Endgame

Endgame

5 mins
277


 Mritunjay Kumar was driving home from the Bagdogra airport in Siliguri when his car broke down. For some time he tried to find the snag but he made no headway. To make matters worse all of a sudden the weather turned all wet and ugly. He was pacing the sinewy hill road when he felt the glowing windows of the hillside cottage looking down at him. With the jungle coming alive at night and the rainstorm, Mritunjay had no choice. He began to trudge up the incline towards the house on the hill.  


 He thumped furiously on the massive oak door and was startled to find it unlocked. Slipping inside, he stood in a dark vestibule trying to adjust his eyes to the dimly lit interior. An iridescent chandelier hung like a giant vampire bat sleeping topsy-turvy, heavy chairs were strewn around and a polished wooden staircase curved itself upstairs like a yawning python. 


“Hello! Is anyone here?” Mritunjay cried out, “I need help. Please…”


“Sit down,” a voice purred as smooth as a wisp of blue smoke curling up from a sleepy mountain village.


 Mritunjay stumbled his way to a chair and sank in. The howling storm outside played havoc with his lurid imagination and he silently recited the Hanuman Chalisa.


“Who are you? Where are you?” Mritunjay uttered, trying to locate the source of the voice.


“I’m here my boy, just beside you,” the voice startled Mritunjay out of his skin.


A pale old man with slanted eyes was snugly ensconced in the couch beside him. Wrapped in a dark woolen shawl the old man had seamlessly blended in with the shady room.


“Oh! I’m sorry I didn’t notice you before… Uncle,” You see my car broke down and then I saw your house…” Mritunjay explained.


“That’s okay. Are you hungry? There is food on the table. Please help yourself.” the old man bared his stained broken teeth. 


“I could do with some water,” Mritunjay rose up and he went to the table. He was pleasantly surprised to see a chessboard laid out with pieces in play besides the water jug.


“Hey, who is playing this game,” Mritunjay was in his element now. He had been a serious player in his youth and played in the international circuit.


“Yours truly,” the old man acquiesced. Rising up and coming to the table.


“That’s an interesting position,” Mritunjay was riveted to the game now.


He drew up a chair and began to study the little warriors arrayed about the seat of war. The old man quietly sat opposite him.


“Make your move,” the old man whispered sliding a black pawn up one square. As if in a trance, Mritunjay began to play. As he parried and dodged, his opponent in this fierce mind game the battle of the elements outside seemed to evaporate from his perceptions. The old man was no spring chicken. He was a devious old battle-axe and deceitful to the core. Mritunjay played for his life.


Hours passed. A sense of déjà vu was seeping over Mritunjay as he remained locked in the throes of the treacherous middle game with the cunning old warrior who clearly had an edge and was slowly choking him in a deathtrap.


“I am getting a feeling that I have played this game before,” blurted out Mritunjay, trying to retrieve the stored game from the crevices of his memory, as is the wont of professional players.


“Hmmm…why don’t you concentrate on completing it this time,” the old master whispered.


In a flash, it came back to him. Mritunjay had played quite a similar game many years ago in the Grandmasters Challenge Cup held in Beijing, in China. He recalled a brief disruption in the tournament when a brilliant Lepcha player from Kalimpong suddenly disappeared. It was later rumored that the Hillman had defected to avoid his imminent arrest due to his open criticism of the host country’s ruling elite. In the aftermath of the vanishing act, Mritunjay Kumar was interrogated by stony-faced Chinese authorities due to his proximity to the hill player. The whole affair left a bad aftertaste in his mouth as the accompanying Indian Sports officials did nothing to help him and spent time in shopping junkets with their families.


“Check! My Dreamy Boy,” chortled the old man, skewering the Black King with a robust Rook attack.


Stirred back from his brief reverie, Mritunjay rapidly analyzed the board. He intuited that triumph was impossible and impulsively sacrificed his Queen and Bishop to create a breakthrough from this siege. The old chap began to squirm in disbelief at his maverick mobility when Mritunjay played his masterstroke. He compelled his opponent to exchange several heavy pieces and forced a swift stalemate. The old devil had been defanged.


“It’s a draw,” exhaled Mritunjay in relief, extending his right hand for a handshake.


“Yes, so it is. You live today to … die another day,” the old guy quoted 007 offering him the shaken Black King instead of a handshake.


“Are these jade or ivory?” asked Mritunjay curious of the ancient pieces.


“Aged ivory,” the old man said, “You may keep it; your prize.”


Outside the rain was letting up and crimson dawn was breaking. The old man ascended the stairs and faded out of sight.


Mritunjay awoke to the wailing of ambulance sirens and found himself curled up at the foot of the gnarled tree. There was no sign of any cottage nearby. Disoriented he looked about for his car. Instead, the sight that greeted him was one of incredible activity. Paramedics and Border Security Force personnel were scurrying about carrying out relief and rescue activities. Just beyond the place where his car had broken down; a massive landslide had occurred. Several vehicles were smothered in mud and rocks and some had been nudged not so gently into the yawning gorge.


In his right hand was clenched the Black King. Mritunjay Kumar had lived … to die another day.               




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