The Taj Conspiracy (25 page)

At that, Raghav had hinted darkly that he was working on the orders of the home minister himself. When the doctor on duty had remained unimpressed, Raghav made a great show of dialling the minister and thrust the phone beneath the doctor’s nose. ‘Speak!’ he’d said.

At which the doctor, a few shades paler, promised to tackle the case right away. But the DNA result on the recovered torso would still take two days.

Meanwhile, the photographer he had caught in the Taj mosque had thrown up nothing of substance either, and time was ticking. It was R.P. Singh’s surmise that the conspirator was working towards a huge hungama that would disrupt Republic Day, less than a week away.... If the man was a jihadi, it would serve his purpose to disrupt the one day when Indian pride and patriotism was on display. If it was Kriplani, he’d wrest attention to his fundamentalist agenda on a public holiday when folks were glued to television.

The BHP had made Taj Mahal its target before when, on the commemoration of the Urs of Shah Jahan, the monument was opened to visitors free of charge for three days. BHP youth activists who had gathered in Agra to celebrate fifty years of the party’s founding went berserk at the monument, teasing women, urinating publicly, plucking flowers, and rinsing their mouths in the fountains, as officials watched helplessly.

In a classic case of locking the stable after the horse had bolted, a large police contingent had been posted at Taj Mahal after the rampage was over. Afterwards, a spokesperson explained that the city police were preoccupied with security arrangements for senior leader Shri Kriplani’s impending visit for the BHP convention.

Senseless violence at a world-famous monument explained away so casually, and the ineffectuality of the police—all of it made Raghav’s blood boil.

‘Sir,’ the constable intruded upon his thoughts as he laid the day’s newspaper on his table, ‘tea’s getting cold.’

Raghav picked up the paper and started to sip his tea. After a couple of minutes he snorted and flung the paper aside.

‘Sir?’ the constable looked up.

‘Central government has employed some new security personnel: langurs.’

‘Langurs?’

‘To scare away the monkeys around South Block! Defence, external affairs, finance—all these ministries have now been assigned the protection of langurs.’

‘Why?’ The befuddled constable scratched his chin.

‘Apparently the list of monkey achievements includes stealing top secret documents, snapping power cables to computers containing sensitive data, screeching at foreign dignitaries, and biting an Army officer.’

‘Re-ally,’ the assistant said, hidden mirth making him brave as he adopted a convivial tone with his boss. ‘The other day, a monkey brought down a sandstone flower vase from the turret at the Taj Mahal’s entrance gate.’

As the SSP narrowed his eyes, he continued. ‘You know the gate, Sir, from which tourists enter the Taj complex— the monkey took a flying leap from a nearby tree, landed on the turret, and down went the vase, smashing straight onto the entrance passage. Thankfully, no tourist was hurt.’

SSP Raghav snorted again. He reached for the paper, and read, ‘
The fearsome-looking langur monkeys now patrol South Block, to scare away smaller rhesus monkeys, at least 10,000 of which have taken up residence in South Block. The Army chief and his officers, as well as senior public servants at adjoining ministries, now take refuge in caged rooms
!

‘A government and an Army both terrified by monkeys—no wonder terrorists are doing what they want,’ Raghav’s mouth was set as he shook his head. ‘If things continue this way, we will be forced to become refugees in our own country.... Langurs, my ass!’

The assistant sighed his assent and turned to slurp his tea.

Jaipur

A
fter dinner, Pamposh insisted R.P. Singh stay the night at the haveli. Singh said he would check into a hotel, but Pamposh, high on conversation and Scotch, trilled that that would be akin to spurning the hostess and the famed Jaipur hospitality—after all, the city was first painted pink in honour of Queen Elizabeth II, pink being the traditional colour of hospitality.

Singh was about to turn in when he remembered he’d meant to ask Mehrunisa the reason for her sudden trip to Jaipur. Since her room was across from his, he knocked on her door and, when asked to come in, looked around in astonishment at the size and opulence of her room. One wall was lined with mirrored French windows and a large chandelier held pride of place.

‘Pamposh says this room,’ Mehrunisa’s arm took in the massive chandelier, plush carpet and magnificent mural on the wall facing the bed, ‘has always been assigned to esteemed guests! I think she’s pulling my leg,’ she grimaced.

R.P. Singh, hands on his waist, grinned and declared, ‘Totally over the top. And those lights!’

