The Taj Conspiracy (35 page)

In six hours the crowd had swelled to well over forty thousand. At some point they had sullenly watched defiant Muslims enter for their namaaz. That incident had passed without a scuffle as an entire battalion of policemen guided the worshippers into a phalanx and deposited them into the monument.

The multiple police and CISF contingents were armed and in place, the snipers were alert in watchtowers, a helicopter whirred overhead, yet Singh knew that the home minister had been correct in his estimation. Arun Toor was planning a very public heist and the only way out was to locate him, capture him and spirit him away before he revealed himself.

But where the hell was Toor?

He had severely underestimated the swell of religious fervour and the consequent public hysteria—something Toor had counted on as a fulcrum on which to successfully turn his plan.

The crowd was growing belligerent as shouts claiming that the trident was shaking rippled through the gathering. People craned their necks and heaved and shifted anew. Those who had clambered atop some nearby trees reported jubilantly at frequent intervals—at which the crowd broke into chants of ‘Jai Jai Mahadev’.

Eager cameramen had descended on the scene to report the unfolding drama live. Star TV, Zee, Aaj Tak—the logos on their equipment proclaiming their identity—were besieged by devotees eager to share their particular experience. One news reporter, with frizzy hair and an aggressive twitch in the eye, was threading her way through the clamouring men, asking them why they were there, what they had seen, and the ramifications of a Hindu trishul atop the central dome of a mausoleum.

Gathering several cops, R.P. Singh headed to the mausoleum again.

The bhang boys had not been caught. And SSP Raghav, at the great gate, had witnessed its slow but sure effect on the gradually inebriated behaviour of many devotees. He wondered what the Muslim worshippers, who had gone inside earlier, were doing.

Throw open the gates! Throw open the gates!
The demand rose again, followed by the chant
Throw open! Throw open!

Out with the sons of Babur! Muslims in a Hindu temple, Hai Hai
!

The crowd would look to break into the complex soon—he had seen several young men with saffron-headbands weaving their way through the throng. As he followed their movements he realised they were initiating the chants and declamations, which the crowd regurgitated. Clearly, those were the assigned troublemakers. And soon they would light a friggin match. He had conveyed it to R.P. Singh, with whom he was in constant communication.

Abruptly, a voice crackled through the air, carried over a powerful loudspeaker. A hush descended on the crowd as all eyes searched for its source.

Brothers and sisters! Welcome to Tejo Linga, the thirteenth Linga of our Lord Shiva! Forget the nonsense you have been told so far. This beautiful marble monument, famous around the world as India’s pride and glory, was not built by any Mughal emperor. No! That is blasphemy! This is the ancient temple of Bholenath, our innocent Lord Shiva. For too long it has been sullied. But the time has come to correct the grievous damage. It is time to reclaim what rightfully belongs to us! And in this the Lord himself has come to guide us. Behold, as in fury, he has set his trident shaking. You all know what that means. Our Lord is in Rudra form, he wants his bhakts to witness his trident trembling. So, come forth! You will find the entrance door miraculously open— come in and witness with your own eyes Mahadev’s trident shaking in fury!

Jai Mahadev! Har Har Mahadev! Jai Bholenath!

The next instant a stampede began. The mob, believing the door would open, headed toward it, forcing their way through. The multiple files of policemen attempted to hold their ground but were brushed aside like soldiers in front of marauding elephants of war. Bamboo staves flew through the air. Plexiglas shields were crushed underfoot. Cameramen crashed to the ground with their equipment.

Raghav flattened himself against the red sandstone wall. The next instant everything blurred as frantic, frenetic human motion obscured his line of vision. The watchtower snipers, the additional police, the chopper, all were useless against the rolling glob of unarmed fanatics.

The offensive on the Taj Mahal commenced from the south side and a simultaneous exodus began from the river-facing north side. The Muslims who had forged their way through a burgeoning sea of Hindu devotees in order to offer namaaz heard the loud chants, sensed the swelling numbers in the Jilaukhana complex, and understood that exit from the south side would be akin to inviting slaughter. An emissary was therefore despatched to Dassehra Ghat to hire a boat. However, Friday being a lean day, no boat was moored on that bank of the Yamuna. So the emissary swam across the river, returning with a couple of dinghys in which the Muslims departed just as the stampede started. The ones who couldn’t clamber aboard leapt into the water and started to swim, a few managing to stay afloat by hanging on to the helping hands thrust from the boat.

However, unknown to them, some ‘Muslims’ had elected to stay behind. Earlier, during prayers in the mosque, Jara, dressed for a change in Muslim garb, his face shrouded in a checked keffiyeh, had climbed out of his subterranean burrow, mingled with the crowd with his accomplices who were also masquerading as Muslim worshippers, and slipped to the boarded-up rooms in the riverfront terrace.

Inspector Bharadwaj of the CISF ensured that they weren’t noticed by the security. He had taken care to put a particularly vigilant CISF officer out of action. Inspector Javed, overcome by chloroform, was slumped inside a locked police van parked in one corner of the complex.

Once inside, they retrieved the Shiva artefacts Jara had spent days storing in a location within the riverfront terrace rooms—in the ceiling of the last room a secret trapdoor opened into an overhead chamber. It was so well concealed as to escape the attention of anyone who did not have prior knowledge of its position. Not a word was spoken as, briskly, each man set to his task arranging the antiques intended for discovery by the Shiv bhakts who were storming in.

