Free The Taj Conspiracy by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar

attempted to invigorate India’s architectural heritage. Raj Bhushan had a reputation as a counterfactual historian—his version of British rule in India as an era of social progress and modernisation of infrastructure was a subject of some controversy amongst historical commentators.
    Seated in the carved wooden armchair in the large room, Mehrunisa studied the milky tea in front of her, brown from over-brewing, and decided to leave it halfway. She liked tea the Persian way, with a hint of sugar and a slice of peach or a segment of orange. It was a family tradition, the memory of which racked her. In the evenings, after Papa returned from the Consulate, Maadar would prepare what he called an aperi-tea-f for him: a tall glass with peach slices, a splash of rum, ice cubes, and tea. In that sense her father was old-fashioned: he mourned the pace of modern life, the cost of which was the gradual disappearance of customs like the aperitif. His own disappearance, though, had been abrupt. Mehrunisa was fourteen at that time, and while her friends hung out at al fresco cafés, her shrine of choice became the Trevi. The Baroque fountain, where tourists gathered for the time-honoured custom of throwing a coin into its water and thus guaranteeing a return to Rome, became her talisman. Varying her routine daily— eyes closed, prayer on lips, back to the fountain, toss with the left hand over the right shoulder—she willed her Papa’s return. A year passed in which the coin collection at Trevi swelled and hope seeped out of her.... No! Mehrunisa shook her head. No! She would not think of Papa—going down that road constricted her chest and filled her eyes until she choked. No!
    She forced herself to concentrate on the artefacts in the elegant room, the majority of which—whether paintings, brass statues or wood carvings—were representations of Shiva. One particular bronze sculpture caught her eye: Shiva, in a circle of flames, his left leg raised, the right balanced on a demon, as he performed his divine dance of creation and destruction.
    ‘You fancy the Nataraja?’ Raj Bhushan remarked as he walked towards her over the coir carpet. Dressed in a tweed jacket, a muffler thrown around his neck, gray flannel trousers and stylish leather oxfords, he cut a very dapper figure. His spectacles were thick-rimmed black, which would have been nerdy once but now were decidedly geeky-chic. ‘My favourite though is the Ardhanarishwar. Are you familiar with it?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘The lord who is half-woman. It is the synthesis of Shiva and Parvati into one: the left side is female, the right male. One entity with its male and female elements in harmony—a powerful, postmodernist concept, wouldn’t you say?’ He laughed, a high-pitched, boyish laugh that ended as a gurgle as if it had been hurriedly snuffed out. Returning to his table he summoned Mehrunisa. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said as he moved some papers out of the way, aligned them neatly, stacked them in one corner of the table, plucked a case of fresh mints aside and arranged it atop the papers.
    Below the table’s glass-top was a painting in which, framed against a black backdrop, was a figure split vertically down its middle into two separate yet conjoined halves. The left, draped in red, was a female form; the right, a tiger skin wrapped around his waist, was a male form with a blue body. The colours were striking in their contrast and the two separate figures, despite their disparate forms, looked in complete harmony.
    ‘It is beautiful,’ Mehrunisa assented.
    ‘You know,’ Raj Bhushan said as he walked towards the corner sofa, ‘in Hindu mythology we have over three hundred million gods and goddesses. Rather superfluous when you realise that just one would suffice. Shiva. He is the complete God.’
    Mehrunisa tipped her head.
    ‘I trust you are better now?’ Taking the chair opposite her, he smiled. ‘It was unfortunate, you getting embroiled in the business