The Taj Conspiracy (36 page)

Instead, two scruffy youths pounced upon him. The cops swung to apprehend the men, the priest started wailing and a thug kicked a constable in the shin and landed him on the floor. A fierce fight ensued.

The men were either fearless or high or both, and while lacking any martial moves they spun furiously, flailed their arms and attacked the cops with fisticuffs, kicks and blows. Brass puja vessels clanged in the room as they were struck amidst thumps and smacks. Finally, the ruffians were restrained and marched off. Singh, bleeding from a cut on his chin, instructed his men to hustle the captives to the riverside where they wouldn’t be visible to the assembly in front of the monument.

Meanwhile, he ordered another unit to quickly remove all signs of a temple and restore the room to its original state. Singh had no knowledge of antiques, but he could have sworn the provenance of the lingam and Nandi was ancient. Arun Toor had ensured that the faking of the Shiva temple was, to all appearances, genuine.

Taking a few men with him he continued his search for the loudspeaker and the man inciting the mobs.

It was nearly 4 p.m., and the feeble January daylight was dying. Dusk had descended abruptly, as it did in the north during winter. The cordon of Naga sadhus and manic young ruffians had held firm.

In the intervening hours, the heaving crowd had forced its way into every inch of available space in the complex. The enterprising folk who first entered the gardens had a ringside view of the mausoleum while the multitude had decided to bide its time. A few had curled up for a quick snooze, others were partaking of snacks and flinging bits to curious monkeys who descended frequently for a hasty grab.

Meanwhile, the ornamental pool—set into a white marble platform where the central walkway intersected the east-west walkway—had become one long pond for washing hands. The elegant cypresses lining the path became makeshift, open-air toilets for full bladders.

Somewhere in the charbagh, closer to the Mihman Khana, Mehrunisa slumped against the enormous trunk of a red silk cotton tree, attempting to straighten out her thoughts.

When the Muslim worshippers decamped from Dassehra Ghat, Mehrunisa, Pamposh, the gnome with his dozen langurs, all under the supervision of the cop assigned by SSP Raghav, had used the same boat to return. They had alighted on the eastern side and, crouching, made their way up to the monument where the cop and his team were allowed entry by the tense police.

Mehrunisa spotted several plainclothes policemen mingling in the crowd, quietly cornering the visible ringleaders and silently plucking them out of the crowd. The saffron youths, visibly intoxicated, were being similarly siphoned away. But it seemed too little, too late. Beside her, Pamposh watched the melee and studied her wristwatch anxiously.

Abruptly the loudspeaker crackled again.

Brothers and sisters, the time has come to witness the miracle you have been waiting for. Our Lord Shiva will reveal himself through his most potent form: the Shivlingam. Arise and behold the spectacle for yourself. So, when our future history is written, you can proudly tell your grandchildren that you were a part of it. Arise! Bring your hands together in prayer. And from your throats, pour forth praise to Lord Shiva! Har Har Mahadev! Jai Bholenath!

The next instant, the marble plinth on which the marble mausoleum stood was bathed in niveous light. From the ill-lit lawns it appeared to glow like a pearl, and the throng, as if with one pair of eyes, was fixated on it. A cylindrical structure swam up from the plinth. Its black stone radiated against the milky-white marble. A gasp rose from the audience. The shivlingam looked majestic as it rose upward, so smooth and noiseless in its ascent that it seemed like an apparition. A clamour broke through the audience as a delirium of sounds filled the air.

The crowd had started to swoon, literally and otherwise, as the effect of the intoxicating bhang and the miracle of a Shivlingam emerging from nowhere sunk in.

The loudspeaker came on again, announcing that since the devotees had witnessed the sign of Shiva, they were to ascend the plinth, perform their own abhiskekha, and bathe the lingam.

At the announcement, people scrambled to fetch water from the central channel for the ritual washing. Trampling over each other, they jostled towards the eerily glowing black stone.

The riverfront terrace yielded nothing more. R.P. Singh made his way back up the north tower and hurried across to the mausoleum with his men. He could hear the melee and knew that any minute the mob would be tearing inside the tomb chamber. He sent a few cops to man the chamber from outside.

Where was the damn loudspeaker? The transmitter, receiver, wires, audio source, something to give it away...

Around the octagonal chamber he went, flashing his light into corners that were bare as always. He searched in the niches, examined the filigreed screen, poked around the cenotaphs, scrutinised the patterned floor, but found nothing suspicious. He looked up at the cavernous roof faintly lit by the perennial flame of Curzon’s lamp. Its shimmering bronze, inlaid with gold and silver, caught his attention. Flask-shaped, it was a natural storage area and likely to be overlooked. Additionally, it was positioned right above the cenotaphs.

With a silent apology for defiling its sanctity, Singh clambered atop Mumtaz’s cenotaph, torch in mouth. Standing on tiptoe, he tilted the lamp to check if the transmitter had been placed there.

A shadow filled the doorway. Singh looked up. In the light of the torch he saw a masked man with a gleaming knife in his hand. Singh squinted, trying to read the face as he shone the light on him. The masked man swung his head to avoid the glare, and his kaffiyeh slipped to reveal a featureless face.

The psycho monkey-cap chutiya!

