Read Online The Taj Conspiracy by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Manreet Sodhi Someshwar
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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
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
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