The Taj Conspiracy

THE TAJ

THE TAJ

Manreet Sodhi Someshwar

westland ltd

Venkat Towers, 165, P.H. Road, Maduravoyal, Chennai 600 095

No. 38/10 (New No.5), Raghava Nagar, New Timber Yard Layout, Bangalore 560 026

Survey No. A - 9, II Floor, Moula Ali Industrial Area, Moula Ali, Hyderabad 500 040

23/181, Anand Nagar, Nehru Road, Santacruz East, Mumbai 400 055

4322/3, Ansari Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi 110 002

First published in India by westland ltd 2012

Copyright © Manreet Someshwar 2012

All rights reserved

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN: 978-93-81626-13-9

Typeset by Arun Bisht

Printed at Manipal Technologies Ltd., Manipal

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written permission of the publishers.

For my brother and sisters,
and the conspiracies of childhood.
And as always, Malvika and Prasanna,
the loves of my life.

Agra

I
t was the new moon’s thirteenth night in the month of Magha. In the moonless dark, a fine January mist hovered over the Taj Mahal like a veil. A man walked down the pathway to the monument, his jacket collar upturned as he cut his way through the mist that parted—seemingly in deference, or fear. Ahead, the marble edifice loomed in all its splendour, immune to the diaphanous vapours shrouding it, to the cold wind that rose from the river, tearing at it with ghoulish howls, immune as well to the man striding towards it, quicksilver coursing through his body.

Much like that common metal—the only one that is liquid at room temperature—this man was singular, elusive. Now as he watched the dome, its marble eerily aglow in the moist haze, he reflected on its grandiose beauty. Taj Mahal: a monument to love built by an emperor griefstricken at the loss of his wife. And yet, an emperor with an entire harem for his personal pleasure, inconsolable over the loss of
one
wife? An edifice of glittering marble inlaid with a filigree of precious stones whose sole use was to house a gloomy mausoleum? The man squared his shoulders and breathed in deeply. How much history lay obscured and sealed under that marmoreal gloss in a centuries-old cover-up?

History, after all, was written by victors—a rewrite was long overdue. What he knew about the Taj Mahal would divide the nation in two—again.

Two men sat in the sparse room, in the triangle of warmth provided by a radiation heater glowing red in one corner. They had known each other for some time; there was an easy familiarity in their manner. One of them had brought along biryani for dinner, in two pre-packed Styrofoam containers, having consumed which they sat across from each other, their sated appetites contributing to the genial atmosphere. A little saffroncoloured rice remained in one Styrofoam container, where it now sat congealing, the ghee glazing individual rice grains.

On the wooden table between them was a celadon plate, blue-grey, a fading floral motif testimony to its age. Outside, the mist hung close to the glass windows, eavesdropping in the colonnaded corridor, spying on the unfolding scene.

‘I thought you’d appreciate it. The gardener brought it in. A bored bull dug it up with his hoof!’ He gestured towards the foliage that extended beyond the corridor to a corner where a bullock cart used for lugging material was standing. ‘Can you believe it,’ he laughed, ‘even the bulls of India are archaeologists by nature!’

‘Well,’ the man opposite responded, ‘what would you expect, in a land littered with history and artefacts?’

The first speaker nodded. ‘Much of it, unfortunately, buried over time.’ A curious look passed through his eyes—which the other man noticed—before his customary sanguine expression returned. ‘Here,’ he slid the artefact across the table, ‘take a closer look. Perhaps you want to hazard a guess as to its age?’

The other man leaned forward, squinting in concentration as he observed the even glaze, the minor chips, the gloss that would shine through after a thorough cleaning. His left hand tugged at his collar as he proceeded with his examination. He licked his lips, jerked backward and started to inhale open-mouthed. His breathing turned rapid, his face reddening as both hands struggled to unbutton his shirt. His eyes became glassy. He stuttered faintly, ‘W-w-what ... help ... d-d-doctor ...’

The first speaker observed the frantic gesticulations as the man writhed and gasped. With a deliberate slowness, he leaned forward and took the celadon plate. He flipped open the Styrofoam container’s lid, took a pinch of the leftover saffron rice, held it up to the gasping man and then deposited it on the plate. The blue-grey colour bleached into an opaque greyness. A sharp intake of breath punctured the laboured breathing of the other man.

‘Honestly,’ the first speaker trilled, ‘for someone with your knowledge, you can be awfully dense at times...’

Understanding dawned on the writhing man, his hands now attempting to tear at his chest even as he doubled over with the effort to get air into his lungs. In a desperate attempt to stand, he grasped at a wooden chair, the veins in his hands bulging blue.

‘A celadon plate,’ the first speaker instructed, his voice carrying censure for an ignorant pupil, ‘also called a poison plate. A handy tool used by the Mughal emperors: prior to each meal, a sample was sprinkled on the plate— even a trace of poison and the plate would change colour. Or—’

A loud pop sounded as the celadon plate cracked into two jagged halves.

‘—break,’ the first speaker completed, pleased with the demonstration. The next instant, the writhing man convulsed, before his head hit the wooden table and his body slumped.

Pakistan-occupied Kashmir

H
igh in the Pir Panjal mountains, snow had come early. The howling wind, piercing at this altitude, smacked it with fury, sending snowflakes shooting in all directions. Some found their way to the mouth of a recess cave where, piling up, they shielded a hidden labyrinth.

Inside, Jalaluddin, leader of the militant Kashmiri organisation called Islamic Jihad, was in his rock bunker. He squatted on a wool rug, a map spread out in front of him. The large map, almost a square metre in size, showed a meticulously detailed plan of the Taj Mahal, the mausoleum, the twin buildings flanking it, its Charbagh gardens, the riverfront scheme, the four entrance gates. Inserted into the architectural details was precise information about security at the monument, with numbers: metal detectors, barbed-wire barricades, police personnel and vehicles.