The Taj Conspiracy (32 page)

He snorted. ‘Me.’

‘The general’s mistake was that he saw only one kind of pest. But a pest control man must fight rodents and roaches and raccoons.’ He paused. ‘He must be able to get into the heads of all his pests.’

He pulled back, walked around the room with long deliberate strides before he pulled a chair and straddled it.

‘Three things are clear: faking the murder of the Taj supervisor was pre-planned. A substitute—someone with close physical resemblance—was identified in advance. And the corpse was stolen from the morgue to prevent a post-mortem that would lead to identification. The death of the python,’ he said, his eyes flashing, ‘was very lucky for us.’

Raghav nodded. ‘In the elaborate dance of deception, the puppeteer tripped up. In an otherwise perfect execution, he made one bad move.’

‘This pest,’ R.P. Singh banged the table with his fist, ‘I’ve tunnelled inside his head. And no Aurangzeb-behrupiya-chutiya is going to escape me!’

‘We’ll get him, boss.’

The two men clinked their glasses, rum sloshed, and as the radio blasted a raucous drumbeat, they joined in, belting out the lyrics with off-tune fervour.

Agra

P
re-dawn fog shrouded the Taj Mahal complex. Everything lay quiet, cold and still. Only a continuous lapping of water sounded. A boat came into view, packed with a mass of huddled people. Another boat glided behind, and another ... the column of boats was long as it paddled up the Yamuna river towards the Taj Mahal.

The first boat stopped short of Dassehra Ghat, near the ruins of an old haveli, erstwhile tannery, now abandoned. The dilapidated haveli of Agah Khan fell within the Red zone under the purview of the CISF, and Inspector Bharadwaj had co-opted this, the residence of Shah Jahan’s officer in charge of riverine security, to launch an assault on the monument. Men disembarked and ascended the slope, a man in the shadows briskly herding them into the ruins. Other boat people followed. Some looked ghostly, blending into the prevailing mist with their ash-smeared bodies.

Inside the ruins were arrayed the creature comforts of bedding, water and provisions. The youth of Taj Ganj, all with saffron headbands and fiery eyes, doled out food and blankets to the Shiva devotees who had paddled through the night from Bateshwar to witness the predicted Shiva miracle. Their instructions were not to let these men venture out of the ruins until the time was right. Meanwhile, the bhang and exhaustion would knock them out for several hours.

From his corner in the shadows Inspector Bharadwaj watched the proceedings, a thin smile on his sallow face— all was going to plan.

Delhi

T
he contents of the mysterious diary had spun her mind like a roulette wheel all day long and she’d slept fitfully as a result. Next morning, brain dead, she opened a book for some relief.
The Vatican Masterpieces
transported her to more idyllic days.

Upon completing her Renaissance studies, Mehrunisa had figured the best way to continue her education was to see the great Florentine and Roman museums on a daily basis. Since museum fees were expensive, and one needed a job to sustain a bare minimum lifestyle, Mehrunisa had done the next logical thing: signed up as a guide with an agency that provided Vatican tours. Thereafter, she spent two years shepherding eager tourists through the capacious museums brimming with treasures.

Her favourite galleries were the Sistine chapel and Raphael’s Stanze. While the Sistine threatened to give her goitre—much as it did Michelangelo with the constant upward posture of his head and neck while painting the ceiling—the latter was easier on the body. It had been time well spent.

Now, whenever she felt the need to break away from the immediate world, she would open one of her art history books and lose herself in the lavish illustrations of either the Sistine or the Stanze. It was working, for the fresco of
The School of Athens
had drawn her in.

Of all the frescoes that decorate the walls of Raphael’s Stanze in the Vatican museums, this,
The School of Athens
, was probably the most famous and most reproduced, as Mehrunisa had informed many Vatican tourists during her stint as a guide. Now, Mehrunisa studied the beautiful fresco in which young Raphael had painted a veritable who’s who of Greek greats, accompanied by some Renaissance luminaries: the philosophers Socrates and Diogenes, the mathematicians Pythagoras and Euclid, and in a prominent place, the reflective figure of Michelangelo.

The two most influential philosophers of ancient Greece stood in the centre: Plato and Aristotle. With his right finger, Plato pointed to the sky. On the right stood Aristotle, Plato’s pupil, his open right hand indicating the Earth. Thus had Raphael depicted the two thinkers and their different approaches to life: Plato’s idealism alongside Aristotle’s realism.

