The Taj Conspiracy (8 page)

‘If word got out that it had been tampered with, it would create serious trouble.’

He nodded.

‘Chirag tale andhera.’ Mehrunisa whispered. ‘If this is what Arun Toor was referring to, we already have a murder linked to the tampering.’

‘A bloody potboiler. Only this one’s too close to home.’ Professor Kaul snorted.

Around them, night had fallen. Bats had emerged and flew about, some frighteningly low, Mehrunisa observed. Their thin cries sounded in the air. Mangat Ram, who had come to gather the tea things, clucked his exasperation, muttering about shrieking bats and bad omens.

Unknown to him, both members of his audience were already aware they had encountered something ominous. They sat in silent contemplation until Mehrunisa spoke. ‘That someone is trying to discredit the Taj seems obvious. The questions then are: who, and why?’

‘Lord Bentinck?’

She frowned. The name sounded familiar, yet not quite.

Professor Kaul allowed himself a half-grin. ‘Lord William Bentinck, governor-general of British India, from 1827 to 1835. You see,’ he leaned towards Mehrunisa, ‘through its three hundred and fifty years of history, the Taj has had its detractors. Hatred against the Mughals, who were seen as invaders destroying Hind’s heritage, spurred them. In the early eighteenth century, the Jats from nearby Bharatpur ransacked the monument, taking away two chandeliers that hung over the cenotaphs, the silver entrance doors and lavish carpets that adorned the mausoleum floor. Later the gold shield over the fifteen-foot high finial at the top of the main dome was removed. But the British proved to be the most dangerous. Lord Bentinck, ostensibly in India as a British administrator, was to find his calling as a scrap-dealer when he planned the demolition of Taj Mahal for its marble.’

‘Demolition?’

‘In 1831,
John Bull
, a Calcutta newspaper, reported that the governor-general wanted to demolish the Taj and auction its marble,’ the professor nodded. ‘But the highest bid was only 150,000 rupees and the Taj was saved. By the 1850s the monument had become a “pleasure resort” for the British. The mosque and assembly hall were rented to English honeymooners! And daily picnickers came armed with chisels and hammers to extract fragments of agate and carnelian from the flower-inlays.’

Mehrunisa listened, rapt. With her godfather, history was a series of nested narratives like the
Arabian Nights
.

‘However, another Englishman, Lord Curzon, came to India as the viceroy in 1899. The English have a way of redeeming themselves,’ he laughed. ‘Curzon oversaw a massive restoration—’

‘And gifted the bronze lamp, which illuminates the tombs to this day,’ Mehrunisa finished with a smile.

Kaul nodded. ‘In the history of the Taj’s detractors, you’ll agree, Bentinck was the worst. So far.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Bentinck’s folly was ignorance and greed. Both made him blind to the monument’s beauty. However, the Taj’s current enemy is driven by a more deadly sin. He is knowledgeable, subversive and cunning. And how do we conclude that? Conversant with Persian and Arabic, therefore knowledgeable. Striking at the Taj Mahal’s very foundation, therefore subversive. A minor change that carries a huge import, therefore cunning.’

Professor Kaul settled back in his armchair. ‘I don’t know why, but it seems like you’ve discovered the tip of an iceberg, Mehr.’

He paused and Mehrunisa saw that he looked drained, as if the last hour of analysis had leached everything out of him. He spoke slowly, his voice faint, as if he was summoning remaining reserves of energy to complete his thought. ‘During the Second World War, they had to cover the Taj’s dome with scaffolding to protect it from German Luftwaffe, and later the Japanese air force. Similarly, during the Indo-Pak wars of 1965 and 1971. Looks like the Taj is in trouble once again, Mehrunisa.’

He contemplated the lint on his cardigan.

‘I’ll be there with you, always—but I can sense my mind is beginning to dodder. There are times when the mist settles so dense that I do not see ... it will be your challenge, Mehr.’ He looked at her. In his eyes Mehrunisa saw grief. If Shah Jahan had loved Mumtaz enough to build the Taj, Professor Kaul had loved the Taj enough to devote a life to it.

Mehrunisa tussled with the enormity of what she was hearing: her godfather’s reiteration of his illness and the grave danger to the Taj. The professor sat up and clasped her hands.

‘Until you unmask him, think of our mystery man as Bentinck. It’ll help you remember the fate that could have been, and might still be, the Taj Mahal’s.’

