The Krishna Key (35 page)

In the thirty-sixth year after the Mahabharata war, Balarama and I went along with the entire Yadava clan to Prabhas Patan to honour those who had died at Kurukshetra. After the religious ceremonies were over, our fellow Yadavas became drunk on wine, and an argument ensued between
the various clans
—
Vrishnis, Bhojas, Kukuras, Chedis, and Shainyas
—
regarding the rights and wrongs committed by the parties to the Mahabharata war. Intoxicated and angry, the men turned the argument into a violent brawl in which they plucked out the reeds that had mutated from the iron powder and struck each other. Balarama and I could not bear the sight of our near and dear ones killing each other, and ran into the forests. No one survived. The first part of Gandhari’s curse—that I would lose all my loved ones and would watch helplessly as my clan self-destructed
—
had come true.

‘So 786 is sacred in Islam because of the Abjad value of the first Qur’anic verse?’ asked Radhika.

‘There is another explanation offered by Vedic scholars about the Islamic 786,’ answered Saini. ‘As you know, the modern numerals that we use in the Western world are commonly called
Arabic numerals.
What is often forgotten is the fact that Arabic numerals originally started out as
Hindu numerals.
What the world uses today—including the zero—was the numeral system developed by Indian mathematicians in which a sequence of digits could be read as a number. Persian mathematicians in India adopted the Hindu numeral system and passed it on to the Arabs further west. The Arabs shared the system with Europe during the Middle Ages, and hence, the system came to be known as Arabic.’

‘So the numerals that we commonly use today across the world—zero through nine—are actually Hindu numbers?’ asked Radhika.

‘Yes, absolutely. Now if I take the three digits—7, 8 and 6—and write them in Hindu numerals, what do they look like?’ asked Saini, as he took out a pocketbook and pen and noted down the three digits.

‘Now, see what happens when I bring these three numerals together,’ said Saini. Radhika looked on in amazement as he combined the three digits together in a formation that looked very familiar.

‘You will notice that the three digits—7, 8 and 6—when brought together resemble the Hindu Om. Actually, they represent the mirror image of an Om,’ amended Saini as he continued drawing. ‘Finally, flip around the mirror-image Om and you get the Hindu Om that we are all familiar with, a small earthen plate—around four centimetres long and an equal four centimetres wide. m on the Kaliyuga’ he said, proudly displaying his artistic skills.

‘So what’s the connection between 786 and Om?’ asked Radhika, puzzled even more by this further demonstration.

‘It’s impossible to say. Theories abound. Purist Islamic scholars denounce 786 completely. Their view is that the Prophet Mohammad was completely against astrology and numerology. The practice continues to be popular in most of south Asia, though, with many Muslims choosing to make 786 part of their vehicle’s licence plates or phone numbers. Many of them write the number 786 on the top of important agreements and letters, almost in the manner that Hindus draw the Om symbol on top of documents—with a view to invoking God’s blessings,’ said Saini.

‘You still haven’t told me how the three digits 894 mentioned in the Sanskrit inscription relate to all of this,’ said Radhika, who was by now quite weary of numbers.

‘It’s simple. The Taj Mahal represents the age of Akbar, Jehangir and Shah Jahan, when Hindus and Muslims had begun to learn to live with one another,’ replied Saini. ‘The fact that prominent Hindus such as Raja Man Singh, Tansen, Birbal and Todar Mal were among the
navaratnas
of Akbar’s court is testament to that fact. Akbar contributed to building Man Singh’s Vrindavan temple. Man Singh’s family contributed their property in Agra to Shah Jahan to build Mumtaz Mahal’s tomb. The number 894 is simply the addition of 108 and 786! The Taj Mahal represents Hindu-Muslim creative energies at their very best!’

Balarama knew it was time to return to the heavens. He sat under a tree and meditated and gradually allowed his life to slip out with his breath. Some moments later, I saw a serpent emerging from the inert body of Balarama. My brother had returned to his original form of Lord Sheshnag. I knew that it was time for my departure from earth, too. I sat under a banyan tree, crossed my left foot over my right one and absentmindedly shook my foot, as I revisited vignettes from my life. Seeing my shaking foot through the bushes, a hunter called Jara mistook it for the ear of a deer and shot an arrow in its direction. The arrowhead was made from the only iron piece that Balarama had been unable to grind down. Thrown into the sea, it had been swallowed by a fish and Jara had found the piece in its belly. The poor nervous hunter, upon realising what he had done, could not believe the heinous act that he had committed, but I blessed him and told him not to grieve
—
he had simply been an instrument in fulfilling my destiny. The second part of Gandhari’s curse
—
that I would die like an animal at the hands of a hunter
—
had also come true. I allowed the poison to wash through my body, permitted my praana to slip out, and returned to Vaikuntha. My sojourn as Krishna
—
Vishnu’s eighth incarnation on earth
—
was over.

