Free The Taj Conspiracy by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar Page B

calligraphy, but rest assured, it’ll be examined. Now,’ he said, rising, ‘if you’ll excuse me...’
    Mehrunisa slung her bag over her shoulder, thanked him and walked out. As she reached the door, Raj Bhushan called out, ‘Convey my regards to Professor Kaul. And wish him a speedy recovery.’ He stood there, hands tucked in his pockets, wearing that peculiar smile.
    Outside, Mehrunisa rubbed the back of her neck. Neither the SSP nor the director-general seemed to believe that the calligraphic changes were important. Was she overreacting?

Delhi
    W hen Mehrunisa returned from meeting the director-general, Mangat Ram informed her that Pamposh, Professor Kaul’s niece, was waiting inside. They had spoken over the phone frequently since Mehrunisa’s return to India, but had not seen each other for five years.
    Now, standing in the patio, Mehrunisa wondered how much Pamposh must have changed. They were twelve when they were first thrown together in the professor’s rambling house. She remembered how, one day, Mangat Ram had returned from the market carrying a pup with the groceries. He had found it mewling outside a neighbour’s gate, he’d said, abandoned.
    ‘Why?’ the girls quizzed in unison.
    The housekeeper examined the scrawny mutt and said, ‘Probably because he’s a mongrel.’ When asked to clarify, he explained that a mongrel was a mixed breed.
    Pamposh had nodded and said, ‘Like Mehroo.’
    The next instant the door opened.
    In that flash it takes us to size up people we have known well, Mehrunisa realised that Pamposh was much the same. Dressed in an elegant ivory-coloured Kashmiri knee-length phiran, her riotously curly hair cut short, Pamposh greeted her with a smile bookended by deep dimples.
    ‘Mehroo!’ she cried, using the name that harked back to their childhood. A quick hug later, her eyes did a swift appraisal, she gave a naughty wink and said, ‘You look as fetching as ever.’
    ‘And you,’ Mehrunisa smiled as she draped an arm around Pamposh and led her inside. When they were seated on the living room sofa, Pamposh, with worry in her eyes said softly, ‘What’s up with Kaul mama?’
    Mehrunisa apprised her of the professor’s deteriorating health, which was increasingly marked by periods of forgetfulness.
    Pamposh’s eyes widened. ‘You mean to say he forgets who he is?’
    Mehrunisa paused as she attempted to describe the situation accurately. ‘It’s as if he enters a vacuum,’ she shrugged, ‘where he is aware of nothing.’
    ‘You mean,’ Pamposh said, ‘he doesn’t recognise people around him? Even people he knows well—like you, and Mangat Ram?’
    Mehrunisa nodded, her lips pursed.
    ‘Oh dear!’ Pamposh said in that strangely excitable voice. Mehrunisa was accustomed to it—in childhood she would teasingly call her Drama Queen. Not surprisingly, Pamposh had leveraged that trait into a vocation. She was a trained actor; not the sort, however, who perform for affluent audiences in air-conditioned halls. A theatre activist, she staged feminist street plays at various corners and squares of Jaipur with her troupe of actors drawn from secondary schools and her own school. A play centred on the issue of female foeticide became so wildly popular that it started to register on the itineraries of foreign tourists. Traffic in front of Jaipur’s Hawa Mahal stalled whenever her troupe performed, leading the municipal authorities to order her to take her play elsewhere, preferably within the four walls of a theatre. But Pamposh refused. The suppression of the play led to protests from parents, concerned citizens, tour guides and travel agents. By popular demand, Pamposh’s troupe was back.
    Pamposh tugged at her chin thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I should move in for some time. I could keep an eye on Kaul mama and we could be together, eh?’ Before Mehrunisa could answer, she continued, ‘But what would happen to my children?’
    Pamposh also ran an orphanage for children