Symmetry
Nileena S.
Grandfather’s paintings never failed to inspire awe in me.
I couldn’t help but marvel at the way his paintbrush had captured the white marble of the Taj. The finesse of the brush strokes that brought to life the magnificence of the monument in moonlight. An almost otherworldly sheen seemed to emanate from the white marble. However, that was only half of it. What really caught the eye was the identical mausoleum on the opposite bank of the river Yamuna. Identical in all aspects, but one. While one mausoleum seemed to be made of snow-white marble, the other was the colour of obsidian.
It was but one of my grandfather’s famous Black Taj paintings. Those paintings, based on a popular legend, had made him renowned in the artistic world. Art connoisseurs from all over the world would travel to India to look at his work. The artistic finesse of his work stood out even to me, a layperson with little training or even inclination in art.
When he passes away, it will be a great loss to the artistic world.
I often wondered what my grandfather would have accomplished if he was not single-mindedly devoted to capturing a single subject. Almost all his paintings were linked to the legendary Black Taj Mahal. On opposite banks of the Yamuna, the two Tajs stood in the paintings, in moonlight or in broad daylight, during rain or shine, they never failed to capture me with their magnificence. I wondered what other creations he could have fashioned with his paintbrush.
‘I have bad news.’
I looked at my cousin, Ravi, silently hoping the news was not what I expected.
‘I went through three separate timelines where the emperor Shah Jahan was not overthrown by his son Aurangzeb. The Black Taj did not appear in any of them.’ He sighed. ‘It seems like there never were any plans to build a Black Taj. It was just a flight of fancy on the Frenchman’s part.’
‘No!’ I said. It couldn’t be. My grandfather had only days, or possibly hours to live. It would be unspeakably cruel to have him know that the one thing he was devoted to all his life was a falsehood. ‘We can’t tell him that.’
‘What do we do then? Lie to him? And when he asks for photographic evidence, what do we do? Show him a fake?’ Ravi sighed. ‘He is an intelligent man, Sheena. He would see right through our lies. Besides, it is not right, to lie like that.’
‘It is better to tell a white lie and let him go in peace than……’ I did not complete the sentence. I did not need to. Ravi already knew how the sentence would end. …than let him believe that the one thing that made up his entire life was a lie.
Grandfather had always been obsessed with symmetry and dualism. Black and white. Yin and Yang. Good and evil. I had seen some of his early paintings. Duality was a recurring motif in all of them.
When he was in his early twenties, he had left his hometown in Kerala to study in Delhi. He attended classes on the weekdays and spent all his time on weekends painting and reading. He had always been a loner at heart. He had made a few friends at the university, and they often asked him to join them in their excursions. He almost always turned them down. They had to almost literally drag him to Agra to see the Taj Mahal.
He had told me that the first glimpse of the Taj Mahal did not captivate him the way it had captivated so may. Yes, he thought it was beautiful, but he wasn’t mesmerized by it. His friends teased him about his lack of reaction to the splendour of the monument. ‘What kind of an artist are you?’ they would ask.
Things eventually changed when he heard about the legend of the Black Taj Mahal.
He had read about it in a history book. Written about by the French traveler Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, the Black Taj Mahal was a mausoleum identical to the Taj Mahal which the emperor Shah Jahan had intended to build. Identical in all aspects of one-that monument would be made of marble as dark as the Taj Mahal was pale. Mirror images of one another, like Yin and Yang on the opposite banks of the river Yamuna. The Black Taj Mahal was supposed to be the resting place of Shah Jahan, just like the Taj Mahal was the resting place of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. However before the Black Taj Mahal could be built, Shah Jahan was deposed by his son, Aurangzeb.
There was no definitive proof of Tavernier’s account, in fact, most modern historians and archeologists regarded it as a flight of fancy. However, the idea had captivated my grandfather. The Black Taj and the White Taj, on the opposite banks of the Yamuna, perfectly symmetrical like the Yin and Yang. The day he found out about the legend, he stayed up all night painting the two Tajs on the opposite banks of the river Yamuna. That turned out to be the beginning of a lifelong obsession.
His paintings of the two Tajs became the objects of great fame and appreciation. Art connoisseurs from all over the world held them in great regard. As his fame grew, he became more and more drawn to the theme. He drew them over and over again, on different styles. From minimalist designs to giant murals to charcoal sketches, he did them all on the same theme.
Initially he had seen the myth of the Black Taj as just a remarkable inspiration for his artwork, however as his fame as an artist increased, he became increasingly convinced of its truth. He would often lament on how the emperor Shah Jahan never had the opportunity to see it built, and how much of a loss that was to the world. He would argue passionately with anyone who dared to suggest to him that the Black Taj Mahal was a mere myth, that Shah Jahan had never really intended to build something like that. The obsession grew to the point where it completely took over his life. By the time he was nearing the end of his life, he was in a state of utter desperation to prove that the Black Taj was an actual thing that might have been built had Aurangzeb not usurped the throne.