Mehrunisa studied the bearded Plato—his face, so historians said—resembling that of another Renaissance great, Leonardo da Vinci. Raphael had met him in Florence in 1504 and the encounter had left such an impression on the twenty-one-year-old that subsequently he abandoned the manner of his master, and moved closer to that of Leonardo. The portrait was the artist’s homage to his ideal. And indeed, Plato looked like Leonardo of the self-portrait painted by the artist himself—the flowing beard, the balding scalp, the intent gaze.

In the fresco’s right-hand corner, as was customary, Raphael had painted himself. Wearing a black cap, he looked at Mehrunisa with a soulful gaze. Almost all the other figures in the fresco—certainly all the artists— sported a beard; Raphael was the only clean-shaven one. And it seemed to Mehrunisa that if the beard of Leonardo, in the representation of Plato, were transposed to Raphael’s face, the two would look quite similar. It had struck her before that while Raphael had painted Plato in the image of Leonardo, he had also painted him in his own self-image. Implying thereby that perhaps, young though he was, he was already claiming to be in the league of Leonardo.

Once again, Mehrunisa scrutinised the two faces, transplanting the beard from one to another. And, from somewhere, Pamposh’s teasing statement when R.P. Singh had landed at her doorstep popped in her head:
the fun is in figuring what the fuzz conceals
.

One hand massaging the back of her neck, Mehrunisa glanced at her uncle. He had been asleep for the hour or so since she had been absorbed in her study. She sighed and looked away, her gaze trailing to the sideboard and the plastic tray on which were arrayed the multiple medicine bottles that were her uncle’s daily diet. Her eyes skimmed the familiar contents: the professor’s stack of books—neat, since he had not picked up any since his illness—the spare spectacle case, the round moneyplant vase, the group photo in front of the Taj...

The next instant Mehrunisa shot like a rocket from her chair and ran to grab the photograph. Her eyes bored into the picture, her mind transplanting the boxed beard from Raj Bhushan’s face to Arun Toor’s clean-shaven face. It struck her then, with force!

The two men, the ASI director-general and the Taj supervisor, were of similar height and build. She was such a fool! The evidence had always been on the sideboard! The bell should have rung with her godfather’s mythological stories of
apparent
deaths. His warning to watch out for Aurangzeb! The attack on the professor right after she accused Raj Bhushan in his office and mentioned that he had mentioned Aurangzeb. Mangat Ram’s puzzlement over Raj Bhushan’s sudden desire for walnuts. The frequent use of fresh mints to mask his smoker’s breath. The strangely yellowing fingers of a non-smoking director. The occasional lapses into vulgar jokes by an otherwise suave director. Her own feeling that Raj Bhushan, whom she had never met before, seemed somehow familiar....

Oh! What a blind bat she had been! The swirling picture resolved into a face—one that she was familiar with. And one of his remarks recurred to her, delivered in that cocky, half-mocking voice.

The genius in the underprivileged world does not innovate; he transgresses
.

Immediately she called R.P. Singh.

‘An impersonation!’ Singh exclaimed. ‘Fits right fucking in.’

‘Yes! And I think
he
left those clues in the tomb chamber along with Raj Bhushan’s body.’

‘Toor? But why would he do that?’

‘I think he wanted us to assume there was a terrorist hand behind the murder—after all, the Taj Mahal has received several threats over the years—and hoped the clues would further deceive us. And they did, for a while. We thought the third eye on the forehead meant a calamity, that “chirag tale andhera” indicated a bomb, and the slit wrist that the Taj Mahal would be desecrated. That’s probably why he told me on the phone that an Aurangzeb was coming to visit him. He guessed we would think Aurangzeb was a jihadi. Also,’ her mouth twisted, ‘it was a private joke, an allusion to Raj Bhushan whom he was planning to kill and replace. He thought while we wasted time following up the terrorist angle, he would have time to pursue his plan to reclaim the Taj Mahal as a Shiva temple.’

R.P. Singh shook his head, taking in what she was saying. ‘He must have panicked when you stumbled on the altered calligraphy—it threw his plan off track.’

