The Taj Conspiracy Read Online Free PDF

Kaul, who was snuggled in his thermal blanket. He had insisted he was not sleepy, but a day on the road had taken its toll on him. She was glad to be ensconced in her godfather’s warm house after those hours of interrogation.
    It had helped that the professor was one of India’s foremost historians. Upon her call he had contacted his friend, Raj Bhushan, the director-general of ASI, who had personally vouched for Mehrunisa over the phone to the SSP. Professor Kaul had driven down, and upon assurances to SSP Raghav that she would be available for further questioning if the need arose, she was released.
    She shuddered at the memory, in need of some sleep herself but preoccupied with the state of her godfather. To all apparent purposes he was healthy and alert but Mehrunisa, who had been living in his home, had witnessed some startling changes in him. He seemed to forget mid-sentence what he was saying; at times, he would fail to recognise the neighbours. Just a fortnight ago, when Mehrunisa had been rifling through his well-stocked study, he had walked in on her and, noticing the book in her hand, had queried, ‘Who is Sharmila?’ Mehrunisa had thought he was joking: Kaul’s harmless rivalry with India’s other eminent historian, Sharmila Thapar, was well documented. She had been about to laugh when she realised he was serious.
    An abrupt movement from the bed drew Mehrunisa’s glance. The professor had bolted upright. Eyes alert, he looked around abruptly, seeking something. Sighting Mehrunisa in a corner, he summoned her with an abrupt flick of his right hand. Mehrunisa walked over and sat on the bed’s edge.
    In a clear, quiet voice the professor said, ‘I need to tell you something while I am still lucid. Don’t interrupt me—it might break the thread of my thought. In which case, I might descend into the abyss again. First,’ he paused, as if summoning all his strength for what he was about to disclose, ‘I think I am losing my mind...’
    With a sinking heart Mehrunisa watched the man who reminded her most of her father. Losing both parents was clearly no insurance against more loss.
    Professor Kaul’s hands twitched where they rested atop the wool blanket. He was looking straight ahead. Mehrunisa followed his gaze. On the wall opposite the bed was a triptych frame with three mesmerising pictures of the Taj Mahal. Shot by the famed photographer Raghu Roy, it showed the Taj in various moods: pre-dawn, in the bright sun, on a full-moon night.
    ‘Tell me again about Toor’s body and all that you discovered with it,’ Kaul urged now, looking Mehrunisa in the eye.
    Earlier, on the drive back from Agra, Mehrunisa had disclosed to her godfather what she had seen at the mausoleum that morning. Kaul had met Arun Toor, though he could not claim to have known him well. He travelled to Agra infrequently, and it had been the ASI director-general who assigned the Taj supervisor as the point person for Mehrunisa’s project as a favour to Kaul. The professor was a long-term consultant to the ASI on Mughal-era monuments, and with Raj Bhushan, the acquaintance had developed into friendship. The fact that they were both bachelors in the same city helped; aided, no doubt, by their deep love of Indian history. That they swere a quarter-century apart in age did not seem to have come in the way.
    Mehrunisa had the precision of a tour guide and the trained ability to summarise pertinent facts. Once again she recalled for Professor Kaul her discovery of Arun’s body and what she had seen: the third eye drawn on his forehead, the slashed right wrist, the bloody scrawl by his foot that said, ‘Chirag tale andhera’.
    When she finished, Kaul’s face was impassive, his jaw slack—a sign he was churning something in his mind. Mehrunisa, who knew better than to interrupt, waited. As she studied her godfather, she thought what an impressive figure he cut despite his seventy years. His steel-grey hair was swept back from a side