The Taj Conspiracy by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar

cenotaphs, the screen, the vaulted dome, ‘is built to commemorate the death of Mumtaz Mahal. Calling it “masnooee” is akin to blasphemy.’
    ‘But this ... this ...’ the SSP pointed to the epitaph, ‘was written three hundred and fifty years back. How can it be different now? Surely, you are mistaken!’
    ‘No. The word “munavvar” has been switched to “masnooee”. It is minute—it takes little to change it from one word to the other. But ...’
    The SSP looked unimpressed. ‘Look, perhaps we should call in a Taj attendant and enquire discreetly. There has to be an error—’
    ‘No,’ Mehrunisa held up her hands, ‘please, listen. This could be sensitive. Let me examine the rest of the cenotaph.’ Loath to connect the two, yet desperate to underline the criticality of the situation, she said, ‘Just four days back, the supervisor was found murdered here, right at this spot.’
    SSP Raghav gave her a long, hard look. ‘Chirag tale andhera.’
    Mehrunisa bit her lip. ‘I don’t know. But what I have stumbled upon needs closer examination.’
    The SSP exhaled his fury. Clearly this thing, whatever it was, was not going away. ‘Go on,’ he said, rolling back his shoulders. ‘Read ahead.’
    Mehrunisa returned to scrutinising the calligraphy on the tomb as SSP Raghav watched. She had circled around the tomb and was now at the head, the north end. Hunched over, she read the invocation: He is the everlasting. He is sufficient . Following that was a line from the Quran— God is He, besides whom there is no God. He knoweth what is concealed and what is manifest . He is merciful and compassionate .
    At the same moment her heart snowballed into her chest. She stared at it, for there, in front of her eyes, unmistakably, specific words in the passage had been made bold.
    ‘What do you see now?’ SSP Raghav asked anxiously.
    Mehrunisa pointed to the part of the Quranic verse that had been highlighted, and stood in bold relief from the rest. She rubbed a finger against it and examined the blackish hue on her skin. ‘Several coats of black paint over the original calligraphy, which is done with jasper.’
    SSP Raghav’s brows took flight above bulging eyes. ‘Nonsense! An entire mausoleum built in memory of Mumtaz Mahal, and now her own tomb questions where she lies buried!’
    On Mehrunisa’s urging he peered hard at the calligraphy. He had to admit: it was beautiful, but incomprehensible. He shrugged, uncomfortable with looking ignorant and out of control. ‘So, this tampering— you are absolutely certain?’
    Mehrunisa nodded as she dug out a digital camera from her bag. ‘There is one man whose judgement I trust more than mine. I’ll take some photographs to share with him.’
    ‘Your uncle, the historian?’
    Mehrunisa nodded and as she began clicking pictures, the SSP contemplated aloud, ‘Why would someone do this? What was the motive behind these changes? Was it mischief? Blasphemous as it is to us, perhaps it is somebody’s idea of a joke. A stupid one, yes, but a joke.’ He looked at her for assent.
    Mehrunisa pursed her lips. ‘First a murder and now these changes to three-hundred-year-old calligraphy ... no,’ she shook her head, ‘I think it’s more than that.’

Pakistan-occupied Kashmir
    ‘A ll this newfound brotherhood and camaraderie— where is it going to take us?’
    The young mujahid knew better than to answer. In the first place, it was not a question: the Commander liked to air his views aloud. In the second, Jameel Jalaluddin was not a man to be interrupted.
    His remarkable eyebrows were a thick curve that dipped over the bridge of his high nose but rose to continue unbroken over the other eye. It gave the impression of two scythes sitting next to each other, their curving blades scrutinising everything in view. His eyes were small and round like prayer beads. The upper lip shaven, his chin was shrouded in a rough beard.
    ‘Are we going to forget our Kashmiri