‘Right! He played it down because it might have led us to discovering his actual plan.’ Mehrunisa gave a bitter laugh and continued, ‘The thing is, in his trademark warped way, those clues
also
revealed his actual plan. He was toying with us, testing whether we were clever enough to get his actual intent, and laughing while we scurried around trying to unravel the damned clues!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, take the third eye—it was an allusion to the Shiva temple. Slit wrist? The penalty for theft under Sharia law is severing of the hand. Since the Mughals appropriated Tejo Mahalaya as Taj Mahal, in the spirit of Sharia—an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand—it would be rightfully stolen back and reclaimed as a Shiva temple.’

‘And chirag tale andhera,’ Singh said, ‘is to do with a basement—as we’d deduced.’

‘Yes,’ Mehrunisa nodded, ‘and the changed calligraphy. The alteration indicated two things: one, Mumtaz’s tomb was counterfeit; two, something was concealed. I think it alludes to the sealed rooms in the riverside terrace. There’ve always been rumours that proof of the Taj being a Hindu temple lies there. I think he’s probably been smuggling in things that will make it look like an ancient temple.’

‘That’s why he killed Raj Bhushan, so he could have the run of the place.’

‘Yes. As supervisor, he oversaw the change in calligraphy, which was accomplished in a couple of hours. But to change the basement rooms he needed time, and the certainty that he wouldn’t be caught. Raj Bhushan was in the habit of dropping in unannounced, which was why he had to go.’

‘Tell me, why didn’t he mention the calligraphic change in the pamphlet?’

Mehrunisa snorted. ‘That was very clever of him. All his points were allegations. Allegations that are scandalous and lend themselves to reinvention and rumour. Which is why the guides lapped them up—the allegations added to their existing store of myths and stories around the monument. But he had actually implemented the calligraphic change. If the police were to read about the change in the pamphlet, that would force his hand. The police would insist an ASI person verify the calligraphic change. It was in his best interest to let the change in calligraphy build through rumours.’

‘Until?’

‘Until what?’ Mehrunisa asked, perplexed.

‘Until now. Don’t you see ... now is the time he’ll reveal the changes; now is when he’s planning the takeover.’

‘How?’

‘Beats me. But when I lay my hands on this supervisor Toor in director-general disguise, he’ll spit it out. One last question: why was he trying to source the Jaipur map?’

‘To destroy it. Evidence that the Taj Mahal was part of Shah Jahan’s grand riverfront scheme would conveniently vanish.’

‘He made a huge gamble that he would pull the deception off.’

‘He headed the drama club,’ Mehrunisa shrugged. ‘He probably studied Raj Bhushan’s mannerisms during their interactions, and then adopted those along with his dapper clothes and fashionable glasses. Despite their similar build and height, the two were as different as Burberry and khadi, and when the time came, Toor made the switch. I’m sure the lacerated right hand was just a convenient cover-up. Also, Bhushan was a bachelor— which helped. And after assuming his identity, Arun as ASI director-general spent time out of the city rather than in the head office. A perfect way to avoid interaction with Raj Bhushan’s staff who might have figured something was amiss. Also, he was probably looking at a narrow window of three to four weeks—as you said, he’s probably planning the takeover sometime now.’

Mehrunisa shook her head slowly, as if still in disbelief. ‘Toor was the shape-shifting behrupiya all along!’

Singh muttered, ‘Aurangzeb was the bloody red herring. Behrupiya-Bentinck-chutiya is the big fish to be caught. Bloody brilliant ... and brilliant deduction, Mehrunisa,’ R.P. Singh said cheerily, adding he would immediately order DNA analysis on the personal items he had plucked from the mysterious Bhushan’s house on the night of the intrusion.

Delhi

A
t noon, Mehrunisa sought refuge in the kitchen. The realisation that Arun Toor, presumed dead but actually alive in disguise, was a cunning deviant; that Raj Bhushan, Kaul uncle’s good friend, was dead; and that the Taj Mahal was in imminent danger, caused a miasma to hang around her. Mehrunisa had turned to the one thing she relied upon to help focus her mind and lift her spirits: cooking.

When she deliberated on ingredients, chopped, pounded, stirred, a part of her, floating on a cloud of colour and smell, took leave. The act of cooking in some miraculous way engaged the senses and freed the brain. Now, pounding the tomato-basil-garlic into sauce, Mehrunisa was hoping for the same miracle.

Mangat Ram shuffled in and deposited a red hibiscus flower in the alcove above the kitchen counter. His palms folded, he bowed to the blue-grey statuette of Shiva seated on a tiger skin, a serpent coiled around his neck and a fountain emerging from his topknot. She had seen that idol for more than two decades since she had been acquainted with the housekeeper.