Then, the first time machine had been built. It was truly a wondrous creation, fashioned by some of the most brilliant minds on Earth. Not only could one use it to go to any time in the past or the future, but one could also use it to visit alternate timelines. Every decision however minor taken by anyone on Earth would lead to the creation of a new timeline, and one could use the time machine to visit alternate timeline-at least in theory. In practice, time travel was strictly controlled. Travelling to the future was strictly banned, and if you could travel to the past or to an alternate time timeline only when accompanied by a professional time travel guide. Strict precautions were to be taken to ensure that the time travelers viewed the past from a distance. Under no circumstances would they be allowed to change any aspect of the past.
Time travel was also accessible only to very few. It was extremely expensive. Travelling to the past cost a fortune. Travelling to an alternate timeline cost even more. The exact cost, of course depended on the divergence of the alternate timeline from the present timeline. The more the divergence, the more the cost.
Travelling to a timeline where a major historical event, like the deposing of Shah Jahan by Aurangzeb didn’t happen would a fortune.
In his deathbed, my grandfather had asked for a last favour from me and Ravi. ‘I want to see it. See the black Taj Mahal. I want proof that it was to be built, that it was not just a myth. Before I leave the world, I want proof that I was not wrong.
He left the fortune he had earned in his lifetime for the accomplishment of the singular task of proving that the Black Taj Mahal was real, and not just a myth.
‘I am not surprised.’ Ravi admitted. ‘Few modern-day archeologists believe the legend of the black Taj to be true. According to Islamic tradition, bodies are to be buried facing Mecca, which wouldn’t have been the case if Shah Jahan intended that he be buried in a building perfectly symmetrical and identical to the Taj on the opposite bank of the river Yamuna. The only sign of the presence of such a design was the presence of blackened marble ruins in the Moonlight Garden. However, those have been found to be discoloured white marble.
It was not the first time I had heard that argument. It made sense. However, I couldn’t bear the thought of Grandfather leaving the world knowing that everything he had believed in was a lie.
I hadn’t told anyone about the setup in my room.
I knew that if the authorities came to know, I would be in serious trouble. And if something went wrong with what I was about to do, I could end up changing the fate of the world.
I had to be very, very careful.
I looked at the homemade time machine I had built from scratch. I hadn’t dared to use it so far. However, at that moment, I felt like I needed to use it. To find a way to make things right for Grandfather before he passed on.
I put on the rudimentary time travel suit that I had fashioned with household objects. Time travel suits were supposed to minimize contact with the past environment, to ensure that time travelers did not end up changing the past. I knew of the butterfly effect. I knew that I was taking a huge risk anyway as I was planning to deliberately make contact with an individual from the past, however I didn’t really think too much about that. I was single-mindedly focused in helping Grandfather.
◆◆◆
The Taj Mahal looked as magnificent in the seventeenth century as it did in the twenty-first. I was particularly awe-struck by its snowy white sheen in the absence of the yellowing caused by acid rain. I stood there for a moment, transfixed, trying to take in as much of the beauty as possible in a single gaze.
I scanned the crowds, and I caught a sight of him. The Frenchman, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier. He was gazing intently at the Taj Mahal.
I considered approaching him. I knew it was a huge risk, because of the butterfly effect, but I had to do something to appease my grandfather. So, I walked towards him.
‘Jean-Baptiste Tavernier?’
The Frenchman turned around and stared at me, his mouth agape. My appearance in that ridiculous looking time travel suit had obviously made him pause. ‘Wh— who are you?’ He asked, in a French accent.
‘I come from the future.’ I said. I felt a little silly as I spoke those words. Of course, there was no way he would believe me. ‘Never mind that. There us something I want to talk to you about.
‘The Black Taj Mahal.’
The Frenchman looked sheepish. ‘You read that book?’
‘I read it. And I know for a fact that you were lying. There never were plans to build a Black Taj Mahal on the banks of the Yamuna.’
‘True.’ The Frenchman said. He sighed. ‘Wouldn’t it be amazing if there was, though? I mean can you imagine it?’ There was a wistful look on his face. Two Taj Mahals on the opposite banks of the river Yamuna. One the colour of alabaster, the other of ebony. Just imagine what they would look like in moonlight.’
I didn’t have to try too hard to imagine it. I knew what it would look like because of the dozens of paintings my grandfather had made.
‘My grandfather had read your book as well.’ I said. ‘He agrees that it would be magnificent. He believed you and he made paintings of the two Taj Mahals, the black one and the white one.’
‘Did he really?’
‘Yes. He is on his deathbed and he wanted a reassurance that the legend of the Black Taj was true. Only, my cousin and I found out that it isn’t. Since you were the one who put the idea into his head, maybe you should be the one to tell him the truth.’ However Tavernier was not listening. He seemed preoccupied. ‘Paintings of the Black Taj Mahal. I want to see them.’
‘You can see them.’ I said, though I knew that was a really bad idea. ‘And you can explain things to my grandfather.’
◆◆◆
As Jean-Baptiste Tavernier stepped into the twenty-first century, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of terror. I thought of the butterfly effect. Nothing seemed to have changed around me, but I did not know if that was the case all over the world.