‘Overcompensation,’ Mehrunisa said, ‘the bathroom is pitch dark.’ She had a towel slung over one shoulder and Singh realised she had probably meant to shower.

‘I can switch rooms with you,’ he shrugged nonchalantly.

‘I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,’ Mehrunisa said eyeing him uncertainly.

‘Not at all. Rest assured, I do not share your hygiene compulsions.’ On that they traded rooms. As they moved their bags, R.P. Singh enquired about the reason behind her sudden trip. Mehrunisa updated him on the Jaipur map that Raj Bhushan was looking to source from the Jaipur royals.

‘Interesting,’ R.P. Singh said. ‘One more question,’ he smiled apologetically. ‘Why were you so surprised at the director’s joke?’

Mehrunisa looked puzzled.

‘The one about the “erection”,’ Singh prompted.

‘Oh! You don’t miss much, do you? It, it was just, somehow, so
out
of character. Know what I mean?’ she shrugged, a faraway look on her face. ‘In fact, it reminded me of Arun, who was given to that kind of humour. With Arun, though, it was part of the complete package: the unkempt appearance, the slovenly scholarly air, the racy humour.’

Singh nodded. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I won’t keep you any longer.’

Back inside his new room, R.P. Singh was soon less than thrilled: when he went to bed, the room did not plunge into darkness as tiny nightlights continued to twinkle on the chandelier’s top tier. Now whenever he turned, he caught sight of his shiny pate or his stubbled chin in the row of mirrored French windows. Hideous, he muttered grumpily.

He also had too much on his mind, he reckoned. He pulled the blanket over his head and contemplated each person in the haveli.

Raj Bhushan was a self-proclaimed counterfactual historian; Pamposh was a Kashmiri Pandit refugee who ran an orphanage for Muslim children; Mehrunisa was a Renaissance scholar who was interested in Mughal art; the dead Arun Toor was a Jat who, unlike his destructive predecessors, had been responsible for the Taj. Why this duality? What did it tell him?

Time for a smoke, he thought and swung his legs off the bed. At a French window, he unfastened two latches and pushed. It did not budge. Trying again, he wedged his shoulder against it and shoved harder. No luck. He peered at the window. Layers of paint over the years had fastened the windowpane to the frame—it would break before it would open.

Frustrated in his attempt to smoke or sleep, Singh decided to put an ingenious end to the darned twinkle-twinkle in his room. Grabbing the white sheet beneath his blanket, he balled it and tossed it at the chandelier. The sheet unfurled as it fell, sheathing most of the lights. The room plunged into partial darkness. As he eyed the comforting darkness, his gaze fell on the wall lined with French windows.

His blood froze!

Behind one window was a lumpy form. A monkey cap shrouded the face. A dagger was visible in the right hand!

The mirrors in the French windows were one-way! As long as there was light in the guest room, the person on the other side was invisible. But the moment the room was dark, the mirror became like ordinary glass, allowing him to see the man clearly.

As comprehension dawned on Singh, there was a rush of blood in his veins. With a snarl he lunged towards the window. The next instant the man was gone!

Jaipur

R
.P. Singh’s loud attempts to open the windows roused the household. Within minutes, Pamposh, Raj Bhushan, Mehrunisa and the retainer were in the guest room.

Singh brushed aside their questions as he hurried into the hallway and out the main door to explore the area outside the guest room. A narrow annexe was tucked at its rear. It had been added later, Pamposh said, because the windows were never opened. Inside were stacked some old chairs, earthen flowerpots and gardening shears. Apparently a storage place for odds and ends, it was never locked. When he located the exact window through which he’d seen the man and probed the thin frame, he discovered a tiny knob in the top right-hand corner. He pressed it, and it opened to floor length.

R.P. Singh stepped inside the guest room and moved the casement back and forth. It swung easily.

‘Well-oiled! Evidently, someone uses it regularly to access the guest room.’

He led the confounded folk, who’d trailed into the room after him, into the living room where he apprised them of his encounter with a dagger-wielding man after he had switched rooms with Mehrunisa.

Pamposh hands flew to her face. ‘Why,’ she whispered, ‘would anyone want to kill a police officer in my haveli?’ Her eyes rolled like a kathakali dancer’s.

‘The killer was targeting Mehrunisa,’ R.P. Singh said quietly, as he explained how the rooms were switched. ‘No one knew we switched rooms.’