‘This particular Sanskrit inscription on the base plate by Raja Man Singh was already available with your friend Varshney. Why did he send us off on a wild-goose-chase to Mount Kailash and Somnath if he knew that the secret was to be found right here in the Taj Mahal?’ asked Radhika.

‘But was Varshney really pointing us towards either of those places?’ asked Saini. ‘I’m not so sure. L tell us anything about the a on the Kaliyugaet’s review Varshney’s note again, shall we?’ He flipped back to the page where he had rewritten Varshney’s gobbledegook in reverse order. Varshney’s cryptic message said:

Redraw numeral swastika, smart but stressed pupils! Keep stats, no animal parts. X on left-top at tip. Lived, laid, relaid in X. Kalash or Kailash it is? Raja surrender. Six are tips in a star. And blue water beside. Shankar elated.

‘The first step was to redraw the swastika as a mathematical magic square and eliminate the images while keeping the numbers. He then asked us to look at the left-top tip. That gave us the number eight. Because we were so obsessed with Somnath and Mount Kailash, we imagined that Varshney was either referring to the number of times that Somnath had been rebuilt or to the number of monasteries built around Lake Mansarovar. But in the sentence
Lived, laid, relaid in X,
Varshney was referring to the tombs of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal that had been buried within eight walls—eight walls of the cenotaph and eight walls of the octagonal Taj Mahal itself! I was a fool to not see it sooner! Similarly, with the line
Kalash or Kailash it is?
Varshney was pointing us in the direction of the pinnacle that could pass off
either as a kalash or as a pinnacle. We ended up thinking that he was referring either to the kalash of Somnath or to Mount Kailash.’

‘But what about the line where he says
Raja surrender?’
asked Radhika. ‘There was no battle over the Taj Mahal, as in the instance of Somnath or Tibet. What surrender is Varshney speaking of?’

‘Varshney is alluding to the fact that Raja Man Singh’s family had to surrender the property—the land and structures on the banks of the Yamuna—to the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan,’ explained Saini. ‘The rest of Varshney’s message fits in perfectly with what I’ve just shown you.
Six are tips in a star
—you just observed the six-pointed star in the floor tiles of the Taj.
And blue water beside
—the Taj is built on the banks of the Yamuna.’

‘But the final line,
Shankar elated,
does not fit in. The Taj Mahal has nothing to do with Shankar—or Shiv.’

Saini smiled. ‘Don’t you want to know what Raja Man Singh’s palace in Agra was called?’

‘What?’ asked Radhika, completely perplexed.

‘It was called
Tejo Mahalay,’
replied Saini.

‘Tejo Mahalay? What does it mean?’ asked Radhika.

‘It literally translates to the
Great Abode of Tej.
The Rajput and Jat kings of the time used to call Shiv by the name
Tejaji,’
explained Saini. ‘Hence the name of the palace meant
Great Abode of Shiv.
Calling a palace the residence of a deity was fashionable among Hindu royalty. Even today you can visit Udaipur and drop in at the
Shiv Niwas
Palace—again literally meaning the very same thing—the
Abode of Shiv.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that the name Taj Mahal is derived from Tejo Mahalay and not from Mumtaz Mahal’s name?’ asked Radhika.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ replied Saini. ‘Read the
Badshah-nama.
Her real name was Arjumand Banu Begum also known as Mumtaz-ul-Zamani. The term Mumtaz Mahal was not used even,’ replied Sir Khan—

‘How?’ asked Radhika.

‘The temple on the palace grounds of Raja Man Singh was dedicated to
Agreshwar Mahadev Nagnatheshwar.
The city derived its name from
Agreshwar
—yet another name for Shiv,’ replied Saini.

‘And if the name of this place was indeed Tejo Mahalay, then it follows that Varshney’s clue about Shiv was absolutely accurate,’ murmured Radhika softly, almost to herself. ‘But why would Man Singh’s family give up a palace property—possibly bearing a temple dedicated to Shiv—to the Mughals for a tomb?’