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Flash fiction: The Trickster
A dark short story about madness, chess and confinement.
The Trickster
Anurag Malik
I have been trying to escape this prison for three months now. I’m admitted to the Psychiatric Ward, PGI, Rohtak – against my will, and every waking second, I plot and scheme and fantasise about the sweet taste of freedom again.
The problem, however, is the guard who monitors the door 24/7. And even if he dozes off – and many times, he does – the exit door is locked, and the key is in a pocket so deep in his khaki trousers that it seems to have become part of his body.
I don't belong in here. I keep telling them that, but the more you say you're sane, the crazier they think you are.
My parents brought me in. I tried to hurt our cat, they said. It’s a lie – or at least a misunderstanding. All I did was throw my phone because an IM flagged me in a completely won position. When the screen shattered, I was more terrified than the cat herself. I understand that it could have hit her, but that doesn’t mean I am psychotic. Also, no one is as sorry about it as I am.
But my time here is up. I found out that my assigned psychiatrist, Dr Dharamveer, plays chess, and that's my ticket out. We made a bet: if I win, I get to name a reward.
Not only is he late, but the patients have burst into a fit, singing Hum Honge Kaamyaab in unison. All this is making me very nervous and restless, and I’m walking back and forth by my bedside. I cannot use the whole room, of course, because the rest of the patients here really are ill, and they can easily pounce on me should I encroach on their territory. In fact, I’m the only one here who is not in chains.
‘Is he coming?’ I asked the guard.
‘He will. He is caught up with a girl who hasn’t slept in 64 days.’
‘Oh, she sounds interesting. Can I talk to her?’
‘Shut up and sit on your bed.’
‘What if I don’t?’
‘Don’t make me chain you up again!’
‘Okay, okay.’
After three hours of staring at the clock hanging very high on the wall, he finally shows up.
‘Apologies,’ he sighs, setting up the board.
‘White or black, Doc?’
‘I’ll take Black.’
I open with 1.e4. He replies with 1...Nf6. The Alekhine Defense. He wants to provoke my pawns forward, overextend my centre, and then tear it down. It’s a provocative, hypermodern opening.
For twenty moves, we manoeuvre. I make a subtle, seemingly passive knight retreat. It’s a bait. He stares at the board, his eyes narrowing, and then he falls for it. He pushes his f-pawn to f5, trying to crack my pawn chain. It’s exactly what I wanted. The push critically weakens the a2-g8 diagonal. Three moves later, a discovered attack leaves his king completely exposed.
'Mate in two,' I say quietly.
A slow smile spreads across his face. ‘Brilliant. Truly. A beautiful trap. Alright, a deal is a deal. What do you need? Extra garden time? Something delicious for dinner?’
‘I want to play an OTB tournament.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You said I could have anything I wanted!’
‘Within reason!’
‘Play me again,’ I demand, resetting the pieces. ‘If you win, I will never ask again. If I win, I play. You can send a guard.’
He hesitates for a while, but finally agrees because losing a game has that effect on a person – the effect that can not be made tangible to the general masses, but which every chess player is privy to.
I beat him in 20 moves, and the deal is sealed.
I have become extremely cooperative. I take my medicine without questioning, and it no longer needs to be injected. Dr Dharamveer also thinks I’m improving, and he has agreed to my request of letting me be unchained during the tournament so I can play freely.
The day has come. I’m in Delhi with the escort. The first game has begun. The guard is standing right behind my shoulder. I have a winning position, but I am delaying the game on purpose – to tire the guard who already looks like he has been up all night. I sit at the board, pretending to think. Three gruelling hours have passed. By the time I finally deliver checkmate, the guard looks like he could faint.
The pairing is out, and round two begins thirty minutes later.
‘Listen,’ I whisper to the guard. ‘My opponent is rated. This game will last hours. Why don’t you sit outside and have a tea? I won’t cause any problems.’
‘What if you run away?’
‘Do you think Dr Dharamveer would have allowed this if he thought I could run away? Will he not at least have me in chains? I’ll be good. I promise.’
After some hesitation, he agrees.
I go inside and find my table. I take off my jacket and sit with a calmness known only to monks. My opponent arrives two minutes late and asks for my name so she knows she is at the right table.
I refuse to speak. She asks again. I stay quiet. She makes a gesture with her hand and asks one more time. But I get up, walk past the arbiters and slip out the back door.
Two months have passed. I have hitchhiked my way to Mumbai and am walking down a shady street, playing blindfold chess with a boy only I can see.
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