Mehrunisa felt her stomach cave in. The Taj Mahal was emblematic of her mixed heritage, a stolidly reassuring presence as she navigated life in a country that was home, and yet, not quite. Working there had given her direction, a sense of purpose. And the monument was precious to the man who was the only family she had left.... Now it looked like she could lose them both.

The thought filled her with panic. She wanted to howl and wake up from the nightmare to be comforted by Maadar and Papa.

But she had lost them too.

Delhi

T
he ASI director-general had a slim frame that made him appear taller than he was. When he smiled, his mouth curved upwards like a monkey’s, his lips disappearing into a faintly comical semicircle. At that point, it was difficult to fathom whether he was smiling or grimacing, Mehrunisa thought as he greeted her, indicated a sofa and requested she wait while he dispensed with some urgent paperwork. Professor Kaul would have accompanied her, but that morning, finding him restless, she had summoned the doctor who had administered a Calmpose shot and put the professor under watch.

Mehrunisa had never met Raj Bhushan before, yet he looked vaguely familiar, perhaps from the group photograph in her uncle’s room. In the two years since Raj Bhushan had headed ASI, he had sought out the eminent historian as he attempted to invigorate India’s architectural heritage. Raj Bhushan had a reputation as a counterfactual historian—his version of British rule in India as an era of social progress and modernisation of infrastructure was a subject of some controversy amongst historical commentators.

Seated in the carved wooden armchair in the large room, Mehrunisa studied the milky tea in front of her, brown from over-brewing, and decided to leave it halfway. She liked tea the Persian way, with a hint of sugar and a slice of peach or a segment of orange. It was a family tradition, the memory of which racked her. In the evenings, after Papa returned from the Consulate, Maadar would prepare what he called an aperi-tea-f for him: a tall glass with peach slices, a splash of rum, ice cubes, and tea. In that sense her father was old-fashioned: he mourned the pace of modern life, the cost of which was the gradual disappearance of customs like the aperitif. His own disappearance, though, had been abrupt. Mehrunisa was fourteen at that time, and while her friends hung out at al fresco cafés, her shrine of choice became the Trevi. The Baroque fountain, where tourists gathered for the time-honoured custom of throwing a coin into its water and thus guaranteeing a return to Rome, became her talisman. Varying her routine daily— eyes closed, prayer on lips, back to the fountain, toss with the left hand over the right shoulder—she willed her Papa’s return. A year passed in which the coin collection at Trevi swelled and hope seeped out of her....
No!
Mehrunisa shook her head.
No!
She would not think of Papa—going down that road constricted her chest and filled her eyes until she choked.
No!

She forced herself to concentrate on the artefacts in the elegant room, the majority of which—whether paintings, brass statues or wood carvings—were representations of Shiva. One particular bronze sculpture caught her eye: Shiva, in a circle of flames, his left leg raised, the right balanced on a demon, as he performed his divine dance of creation and destruction.

‘You fancy the Nataraja?’ Raj Bhushan remarked as he walked towards her over the coir carpet. Dressed in a tweed jacket, a muffler thrown around his neck, gray flannel trousers and stylish leather oxfords, he cut a very dapper figure. His spectacles were thick-rimmed black, which would have been nerdy once but now were decidedly geeky-chic. ‘My favourite though is the Ardhanarishwar. Are you familiar with it?’

‘Sure.’

‘The lord who is half-woman. It is the synthesis of Shiva and Parvati into one: the left side is female, the right male. One entity with its male and female elements in harmony—a powerful, postmodernist concept, wouldn’t you say?’ He laughed, a high-pitched, boyish laugh that ended as a gurgle as if it had been hurriedly snuffed out. Returning to his table he summoned Mehrunisa. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said as he moved some papers out of the way, aligned them neatly, stacked them in one corner of the table, plucked a case of fresh mints aside and arranged it atop the papers.

Below the table’s glass-top was a painting in which, framed against a black backdrop, was a figure split vertically down its middle into two separate yet conjoined halves. The left, draped in red, was a female form; the right, a tiger skin wrapped around his waist, was a male form with a blue body. The colours were striking in their contrast and the two separate figures, despite their disparate forms, looked in complete harmony.

‘It is beautiful,’ Mehrunisa assented.

‘You know,’ Raj Bhushan said as he walked towards the corner sofa, ‘in Hindu mythology we have over three hundred million gods and goddesses. Rather superfluous when you realise that just one would suffice. Shiva. He is the complete God.’