Pamposh looked like she would faint. R.P. Singh caught her arm and led her to the study as she rattled on about the room. It was seldom used, she said, for she had infrequent overnight guests. And on the occasions that she did, she preferred to use the smaller room that R.P. Singh was using. She started to apologise to Mehrunisa, before fretting about the dangerous intruder, then turning to the safety of her orphans, her voice rising hysterically.

R.P. Singh sat her down and served her a shot of brandy. In a calmer voice, Pamposh said, ‘This is what comes of inheriting mansions—skeletons in the cupboard.’

It became a midnight soiree as the group once again congregated in the study and the fire was rekindled. Questions flew from Pamposh. Had Singh recognised the man? Did he know him? Did Mehrunisa have any reason to believe she would have enemies, dagger-wielding ones at that?

All this while Mehrunisa sat quiet, a cardigan pulled tight around her. R.P. Singh’s recountal made her weak-kneed, her spine like jelly, for she knew at once that the man with the dagger and a monkey cap shrouding his face was the same person who had attacked her in the Red Fort. The man who had killed Nisar before he could tell her who had ordered the change in calligraphy on Mumtaz’s cenotaph. Changes which Raj Bhushan, the director-general of ASI, had casually dismissed.

She shivered involuntarily. How had he tracked her to Pamposh’s haveli? And how the hell did he know the access to the guest room?

It was the second attempt on her life—monkey-cap had no way of knowing it would be R.P. Singh and not her in the room. She had to unmask him before he succeeded in getting to her. An image of a bloodied dagger hitting the gravel in the Red Fort came vividly to her mind. She squeezed her eyes tight; before her nerves got the better of her she announced, ‘I know the man.’

Pamposh gasped audibly.

Mehrunisa, meanwhile, was watching Raj Bhushan. Tired of his playing down the calligraphic changes on Mumtaz’s tomb, of his double-speak, she had thrown down a gauntlet. She sensed R.P. Singh watching her discreetly, and realised that he was aware of what she was doing. The ASI director-general looked concerned, his hands steepled as he watched her attentively.

‘Yes,’ Mehrunisa said and proceeded to update the gathering.

When she finished, Raj Bhushan said, ‘I wish you had told me about this earlier, Mehrunisa. I dismissed it as a conspiracy theory, but perhaps there is more to the changes in the calligraphy than I had thought. My sincerest apologies—’

Pamposh, who had sat stupefied thus far, interrupted him. ‘Mehroo, you poor thing! With Kaul uncle ill and someone trying to kill you, you need someone to take care of you.’

Singh noticed Mehrunisa stiffen. ‘This monkey-cap is clever and dangerous—not only did he trace Mehrunisa, he knew where she was sleeping and found an inventive access route to the room. How did he manage that?’

Raj Bhushan shrugged, ‘Perhaps he was crouching in the garden bushes outside and spying on us. And the guest room does have access from the annexe, the door of which is kept unlocked.’

‘Where he fortuitously discovered the one-way mirror that has access to the guest room?’ Mehrunisa shook her head. ‘Too much of a coincidence.’

Hoarsely, Pamposh asked, ‘What are you implying, Mehroo?’

‘Our monkey-cap
knew
about the one-way mirror and access, he didn’t just discover it.’

‘But that wouldn’t be possible unless—’ Pamposh gasped mid-sentence as comprehension dawned on her.

‘Unless he has an accomplice,’ Mehrunisa said. ‘
In
this house.’

‘Who?’ Pamposh glanced around the room, looking at each one in turn. ‘My maid and retainer have been with my family for decades. There’s the centre supervisor, the teachers, the peon, the gardener, the cook and a couple of more staff.... How do we even begin to find out who he’s working with.’

Mehrunisa spread her hands out. ‘I don’t know. The thing to remember is that he’s working with someone who is intimate with the Taj Mahal. Enough to understand how subtle changes in the calligraphy on Mumtaz’s tomb can have a significant impact.’

In a half-mocking tone Pamposh enquired, ‘And this same accomplice is also intimate with my haveli?’

‘Perhaps,’ Mehrunisa said simply.

For a short while there was a stunned silence. Until Pamposh started to laugh, mouth open, peals rippling through the room.

Pamposh finally composed herself and said, ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. An accomplice who is intimate with the Taj Mahal and this haveli,’ she held up her left hand in a ‘V’ sign. ‘Surely, that throws up only two likely candidates: Mehrunisa and me.’