Read Online The Taj Conspiracy by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar - Free Book Online

remonstration in his voice, ‘You visited the Taj Mahal, bitiya?’
    Mehrunisa knew what he was implying: hadn’t last time been trouble enough? She did not grudge him that, having known him as long as the professor. Besides, it was Mangat Ram who had initiated her into flying kites and playing marbles during the long days of summer. She flashed a reassuring smile.
    Meanwhile, Professor Kaul’s head had jerked in their direction. His eyes were fixed on them in a blank stare. Then he cried out in agony and reached for his legs resting atop a jute stool. Mangat Ram rushed forward, clucking. ‘Sitting in meditation like some sage atop a mountain—haven’t moved your legs for hours now. No wonder they have gone stiff.’ With a brisk movement of his palms, he set about bringing the circulation back into the professor’s limbs.
    The professor’s eyes had yielded their former glaze to a frantic ferret as they spun about. ‘Kaul uncle?’ Mehrunisa queried again.
    ‘Mehr?’ he said, and looked about him as if searching for the source of the voice.
    Mehr: it was his term of endearment for her, one he used to calm her when she was upset as a child. One he still used, but infrequently. Right now, it was he who sounded distressed, child-like. She lowered herself to the ground, placed a hand on his shoulder and said softly, ‘I am here, Uncle.’
    Professor Kaul looked down; when his gaze fell on Mehrunisa, his eyes lit up. He pulled himself upright and promptly withdrew his legs from Mangat Ram’s ministrations, remonstrating, ‘Stop fussing over me like an old hen!’
    A perplexed Mangat Ram backed off, questioning the air with his hands. ‘My stomach feels like a cave, get me some food!’ the professor said, then turning to Mehrunisa, he lowered his voice and quizzed, ‘Did that policeman call you for questioning again?’
    Over tea, Mehrunisa recounted the events of her trip to Agra: the police station, followed by the Taj Mahal, and the perplexing discovery she had made there. An attentive Professor Kaul was all ears. It seemed improbable that just a while ago he had misplaced his mind.
    ‘So, what do you think?’ she asked apprehensively. ‘Mischief or malice?’
    Professor Kaul shook his head. ‘The difference in the script of the two words is marginal, except to a trained eye. Yours is, but most would miss it. Why would an attention-seeking prankster or a deviant artisan go to such lengths for so little? For something a casual observer would never grasp even if he stared at it for eternity...’
    Professor Kaul interlaced his fingers and continued, ‘From what you have narrated, and from your photographs, the alteration appears to be artfully executed. In fact, only a master craftsman, an expert karigar, would be able to accomplish those changes with such finesse. But who is this artisan? And why did he do it?’
    ‘You think his identity is critical?’
    Professor Kaul’s thumbs circled each other as he thought. ‘Yes. You see, most karigars are Muslim—it is a family art that has been handed down through generations. There are some families in Agra who claim descent from the original craftsmen who worked on the Taj. So, why would a Muslim agree to tamper with a verse from the Quran?’
    ‘Well, strictly speaking, he has not tampered with a Quranic verse, only the epitaph.’
    ‘Sure,’ Kaul nodded. ‘Except, remember that the Taj Mahal is esteemed as the foremost symbol of Islamic art, and is particularly renowned for its paradisiacal vision of heaven on earth. The fact that the monument is decorated with Quranic verses adds to the monument’s piety. The artisan therefore knew what he was doing, unless he couldn’t read the script.’
    ‘Unlikely—if he could change “munavvar” to “ masnooee”, he could read the verse.’
    Above them, birds were hastening homewards in a darkening sky. A bus horn sounded through the dusk.
    ‘When could he have got access to the tomb chamber?’ Mehrunisa