POISONED PAWN – PROLOGUE

6:56 am
December 22, 2007
Ballygunge, Kolkata

“Open the door, madam! It’s the milkman!” yelled the milkman in Bengali after ringing the doorbell of the house for the fourth time without any response. He tried banging the door a couple of times next, but in vain. A minute later, the newspaper boy turned up at the same door, exchanging puzzled glances with the frustrated milkman. “They must be sleeping. Just leave it and go, brother,” said the newspaper boy, as he carefully tucked the day’s newspaper onto the front door and turned to leave. The milkman stopped him, saying, “I have been standing here for more than ten minutes, rang the bell four times, banged on the door really hard as well. There is no response.”
“Yes, they must be sleeping or out of town, brother. Stop wasting time-” started the newspaper boy.
“The light and fan in the living room are still on,” the milkman interrupted.
“They must have forgotten last night, leave me, brother, I have to go,” the newspaper boy shrugged him off and left.

The milkman half-heartedly walked away from the house. An uneasy feeling crept into him as he hesitantly placed his milk can onto his bicycle. He glanced back at the house with a puzzled look. He thought, “Neelima madam doesn’t like even a drop of milk being wasted. She doesn’t like the lights to be left on even for a moment if no one is in the room, but now…”  Parking his cycle beside the footpath, he started looking for assistance. He couldn’t find the security guard of the building even after hunting for a couple of minutes. “Should I call the police? But I don’t even know what to say! I don’t even know whether something happened or not. Perhaps the newspaper boy was right. Nothing actually happened. Besides, only the light and the fan of the hall were left on. Maybe I am over-thinking things,” mumbled the milkman to himself and walked back. No sooner had he reached his bicycle than the security guard emerged onto the scene out of nowhere. 

The milkman rushed towards him involuntarily and questioned, “Where were you? I have been searching for you for more than fifteen minutes!” 
“I had gone to drink tea, brother. Why, what happened?” 
“I don’t know. But Neelima Madam is not opening her door even though her living room’s fan and lights are on. I rang the bell several times, banged on the door too, but she didn’t reply. She’s normally up by this time, isn’t she?” explained the milkman.

“Yes, she should be up by now. What are you saying? The fan and light are both switched on! Isn’t she the one who explains the importance of saving energy to everyone?” the security guard questioned. “Yes, exactly!” said the milkman instantly. “I even saw her on TV once doing the same. Wait, let me call her now,” said the security guard and rushed into his cabin. The milkman followed him. The guard dialled a number on his phone and waited for a response. After trying a couple of times more, he informed the milkman that no one was answering at the other end. He quickly dialled another number and explained the situation to the secretary of the complex, who arrived within minutes. 

The trio reached Neelima’s flat and the secretary rang the doorbell of the neighbouring flat and did a quick enquiry. The widower who occupied that flat luckily had a spare key to Neelima’s flat. Mrs Roy Chowdhury, the secretary, then carefully opened Neelima Bhattacharya’s flat and entered. Surprised upon seeing across the well-lit spic and span living room, she walked past it towards the first of the two bedrooms in front of her. The guard and the milkman quietly followed. Mrs Roy Chowdhury slowly turned the knob of the first bedroom and opened it. Switching on the lights, she quickly glanced around the room. The bed was neatly made, curtains drawn and the washroom bolted from the outside. The lady opened it to check and quite clearly, there was no one inside. She came out shaking her head and moved onto the second bedroom. She turned the knob and found that it was very slippery. She checked her palm immediately as it felt sticky. On smelling it, she felt that it was wine. Checking the bottom of the door, she saw that there were tiny brown droplets. She used her saree’s cloth to wrap the doorknob firmly and turned it around forcefully. The door opened to a strong fragrance! “Oomph, such strong perfume, who applies so much of it, damn!” she complained and switched on the lights. In doing so, she realised that another switch was already turned on. “AAAARGH!” shouted the milkman. The security guard felt a sudden palpitation. Mrs Roy Chowdhury swayed backwards in shock. 

Neelima Bhattacharya’s half-naked body was lying on the bed, lifeless. Over a dozen wounds on her body were visible from a distance, blood oozing out of almost all of them. Mrs Roy Chowdhury rushed towards the body to cover her with a sheet, but immediately realised that she had entered a potential crime scene. She quickly shouted, “Bajrang, call the police, NOW!” and slowly walked back to the door. 

Looking around the room, she could see that the windows were closed and the curtains almost neatly drawn. She looked up to see the ceiling fan running at a moderate speed. She looked at the switchboard and shook momentarily upon seeing blood splattered on some of the switches. She looked at her own right hand and found dried blood traces on her fingers. The milkman stood frozen like a stalagmite. Mrs Roy Chowdhury slowly closed the door and rushed towards the exit, pulling him away from his rooted spot. “The POLICE will take care of it now. You shouldn’t stay here, come on, let’s go out. This is a crime scene!” she yelled.

Hours later, the commotion outside the apartment complex showed no signs of abating – dozens of media representatives, the investigating team, forensic experts, and curious onlookers stood behind the police barricade tape. The clear reason for the commotion was the apparent murder of thirty-year-old Women Candidate Master (Chess), Neelima Bhattacharya. Over the next seventy-two hours, the news channels moved from alleged murder to rape and murder and then to death due to drug overdose. Eventually, a couple of days later, the case started losing limelight on the news channels. Then onwards, exclusive information and updates regarding it would be available with the crime branch of the Kolkata Police.

 A month later into the new year, a minute of silence was nearly all the respect that Neelima would get thousands of miles away in Bangalore, where she was touted to be one of the favourites to win the twelfth edition of the Bangalore Open Rapid Chess Tournament. Of course, the whole set of participants was bound to talk about Neelima at least once during the opening ceremony of the tournament. However, news regarding death due to an apparent drug overdose doesn’t invite positive comments about one. And discussions regarding the late Candidate Master were no different. Meanwhile, all the Kolkata Police did over a month of investigation could be summed up in finding a note from the crime scene, which said, “Playing Chess is filled with extreme stress, before it’s dawn, I might as well consume the Poisoned Pawn!”