Singh ducked, removed the torch from his mouth and switched it off. The man lunged towards him just then, jabbing the air in front of his nose in the darkness. Singh caught his knife-wielding wrist and thrust his boot into the man’s groin. With an
Aagh!
Jara dropped the knife and doubled over.

As Singh caught his breath a shot rang out. Monkey-cap had a pistol aimed at him. Singh scrambled, lost his balance and toppled. As the man made to pull the trigger again, a dark form flew at him, thrusting an elbow into the assailant’s neck.

Jara gave a muffled yelp.

The man who had jumped into the fray swore and toppled sideways clutching his chest. Blood oozed thickly onto the marble floor. SSP Raghav had been shot.

Pakistan-occupied Kashmir

I
n his snowy hideout Jalaluddin listened intently to the radio his mujahid assistant had excitedly handed to him.

An anxious voice announced that a mob of Shiv bhakts had laid hostage to the Taj Mahal with the claim that the trident atop the mausoleum dome was shaking. They claimed that the trembling of Shiva’s trishul was a sign that the monument was a Shiva temple waiting to be reclaimed. The grave male voice said the police estimated the number of people crowded into the Taj Mahal complex to be in the thousands. However, they affirmed the situation was under control.

Jalaluddin looked up with a smile of pure delight spreading on his rough face: bared teeth, crinkled eyes, whiskers twitching in humour. He laughed a deep-chested theatrical laugh as he handed the radio back to the young mujahid. ‘Time for some fresh tea and toffee to celebrate! They don’t need us,’ Jalaluddin sneered, as the men gathered in the cave smirked joyously. ‘The kafirs are their own worst enemies, they’ll destroy themselves!’

Agra

L
ed by young men with shiny faces and manic eyes, eager people swarmed up the plinth of the mausoleum as they headed to the riverfront rooms where the promised proof of Shiva lay. However, the mob found nothing in the barren rooms and retreated sullenly.

They prowled through the tomb chamber, descended to the lower chamber— where the only items of note were the twin tombs—and the riverfront rooms, then ran across the sandstone platform in search of some visible signs of Shiva.

Single-minded in their pursuit, they did not notice a bleeding Raghav coiled up on the marble floor.

Meanwhile, R.P. Singh gave chase to Jara. As he reached the door the shuffling man disappeared into the crowd. However, to Singh’s stupefaction, the crowd was in retreat.

It was a scene straight out of
Ramayana
, thought Singh. Like the vanar sena had descended upon the battlefield to rout the demon king Ravan’s army, hordes of monkeys had now descended onto the gardens of the Taj complex.

Tumbling down trees, bounding over bushes, chattering wildly, they dispersed through the crowd. Swinging from one human shoulder to another, springing off backs, dangling from sari pallus, they scampered over the sea of humanity. In turn, their wild antics, loud chattering and furious flailing triggered the crowd into a panic.

Policemen, unsure thus far, swung into action as they captured the ringleaders who were attempting to stay the crowd.

Singh burst into loud laughter. The tension of the last several hours erupted into a roar, a
Hooha
!, as he pumped the air and filled his lungs with whoops of pure relief.

Next, he headed for the glistening Shivalingam, suddenly bereft of its worshippers. A few determined stragglers hung about. Singh walloped them and shoved them forward to examine the stone closely. A cheap, lightweight black stone imitation sat atop a jack that rested on the staircase leading below. Mehrunisa had explained how that staircase led to the rooms in the riverfront terrace. Toor had attempted to project that an ancient Shivalingam was rising from the basement of the Taj, but the duplicate was likely sourced from Kinari bazaar.

‘Chor chutiyas!’ he cuffed the men who were prancing around to escape his beating. ‘Even the monkeys know better than you!’

As the men were handcuffed, Singh headed back to the tomb chamber with two cops. SSP Raghav’s face was wan, his right hand clasped across his chest, his shirtfront was scarlet. He squinted in recognition and attempted to speak.

R.P. Singh gripped his hand fiercely. ‘You saved my life, SSP.’

Raghav mouthed something but no sound came.

‘We are in control now. But we have to rush you to a hospital—you’ve lost a lot of blood.’ With one last firm grip, he let go of Raghav’s hand and helped the men lift him up.

Delhi

S
hri Kriplani had followed the events unfolding at the Taj Mahal with the jingoistic keenness of his countrymen when watching an Indo-Pak cricket match. Except for the one media interview, he stayed closeted in his office as the television set spit images of a saffron sea of bhakts surging against the curdled-milk of the marble. It was incredible, but things were working so well that this time he might have the result of Babri Masjid without the infamous association!

However, as the drama at the Taj Mahal fizzled out in front of his bewildered eyes, his political antenna set about recalibrating his response. After which he called for an emergency press conference that was telecast live.

In his persuasive professorial voice he urged people not to pay attention to a charlatan making false claims in the name of Lord Shiva about trembling tridents. The most feared and revered God of the Hindu Trinity did not require puny zealots to usurp recognisable Mughal monuments in his name. Shiva’s glory was
aparampar
, limitless. He called upon devout bhakts to observe Shivratri in its true spirit of worship and meditation and purge their mind of falsity. Jai Shiv Shankar!