I took the Frenchman upstairs, to my grandfather’s room. Fortunately, there was no one else in the house at the moment-my family would have totally freaked out if they came to know I had illegally travelled through time, and brought a man from the eighteenth century to the present. I didn’t think my grandfather would mind, though. He was not in a state of mind to care about such things.
‘Mon Dieu!’
Tavernier had just caught sight of the large painting hung on the wall. It-like most of his paintings-depicted the two Taj Mahals. ‘This is exactly as I imagined it.’ He exclaimed.
‘Who is it?’ Grandfather opened his eyes. He was stunned by the sight of Tavernier. ‘You!’ He exclaimed. ‘You are him. You wrote the book about the Black Taj Mahal!’
‘I did.’ Tavernier said, rather embarrassedly.
‘I’ll leave you to explain things to him.’ I said, and left the room.
◆◆◆
As I left Tavernier with my grandfather, I wondered what the hell I was thinking. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? I thought it would bring some closure, but as I thought about it, I realized that my grandfather would be shattered on being told the one thing he had believed in so steadfastly was a mere product of an overactive imagination. Not to mention I risked the fate of the world to do what I did.
I pulled out my phone and went online to look at social media. Everything seemed pretty normal so far, so apparently the butterfly effect was not as strong as people made it out to be. That, at least was a relief.
I couldn’t resist eavesdropping on their conversation. I heard Tavernier speak, with his thick French accent. ‘I know what I did was wrong. But I couldn’t help letting my imagination run off with me. The idea of the two Tajs-it was just so beautiful. So poetic.’
‘Yes, you are right.’ My grandfather said. ‘I am so glad I’ve found someone who understands how I feel. While I tried to deny it to myself, there was a small part of me that knew the truth, that there never were plans for a second Taj Mahal. But I couldn’t resist thinking about it. It was such a beautiful idea.’
‘Yes! I am glad I found someone who thinks like I do as well!’
‘When I heard about my grandchildren’s plans to go back in time and find out more about the Black Taj, a part of me was terrified. I did not want to die knowing that the one thing I had dreamed of all my life was a lie. But now that I finally met someone who understands the way I feel, and talk to him about it, I think I can go in peace after all.’
‘Your pictures are exquisite.’ Tavernier said. ‘They are almost exactly like I have envisioned. I love the way you’ve depicted the lattice-work.’
They talked about art and architecture for a while. I suddenly felt content. After the conversation my grandfather would be at peace at last. I decided not to eavesdrop anymore. I would let the two men converse freely.
◆◆◆
Early next morning, I encountered Jean-Baptiste Tavernier who had a solemn look on his face. ‘I am sorry to tell you this.’ He said. ‘But he passed on.
‘We had a great conversation together. He shared my passion for art and architecture. He seemed really excited to talk about his paintings. We talked about how the Black Taj Mahal would have been. The positioning, the design, the interior… it was an amazing conversation. We talked all night, until he collapsed. I was shocked to find out he was dead. I have not known him for long, but I wish I had more time to talk with him.’
Cold tears grazed my cheek as I silently grieved. At least he had spent the last moments of his life talking about what he was the most passionate about.
◆◆◆
As I helped Tavernier return to his own time, the full implications of what I had done hit me. I thought of the butterfly effect.
Because of the butterfly effect, an almost infinitesimally small incident can have enormous, unpredictable consequences on the world. A butterfly flapping its wings can cause a tornado in another part of the world. I thought of all the time travel stories I had read where the protagonist would go back in time to kill Hitler only to find out someone worse had taken over.
I wondered what the consequences have been of what I had done. There wasn’t any visible change in the world, nor could I glean anything from the news and social media websites I had checked. We weren’t suddenly living in a military dictatorship or the aftermath of an apocalypse or the midst of an alien invasion. Of course, I couldn’t be sure that nothing had changed, and there was a part of me that was still scared.
I was also terribly sleepy. I had not slept too well last night. I was tossing and turning in bed, thinking of Grandfather and Tavernier and the Black Taj Mahal.
◆◆◆
The early morning sun shone over the Yamuna, as hundreds of tourists gathered by its banks as usual. The tourists were of varied backgrounds, and hailed from all over the world. All of them were eager to take a look at the magnificent feat of architecture. There were a number of people taking photographs with great eagerness. It was hard to determine what it was that the crowds found the most captivating-the beauty or the symmetry. The monuments were exceedingly symmetrical by themselves, however from a vantage point that enabled the viewing of both the Taj Mahal and the Black Taj Mahal, viewers couldn’t help gasping with astonishment of the overall symmetry.
‘Symmetry’ is based on the myth of the Black Taj Mahal, which is said to have been intended to be built on the bank of the Yamuna opposite of the Taj Mahal. The tale of the Black Taj comes to us from a time when the word of travelers and merchants was the only portal into distant lands, giving us fanciful and wonderful legends that like of the manticore, the roc and Shah Jahan’s Black Taj Mahal.