The Last Gambit Read online

‘I’ll play without my queen,’ I said. ‘You’ll enjoy more that way and, who knows, you may even beat me!’ I said, smiling benignly.

  ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ she said gravely. ‘Let’s play an equal game.’

  ‘All right, doll.’ The game would be over before you count to twenty, I thought. ‘You take white,’ I said, maintaining my fake smile.

  ‘Okay.’ She shrugged her tiny shoulders in her pink outfit. Extending her hand for the customary handshake, she said, ‘Good luck.’

  She opened with the king’s knight, which was a bit too big for her little hands. It looked very cute. I couldn’t help but grin. I responded with king’s pawn. Her next move was to move the rook’s pawn to its full two steps. That moment I knew I was playing against an absolute beginner. I was already imagining giving her some tips to improve her moves at the end of the game and where all she went wrong. Over the next fifteen moves, I was two pawns down with a significantly weaker position. Even a layman could tell that all my pieces were on the defence. Her highly unconventional moves had taken me by complete surprise. Another twenty moves, and the game was over.

  I lost. I wished there were a well around so I could jump right in. I’d mistaken my experience for wisdom. I tried my best to sound normal when I said, ‘You play really well. I didn’t think you had a chance.’

  ‘Why? I had as much a chance of winning as you, sir,’ she replied.

  ‘Let’s play another game,’ I offered.

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve had my win for the day,’ she said and got up and left.

  The girl and her mother walked away swiftly. After they disappeared from my sight, I, as if woken up from a dream, ran looking for them leaving my book and my chess board behind. They were nowhere to be found. It was a big open park. Where could they have gone in such a short span, I thought. Twenty minutes later I returned after a vain search. I sat there zapped and dazed. I learnt the biggest lesson of my life. Never judge your opponent: not from their appearance, manners, way of talking, words … from nothing. Not even from their game. Just don’t judge them.

  ‘COULD YOU EVER trace them?’ I cut him off.

  ‘No, Vasu,’ he said. ‘The little girl must be a prodigy

  or something, and her mother knew from the outset that I’d be defeated at her tiny hands. That clever duo! You see, Vasu, human intelligence is beyond age and experience. There is no better example than chess to prove it, where there are kids younger than you holding the title of GM.

  ‘The truth is, Vasu, the tournament was yours to take home, and instead of fourth you could have stood first. Had you begun it with the same rigour you showed on the fourth and fifth day, you would have easily been sitting here with the trophy. As Rudyard Kipling said:

  If you can fill the unforgiving minute,

  With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

  Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it

  ‘If you had poured in every game, everything that you knew, every strategy, every tactic you had learnt, you’d have emerged at the top, a winner,’ Master said.

  How easy he made it sound! If I could win on the last day, I could win on the first too. If I had been less full of myself, maybe … but perhaps it was a good thing that I didn’t go on to win the tournament. Success probably would have gone to my head. I might even have started to believe that I had outgrown my master.

  Truth be told, chess was important in my life because of him. It may not have been the best move, but sometimes it’s not about the best move at all. It’s just about a fulfilling, wholesome move. Sometimes, the best way is to enjoy the journey with your co- traveller than rushing to the destination. For the joy of seeking is more exhilarating than attaining what’s sought.

  THE RIGHT TO DREAM

  ‘WHAT DID YOU want to tell me the other day, Rea?’ I said as soon as I met her. Even before asking how she was doing and the rest of that formality.

  ‘It’s a beautiful sunny day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Rea.’

  ‘Let’s talk about your tournament,’ she said.

  ‘No!’ I insisted. ‘First you tell me.’

  ‘Can we not talk about this some other time?’

  ‘Now! Please.’

  ‘Vasu,’ she said. ‘I fear that you’ll start hating me.’

  ‘The suspense is killing me, Rea!’

  ‘Will you keep it to yourself?’

  ‘Just say it!’

  ‘Okay, Vasu,’ she said gravely. ‘Don’t hate me afterwards.’

  I became nervous, as if I was about to play against a grandmaster. I had no clue what her next move would be. The longer the silence stretched, the more tense I got. Rea lowered her head. Her hands absent-mindedly played with the hem of her skirt that ended right below her bony knees. She fumbled with her words a couple of times, let out a deep sigh and then looked me straight in the eye.

  ‘I’m an adopted child.’ ‘What?’

