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Just as I’m descending the stairs, Krish teases me with a grin. “Hey, buddy,” he teases, “do you know you’re an hour late for your own wedding party?”
I respond with a chuckle, “Yeah, we got a little carried away.”
Krish’s knowing smile suggests he knows exactly what we were up to, but thankfully, he understands and doesn’t give me a hard time about it. I change the topic and inquire about the Walia family. “Who is attending to the Walia family?”
“Your dad,” Krish replies. “He is really stepping up and welcoming them. But your father-in-law is busy in his own world. He’s glued on the phone most of the time, probably accepting best wishes from his political contacts who couldn’t make it to his daughter’s wedding.”
I nod at Krish and continue down the stairs with him. Considering the high-profile guests from both families, I am unwilling to take any chances with the security arrangements. A persistent feeling of unease that has been with me since morning and the suspicion that something is still amiss propels me to double-check the security details for the event with Krish.
“Are the security measures in place?” I ask, wanting to ensure everything is perfect. “I hope everything is foolproof.”
“Rest assured, buddy, I’ve checked everything thoroughly. Only guests with invites are allowed inside. All bags are screened for suspicious items at the security gates; even the guests are scanned upon entry. The guards from both the Walias and Shergills are stationed around the mansion. We have set up live CCTV cameras to constantly monitor the event. Everything is meticulously arranged, Ayaan. You just focus on the party and enjoy yourself.” He pats my arm.
I’m impressed by the thoroughness of Krish’s security arrangements.
“That’s great to hear,” I respond, feeling reassured.
As we enter the living room, my attention is drawn to Pratap Walia, who is deeply engrossed in the ornate chessboard table beside the photo wall. This stunning chess table, an antique that has been in our family for decades, holds sentimental value in our home. I like to play chess from both sides and whenever I’m in India, this is where I unwind with a glass of scotch. Last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I came down and engaged in a game here, though it remained unfinished due to Krish’s interruption, leading our conversation in a different direction.
It’s strange to see Pratap Walia so captivated by the chessboard. His expressions and the way his fingers touch the intricate stand suggest a connection, possibly a memory associated with it. Intrigued by his fascination, I signal to Krish to proceed outside as I approach Pratap Walia, eager to know the story behind his obsession with the chessboard.
“Anything intriguing here?” I ask, my voice cautious, my gaze shifting between him to the chessboard.
His grin widens as he meets my eye.
“You consider yourself a King of the chess game, don’t you?” His response catches me off guard, leaving me momentarily stunned.
A flicker of memory from the past conversation flashes through my mind. I’d referred to Meher as my Queen when I had been to Walia House to propose the marriage deal to him. Is that how he connected the dots? What is he getting at?
He continues, his tone cryptic, “I’d overheard Meher talking to Devika about it. About your obsession towards a black King chess piece,” he adds, turning his attention back to the chessboard. “Just like the one here.” I’m puzzled now, wondering what Pratap Walia is trying to convey.
“What do you want to say?” I finally ask, my brow furrowing.
His grin widens as he motions toward the scattered chess pieces on the board, symbolising a half-played or ongoing game. I purposely look at the positions of both the black and white Kings on the board. The white King resides on square E6 while my black King stands on square H6.
“So, you are the black King, and Meher your Queen.” He affirms mysteriously, looking at the pieces as if they hold some hidden meaning.
I follow his gaze, studying the arrangement, feeling a growing sense of unease.
“You had your sight set on the opposite white King, his Rook and his Knight. But what you failed to notice is…” he pauses, takes a white chess piece and places it on the board at square G4.
His move sends a shiver down my spine as he continues.
“The Bishop was close enough to give you a checkmate,” he says, his voice laced with mystery. His words catch me by surprise, and I again look at the chessboard. The game we’re playing might not be significant, but Pratap Walia’s metaphor catches my attention. His words imply that there may be a hidden message behind these chess moves.
Vishnu interrupts our conversation, informing Pratap Walia about the visitors waiting for him outside. The two exchange a look and glance in my direction before leaving. I stay there, a sense of dread creeping up as my gaze returns to the chessboard again.
In this maze of hearts and politics, I’ve played the game with a singular focus on the important pieces—the opposite king, my queen, the rook, the knight, and even the pawns. But have I missed something? Have I overlooked another critical piece in this intricate mind game?The Bishop—a chess piece that can move in ways others can’t. The one that can manoeuvre through the chaos and strike when least expected.
A chilling realisation dawns on me, relating to my prior uneasiness about something amiss. It’s like a new layer of the game has emerged before me, where alliances and motives are more complicated than I could have ever imagined. The question now remains isWho is the Bishop in my game, and how close is he to giving me a checkmate?
As the sun dips below the horizon, a magnificent black jet touches down on the tarmac of the private terminal at Mumbai Airport. The exit door lowers, and a tall man descends the steps of the luxurious aircraft with a deliberate stride. In a tailored black suit, he stands tall and imposing, his sharp eyes surveying the surroundings. As his feet touches the ground, he inhales deeply, savouring the distinct scent of the city — a fragrance that carries both familiarity and memories.
He snakes his hands at the back of his neck, his fingers massaging the tension that had accumulated during the journey. His charcoal black Bat tattoo on the back of his palm—a symbol of his unconquerable spirit and his dark, shadowy persona—glints on his hand like a lucky mascot.
A twisted smile curves his lips as he spots a group of burly men in jackets marked with the same bat symbol, standing a few steps away, waiting to welcome him. A fleet of black cars are stationed to escort him from the airport. There is someone else, too, who should have been present here to greet him. Raghav! The man known by many names, and feared by all. But he knows that at this moment, there are more pressing matters that require Raghav’s attention. With purposeful strides, he makes his way towards one of the waiting black vehicles and gets into the backseat, ready to rule the Maze that had always been his since the beginning.
CHAPTER 27
