest gulped on recognising the Agra strongman who was also the go-to man for the local BHP leader.

He clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder and the youth deposited a briefcase in front of the priest. Eyes glued on him, the strongman urged him with his chin to open it.

‘For you,’ the youth said, ‘to do as you’re told.’

The priest realised his palms were suddenly moist. Wiping them on the shawl draped over his bare chest, he smiled nervously in the direction of the two men. He lifted the lid of the case—it was full of rupee notes arranged in neat rows. His eyes widened with wonder as if he had seen the Lord himself.

‘Tell your people about the proof,’ the youth resumed in his flat tone. ‘Spread the knowledge that Lord Shiva’s pilgrim centre includes what is known as the Taj Mahal.’

The priest was gazing at the youth blankly, the sight of so much money had driven all thoughts from his mind.

Suddenly the strongman bent down and slammed the lid of the case shut. The sound reverberated in the empty hall.

The priest recoiled as if he had been lashed at.

‘The Lord will need his bhakts,’ the strongman said in a voice that sounded like low thunder rolling across the hall. ‘Can he count on you?’

The reputation of the strongman preceded him—he was famous for an extensive police record that included lynching, rape, rioting and murder, and the curious fact that despite that record he had never served a jail sentence.

The priest bit his lip as he nodded. A chill had caught hold of his body. He was shivering all over.

‘Otherwise...’ the man leaned in to the priest, bowed his head, and studied the priest’s belly flab that was jiggling nervously. The dim light cast his face in shadow as it made pinpricks in his eyes.

‘Otherwise,’ he bared his teeth, ‘you know me.’

Delhi

R
.P. Singh gatecrashed the home minister’s luncheon with the minister of tribal affairs. While the latter glowered at him, the home minister excused himself to talk privately with the officer he had handpicked to solve the Taj conspiracy.

He had grudging respect for Singh’s work—it got results although his methods were debatable. However, the Oxbridge lawyer had learnt in his long years as a senior politician that some hands needed to get dirty to ensure the nation’s gears kept churning. In his crisp white shirt and white mundu, he strode to his office. Instructing his assistant that they were not to be disturbed, he walked up to his desk.

‘I presume this couldn’t wait,’ he said, in a voice that was curt and not to be trifled with. He had never laid store by small talk and, for a politician, he had the unusual reputation of a man who brooked no nonsense from anyone, be it journalist or industrialist.

He listened intently as R.P. Singh outlined the developments in the case. His face maintained its famous passivity as Singh’s narration ended. A case that had started with the murder of the Taj supervisor, followed by an incendiary pamphlet alleging the Hindu origin of the Taj Mahal, looked set to turn even more serious if indeed vans with shrieking cries were roaming Taj Ganj. Singh was convinced of Kriplani’s hand in the affair, but would the BHP leader, with his prior record, take such a gamble? Indicating that Singh take a seat, he swivelled in his chair to study a lush potted palm in one corner, bathed in wintry sunlight.

Finally, he asked, ‘What sort of attack do you anticipate?’

‘I wouldn’t put anything past them, Sir. You’re aware how two months back the BHP youth cadre vandalised the Taj Mahal by forcibly entering the monument on a Friday. They wanted to bathe in the small tank that is used for ablutions outside the mosque. When an ASI official ordered the tank emptied, they scribbled “Jai Sri Ram” on the walls of the Taj.’ Singh wished the minister would look him in the eye. ‘My advice, Sir, would be to prepare for the worst and hope for the best.’

‘When do you think will be the date of attack?’

R.P. Singh spoke to the minister’s profile. ‘I expect it to occur in the run-up to Republic Day.’