Mehrunisa tipped her head.

‘I trust you are better now?’ Taking the chair opposite her, he smiled. ‘It was unfortunate, you getting embroiled in the business of murder. I guess you are here with regard to your project work—anything I can help with? You may need to lay off the Taj for some time, but in a week or so it’ll return to normal.’

‘I doubt that,’ Mehrunisa said.

Raj Bhushan raised his brows. ‘Really? Could you elaborate?’ He popped a fresh mint in his mouth and slid the case towards Mehrunisa.

Declining, she proceeded to explain her recent trip to the Taj Mahal and the changes she’d seen in the calligraphy.

Raj Bhushan’s face was impassive as he listened. When she finished there was a long silence before he spoke. He adjusted his spectacles and studied the floor. ‘This ... change,’ he said, his right hand quizzing the air, ‘how certain can you be? I know you are literate in Persian and Arabic, but the contemporary Perso-Arabic script—the one you would be familiar with—is nastaliq. And the script used in the calligraphy of the Taj is not nastaliq.’ He crossed his leg, his mouth arching upwards in some semblance of a smile. Momentarily, Mehrunisa was distracted by that smile.

‘Hmm?’ Raj Bhushan queried, as he stroked his boxed beard.

‘Mumtaz’s epitaph is written in Persian, the court language of the Mughals, and styled in naskh. The Quranic verses on the top and sides of the cenotaph are in Arabic, the language of the Holy Book, and written in sulus.’ Mehrunisa paused, trying to assess the directorgeneral’s response. If there was one thing that irritated her, it was a patronising tone. Now, she drove her point home. ‘Contemporary Persian texts, ninety-nine per cent, are published in a typography that is based on the naskh style. Nastaliq has become popular with its recent computer implementations. But it has readability issues, so its usage has been limited to school books on Persian literature.’

Raj Bhushan sat still, his index finger resting vertically across his lips. To Mehrunisa, it appeared as if he was trying, albeit unconsciously, to shush her. Now, he tapped that finger against his mouth a few times before clearing his throat and speaking. ‘Kaul has trained you well.’

For the briefest instance Mehrunisa thought she saw something like concern in his eyes. But he was shrugging as he said, ‘You will have to forgive my ignorance—I am not a scholar of either language, Persian or Arabic.’

‘But you have a basic understanding?’

‘Very elementary.’ Again that smile. ‘Nothing to rival yours. However, learned as you are, my dear, I still have my doubts as to the alteration. It seems like too much effort, and for what? Nobody who visits the Taj gets close enough to the tombs to read the calligraphy. That is,
if
they could read it in the first place. Then why bother with such a change?’

Quietly, Mehrunisa said, ‘Because of its implication. The
illumined
tomb versus the
counterfeit
tomb.’

Raj Bhushan’s neck recoiled in incredulity. ‘Forgive me, dear, but this sounds like a conspiracy theory. The alteration in the calligraphy, if indeed there is one, will be investigated right away. I have in my department a bright young fellow who would be up to the job. In the meantime, I’ll request that you treat it as a curious occurrence—harmless, really.’ With an elegant shrug he held out his palms.

Mehrunisa shook her head. ‘I think it’s more than that, especially when you consider that it’s one of a series of incidents: the supervisor’s murder, his body vanishing from the morgue, and now someone has changed the epitaph...’

The director had a solicitous expression on his face. ‘You seem rather distraught over the murder of Toor?’ His eyes studied her.

Once again, Mehrunisa felt something—something she could not put a finger on. It was almost as if the director were
watching
her.

‘He was a friend.’

‘But of course. Listen, I personally do not see a link between the murder of Toor and the,’ his fingers wiggled the symbol of inverted commas in the air, ‘
altered
calligraphy, but rest assured, it’ll be examined. Now,’ he said, rising, ‘if you’ll excuse me...’

Mehrunisa slung her bag over her shoulder, thanked him and walked out. As she reached the door, Raj Bhushan called out, ‘Convey my regards to Professor Kaul. And wish him a speedy recovery.’ He stood there, hands tucked in his pockets, wearing that peculiar smile.

Outside, Mehrunisa rubbed the back of her neck. Neither the SSP nor the director-general seemed to believe that the calligraphic changes were important.
Was
she overreacting?