  Before I could say more, she continued, ‘The matron at the orphanage said that I was found abandoned outside a tobacco shop, a small stall. It was on Shivaratri. A few metres away, to the right of the stall, was a mosque where the muezzin was calling out azan from the minaret. And to the left, at about an equal distance, was a Shiva temple where they were chanting eulogies to Shiva. My adoptive mother, sometimes in a fit of rage, is quick to remind me that they don’t even know if it’s Hindu or Muslim blood running in my veins. I’m an outcast. I’ve no identity of my own—’

  ‘Oh, Rea—’

  ‘Let me finish, Vasu,’ she continued in a sombre tone. ‘Mama says that they didn’t adopt me because they wanted a daughter. They did it because they wanted someone who could take care of their autistic son. Papa, however, disagrees with mama and never fails to express his love for me. Whether it’s buying new shoes, clothes, sending me away on school camps, or giving me a chocolate every day, he has always gone beyond his means to care for me. And I do love Rahul. He’s the sweetest brother in the world. He’s a real brother to me even though I am not related to him by birth. I spent the first seven years of my life in an orphanage.’

  She vividly remembered her last three years at the orphanage. People would often donate blankets and socks in winter, but they were taken away from them soon after the donor left. She couldn’t understand why then, but had now figured out that the custodians would sell it in the market and embezzle the money. They used to look forward to Holi and Diwali because some generous patrons would come and distribute sweets to them. These were the only times that the kids would know what the taste of sweets and candies felt like.

  She didn’t go to bed hungry, she said, but never on a full tummy either. It was just a way of life at the orphanage – shabbiness, hunger, sadness gnawing at you all the time. There were elders to look after the children, some even kind, but most of them didn’t care if the kids were sad or happy, full or hungry, clean or dirty, as long as they seemed healthy and happy enough for the donors to fawn over them and make large donations.

  I heard her tale in shock and horror. I couldn’t believe this tender, dainty girl, my princess, had once been little more than a ragged beggar or a street child.

  But most of all, my blood boiled at how Rea’s adoptive mother taunted her. For a moment I found myself philosophizing about what the better choice was – to have a mother who would demean you but feed you, or to live in an orphanage.

  ‘This is terrible, Rea,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry for everything you went through.’

  She was silent.

  ‘Your mother is so cruel!’

  ‘No, Vasu,’ she turned towards me and said without any emotion in her eyes. ‘I remember feeling hungry and crying for food at the orphanage and getting severely beaten in return. At least my parents don’t beat me. I don’t go to bed hungry. Mama is hard sometimes, but papa really protects and loves me. He l
ets me take chocolates, cold drink and candies from the shop. It was my dream to have parents. And no matter what, they are my parents, Vasu.’

  I got up somewhat awkwardly and gave Rea a tight hug. I wanted to hold her forever.

  ‘How could you even think that I would hate you for this, Rea? I’m in love with you all over again. More than ever. I’ll always keep you safe.’

  How my heart melted as she nudged closer, only slightly, but I felt that she believed that I’d be there for her. And, by God, I would. I decided right that moment.

  A few seconds passed and we stayed like that. It was the sweetest embrace in the world. She smelled like rose, but it wasn’t just rose. There was some other underlying note of a different fragrance, I couldn’t really tell.

  ‘Did you help your mum in the kitchen today?’

  ‘How do you know?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Because I smell ginger and turmeric,’ I joked.

  She immediately moved back.

  Oh you dumb idiot! Happy now?

  ‘I must smell awful!’ she said.

  I spent the next ten minutes trying to convince her that I was only joking, but she remained unhappy.

  Not just chess, Vasu, you need lessons in how to keep your girlfriend happy, and when to keep your mouth shut.

  With each passing day, I only loved her more. In a way, she was like chess, only much more unpredictable. Every time I thought I had her figured out, she would take me completely by surprise. I had never enjoyed being in school as much as I did now. I would look forward to getting up in the morning and reaching my classroom. Two years sped by. But much had happened, and in a big way. I had won eight major tournaments in the last two years. Twice I had been interviewed by ChessMate, India’s only chess magazine. They even printed my picture, a tiny black-and-white one, in which I was barely recognizable. Varun teased me about it, drew a moustache on it and stuck it on our dresser. ‘Munshiji wanted,’ he wrote underneath.

  I even won a ‘Student of the Year’ award at school. They featured me in the annual school magazine. Mother had gone around and shown it to the neighbours and everyone else she could get a hold of, including our maid and the local scrap dealer. Regional and national newspapers had profiled me in the past two years, thankfully with better pictures.

  ‘IT WAS MY seventeenth birthday that day, but that’s not why it was a special day. It was because I had managed to pass my Class XII examination. Actually, a more truthful way to put it would be that, somehow, I had managed to not fail. I had no desire for further studies. Besides, joining a regular college was out of question because my chess regime demanded travel and time. At dad’s insistence, I got admission in Bachelor of Arts by distance education. I chose to specialize in philosophy. At least a basic university degree was necessary, he said. He would not let me play chess if I completely ignored my education. I wasn’t happy about it, but he made sense and I couldn’t argue.

  To everyone’s surprise, Varun had managed to gain admission in MBA at a prestigious institution. Given his less- than-commendable academic track record, all the girl-chasing and the boy-bashing, he had shocked all of us by clearing the entrance examination with great marks. Though dad was greatly relieved – because a job was almost certain upon graduation – he was equally stressed because he would have to arrange the finances. Varun’s tuition fee, his hostel and living expenses, they were beyond what dad’s salary could afford.