Like a tsunami the crowd rolled in, thundering through the gardens and the paved walkways. Squeezing through the narrow entrance, it burst with renewed vigour and diffused rapidly down the complex.

As the first wave approached the mausoleum, the loudspeaker came alive again, urging them to halt before the marble mausoleum. The devotees were to assemble in the gardens to witness another miracle. Once they had beheld the full glory of Mahadeva, the Shiv bhakts could enter and rightfully reclaim the temple. Meanwhile, the voice exhorted, look up, and witness the miraculous shaking trident!

Even as the loudspeaker was issuing its dictum, a cordon of Naga sadhus and young men with saffron headbands formed around the mausoleum. As they stood aggressively guarding the access routes, one of the CISF policemen brandished his rifle at them. The next instant a Naga sadhu leapt up, grappled with him and they rolled to the ground. Another Naga sadhu grabbed the rifle and examined it with glee. Meanwhile, a cop made to assist his colleague when the rifle rang out loudly.

The people in the crowd nearest to the mausoleum cowered and dived to the ground even as the Naga sadhus celebrated. The cordon shouted slogans, waved trishuls and exhorted the assembly to hunker down as the sadhu jigged and brandished the trophy rifle. Inspector Bharadwaj of the CISF shouted to his men to back off, their actions were exciting the crowd and people could get seriously injured.

SSP Raghav, unaware of the action ahead and surrounded by the eagerly muscling bodies in the crowd, allowed himself to be carried forward into the Taj complex. He narrowed his eyes and examined the trident. The pinnacle, viewed from that distance, was no more than a speck atop the dome. One could always claim it was shaking—there was no way to verify it. Nevertheless, people craned their necks, and rewarded their effort by agreeing wholeheartedly that the trident was indeed trembling.

Delhi

F
or once, reality had exceeded his wildest expectation. Shri Kriplani was glued to the television set, the glass of urine forgotten on the sideboard. The Lord fulfilled himself in many ways and here He was manifest in his devout bhakts. The omens were right—he was on track to seize the reins of the nation.

TV channels across the country were attempting to outdo one another in the coverage of the sensationalist development at the Taj Mahal. As they broadcast the continuing action at the monument live, they held panel discussions with eminent intellectuals, bureaucrats, statesmen, and artists in their studios, and laid siege to the headquarters of political parties in order to procure the views of leading politicians.

As the morning wore on, an army of media personnel took position outside. Not wanting to project any sign of excessive keenness, Shri Kriplani pretended to go about his daily business as usual. He was stepping out for a routine meeting when he was waylaid by the vociferous media. Yes, he would answer their questions, briefly.

Shri Kriplani of the BHP spoke directly into the cameras, his eyes bright, his smile sanguine, his black bandhgala jacket crisp against the starched white of his kurta.

No, Shri Kriplani shook his head mournfully, he did not approve of what was happening at the Taj Mahal— but then, it was the will of the people. The ordinary god-fearing citizens of India believed that the trident of Shiva rested atop the monument and was shaking. Surely, such faith could not be trivialised.

But, Sir, it might lead to bloodshed, a reporter quizzed.

Shri Kriplani held up both palms, his smile unfaltering. That is the task of police and security. We leave it to them. Jai Bholenath! Jai Shiv Shankar! He held up his hands in an elaborate namaskar and retreated into his waiting car.

Agra

B
ack at the Taj Mahal, R.P. Singh with several cops had gained entry into the mausoleum before the crowds began their surge into the charbagh. Near the base of the eastern riverfront minaret, at the head of the stairs that led down to the riverfront terrace, his ears pricked up. He came to a halt, motioning the men to be quiet. A snatch of muffled sounds had floated up to him.

The iron railing that closed the upper opening of the stairway was in place, but unlocked!

He held his gun in front of him and crept down the stairs, sliding against the marble wall as he went. It got darker as he descended and he took it slow, letting his eyes adjust. Behind him the men followed with similar stealth.

The gallery consisted of a series of rooms arranged in line along the riverfront. Mehrunisa had guided him through the plan first, after which he had checked the gallery himself a couple of times. The musty air was heavy with chill. A policeman coughed and quickly clamped a hand on his mouth.

The first room was ahead. Singh motioned for a torch to be switched on. He paused, beckoned two men to cover him, and then spun into the room. It was bare.

A smell of incense floated up the narrow corridor. Their noses twitched. The faint tinkle of a bell sounded, finishing even before it had begun. And a dull glow appeared up ahead.

Blood pounded in his ears as Singh sped softly down the corridor. He burst into the third room, surprising its engrossed occupants. In the dim light of a square room inside the Tahkhana of the Taj Mahal, a Shiva temple was in the process of being built.

A black stone lingam, garlanded with marigold, stood in the middle of a rangoli pattern. Two brass lamps were aglow in front of it. A bare-chested priest squatted beside it chanting softly, a tiny bell in his right hand. Two men were frozen in the act of positioning a marble Nandi bull against the east wall of the room. Clearly, the miscreants were not only intent on establishing that the Taj Mahal was a Shiva temple once, they were determined to set up a functioning temple right away! What better way to reclaim a temple than by initiating ritual puja.

For a couple of breaths, the entire room was in limbo as the two parties goggled at each other. R.P. Singh was the first off the mark as he pointed his gun at them and yelled, ‘Don’t move!’