The Taj Conspiracy by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar Page B

brought darkness and cold in its wake. My father liked his bath water steaming hot—tepid was for the weaklings, he scoffed—and would always check the water by dipping a hand into the bucket. To heat the water we relied on electrical heating rods, a bathroom geyser being a rarity in those days. The rod was immersed in a bucket of water, and guaranteed to have water boiling within a half hour.
    So my father went inside for his bath, trailed by the cook. In a standard ritual, my father bunched up his pyjamas, took off his slippers and stepped into the bathroom where the large bucket sat spewing vapour into the air. Cook unplugged the cord from the bedroom wall outlet and waited for father to dip his hand in the bucket. Post which, satisfied with the water’s temperature, he would flick his fingers in dismissal.
    That day, however, he grunted in disapproval; the cook trembled his way to the bucket, checked for himself and re-plugged the immersion rod. Despite the steam, the water was not at the required temperature because a jug of cold water had been added surreptitiously.
    My father changed out of his clothes, sat bare-chested on the bed, his temperature rising as he waited for the water to boil. Cook stood in forlorn guard at the doorway, willing the water to heat up quickly. When my mother summoned him from the kitchen—the curry paste was burning, how had he forgotten to add water?—my father harrumphed, sent the cook on his way and marched to the bathroom, unplugging the rod on his way in. As he shut the door behind him, he failed to notice his son, who had been watching from the veranda, sneaking in on his rubber-soled Bata slippers. My father’s hand was in the bucket when current leapt at his fingertips from the water, then went rocketing through his body.
    A horrible scream summoned everyone to the bathroom. The wooden door, secured from inside, took a while to be forced open. When it was, inside lay father, stone-cold, a trickle of red oozing out of one nostril.
    Hands were raised in puzzled query—the immersion rod lay limp in the bucket, its cord safely unplugged from the bedroom outlet.

Delhi
    M ehrunisa sighted Professor Kaul in his favourite winter spot beneath the mango tree in the manicured garden. But it was nearly dusk and chilly and the professor should be indoors. As she crossed the lawn, a troubled Mangat Ram hurried towards her from the patio. ‘Sahib is unwell,’ he said nodding toward Professor Kaul. ‘He’s been sitting there since lunch. Not lifted a finger to drink or eat. I served him his lunch at one, then four o’clock tea—all untouched. When I asked, Sahib, is something wrong, he gawked at me, then, then ...’ Mangat Ram’s voice went tremulous, ‘he said to me, who are you?’ The housekeeper clasped his mouth with his right hand.
    Mehrunisa did not know what to make of this revelation. Perhaps Professor Kaul was just pulling his leg? He was known to occasionally joke with the housekeeper: if I needed a wife, I would have married, right? But Mangat Ram took it in his stride. In the years he had been in Kaul’s service, he had developed the temperament of a phlegmatic spouse, ignoring Kaul when needed, otherwise steadfastly delivering good food and keeping house. But then she saw the professor hunched in his chair, the darkness creeping around him, and his words floated into her head: I think I am losing my mind .
    Now, as the housekeeper watched her, Mehrunisa grimaced, and said, ‘Let’s take a look.’
    Kaul did not react to her approach. He sat like a Buddha, but with his legs extended, pondering space.
    ‘Uncle,’ she murmured, ‘Kaul uncle.’ Mangat Ram, his hands clutching the edges of his sleeveless brown wool jacket, stood behind her. When the professor stayed impassive, Mehrunisa delved into her bag and pulled out her digital camera. She was scrolling through the images when Mangat Ram leaned forward. Looking at the photographs, he asked glumly, faint