In the early morning’s golden glow, the edifice looked stunning. Breathtaking. Mind-blowing. A lustrous lustrous virginal pearl ensconced in an equally luminous pristine oyster shell.

The emperor gazed, hands clasped behind his back. Man’s ultimate masterpiece. Time to come will record this monumental marvel as a ‘wonder of the world’. He was sure of that. The aquamarine water that flowed by, in the Jumna, acted as a catalyst, enhancing the effect of the pristine marbles. The Taj Mahal. By twilight, reluctantly, the Shah returned to his palace. Neither he, nor anyone else who had stood before the newly completed architectural magic, could tear himself away from the mesmeric effect the Taj threw. Hypnotic. Spellbinding.

That night, the jahan panna, Shah Jahan looked through the grilled sandstone opening in his bedroom, across the Jumna, the Taj simmered in the gentle moonlight. Shah Jahan, sighed. How much longer? How much more had he to wait before the final slab could be placed, he wondered. He himself would be gone in five or ten years, and Mumtaz? What happens to her then? Who will care for him and her. They would become memories and footnotes in the annals of history books. And the Taj? His labor of love. He shook his head, no I cannot wait. The Taj project must be completed, here and now.

The wait to get the project complete had taken its toll on his psyche and physique. His once jet beard was now streaked with white, and his hairline, hidden below the ornate plumed turban, was receding fast. The Taj had taken him a good two decades to erect, and had depleted a sizable part of his treasury. But it was well worth, this dream mahal.

He slept fitfully. Yet, till the final nail is driven or the final brick is laid, a project, albeit the Taj, was incomplete.

Late night, he woke with a start. God! Why hadn’t he thought of this before? So simple. Yet so complete. He sent for his hakeem.

The medicine man, woken him from his stupor, hurried to the royal summons, bowing his head deferentially. The emperor had had discussions with him earlier on this problem. How much of this, how long, the pharmacokinetics of this concoction and the therapeutic or side effects of that decoction. The king didn’t say a word, he just nodded his regal head. When a man who presides over the destiny of half of Asia decrees, it is diktat. The hakeem bent low, touching his forehead in supplication. He knew by morning a sac of gold mohars would be at his door.

The unani expert rode his horse to the zenana. The seraglio’s ante-chamber housed the King’s favorite concubine, his queen, Mumtaaz. She was in labor, with her ninth child. Repeated and frequent pregnancies had devastated her frail frame and health. The hakeem took out his potion and stirred it into the queen’s sherbet. This will make you feel better. By dawn she would be dead. The silent and lethal effect of the drug would see to that. He waited till daybreak, sitting beside the queen and when all the writhing ceased: he rode back to the Agra palace and the emperor – before whom he nodded ever so slightly.

By midday, hundreds of royal stooges and henchmen, plus thousands from the awam had filed past the dead queen. Mumtaaz was famed and popular. The king, the public noted, appeared lost and marooned.

The cortege and burial was grand and befitting of the status Mumtaaz held in the royal pecking order. As the bejeweled final slab of white marble slid into place over a ready-made tomb crypt, deep under the bowels of the Taj Mahal – the king threw open the massive gates of the monument to public – finally, The Taj was now ready for public viewing.

Shah Jahan stood afar and watched the mourners file into the Taj, like a long line of ants they came, from all over. The Taj Mahal, the world’s most exquisite and expensive gravestone, was now complete. He could now sleep in peace. Secure in the knowledge that in eons to come the world would celebrate his undying love for his queen through this symbol in marble beside the Jumna. The only man who knew of his nefarious scheming was that hakeem. But he wouldn’t talk anymore - no sooner had he ridden past the Agra palace gate, he was waylaid by the royal guards and silenced, forever.

For four hundred or more years the legendary love the emperor had for his consort has been subject for verse and art, of ballads and folklore. Millions have gazed at the timeless beauty of the ‘teardrop on the face of time’, the Taj Mahal. The dark secret behind the celebrated and eternal romance however, lies buried forever safe, deep under the magnificent monument. Buried along with the occupant in the grave-pit.

That night Shah Jahan gazed upon the glistening mausoleum from across the Jumna: he could rest easy from today – his dream and its dedication to love was now over. What use is a khabristan be, albeit the finest in the whole world, without someone interred in it? He turned over, yawned, and wrapped his arm round Khairnnisa, the lissome jewel ifrom his jenana