  ‘Don’t worry, papa,’ Varun had said. ‘I will give private tuitions and take care of my expenses.’

  And he did that. That boisterous brother of mine had suddenly grown up. Dad only had to pay his fee, which was substantial yet manageable. As soon as Varun moved out, it became very quiet, as if the soul of our home was gone. He was the talkative one, the liveliest of all of us. I would come home to a quiet room. No one was poking Muffin any more, and the other bed in my room was always unoccupied.

  Sometimes I would shut the door and lie down on his bed. Munshiji, Munshiji … would ring in my ears. How I missed him teasing me! I missed going on bike rides with him. I wanted to hit him with my pillow again. At times, it would become somewhat unbearable and I would call him and ask him to tell me about life in the hostel. On some days, he would be in his element and make my stomach hurt with laughter even on the phone; but on many days, he was quiet and introspective.

  He was the only one in the family who knew about Rea and teased me about it incessantly. I told him that she also played some chess.

  ‘Hmmm…’ Varun said. ‘Mating won’t be easy, then. It may just be a stalemate sometimes.’

  ‘Varun!’

  ‘I hope your kids don’t look like pawns, Munshiji,’ he joked. ‘Black or white!’

  The first time I’d arranged for him to meet Rea, I requested him not to make fun of me in front of her.

  ‘Trust me, Vasu,’ he said. ‘She’ll fall head over heels for you after she meets me.’

  He sat her down and told her my childhood stories – all inappropriate, in my opinion. He annoyed me in particular when he told her that since I was the youngest, I always got his used clothes. Varun had outgrown his shirts and shorts, whereas they were a bit too big for me. He went on to tell her that since I had always been so thin, half the time my shorts would come down like the water level in the municipal tank – fast and furious.

  ‘You won’t believe, Rea,’ Varun said, ‘one hand of his was always holding his knickers, whether he was playing or running or even walking. He just wouldn’t let go of it.’

  Rea cupped her mouth with her hands and laughed.

  ‘I mean, really,’ Varun said, ‘do you think anyone cares if a six-year-old is with or without shorts? Besides—’

  ‘Varun!’ I tried to stop him.

  ‘—besides, until he was about five years old,’ he added, ‘he mostly ran around naked in the house.’

  They laughed their heart out while I felt both shy and mad. ‘But he’s the genius in our family,’ Varun finally said. ‘We

  all love him the most. I don’t know what all he does with the wooden chips all day, but—’

  ‘Chess, Varun, they’re not wooden chips!’

  ‘—but, his master says that one day Vasu will be a world champion.’

  ‘That day, Rea,’ he said, ‘I’ll throw the biggest party.’

  I felt all warm inside.

  ‘Indeed, a grand party,’ Varun added, ‘will be the best use of his prize money.’

  We burst into laughter. I felt both happy and sad. Varun was now in a different city, and I was very lonely without him.

  Mira was twenty-five years old with a master’s degree in anthropology and a stellar academic record. She had been a topper throughout. She got a job with the Department of Language and Arts. There were two vacancies and more than six hundred candidates. Rumour had it that many candidates were offering large sums of money to secure that job. The corrupt officers inside called it ‘placement fee’. Mira had absolutely no chance because we just didn’t have that kind of money. It was a painful fact that, despite her excellent score, she might still not get the job. More than angry, we were eager and desperate: it wasn’t every day that we had a government opening in our small town.

  I had mentioned it to Master, never expecting him to do anything about it. He had said nothing either. But then the next day, a call came from Mr Singh’s office. He was the chairman of the department. They had confirmed Mira’s job and an appointment letter was being dispatched by registered post, he said. Master wouldn’t admit any hand in this. He was no less a mystery now than he was three years ago – but a mystery I couldn’t imagine my life without.

  Meanwhile, talks of Mira’s marriage were going on at home. Our parents were busy looking for a suitable match for her. It was a stressful period because the groom had to be earning well, be a teetotaller and a Brahmin from a nuclear family. If this
was not enough, the horoscopes had to match as well. Plus, we were strictly against dowry.

  Sometimes everything would seem right, but the prospective groom would say that he wanted a girl who was a homemaker. On other occasions, they would say that they wanted a professional and not a government employee. For some, Mira was a bit short and for some her height was a little more than the groom’s. And at other times, Mira would reject the proposal saying she couldn’t see herself with someone who didn’t earn more than her, or that she didn’t want to marry a businessman or that the person must be at least as educated as her. Every other day, mother would run to the pandit to match horoscopes, but he was pickier than any mother-in-law in the world – he would always find something wrong with the match.

  In some cases, the groom’s parents would announce proudly that even though their son was on an official salary of just a few thousand rupees per month, there was plenty of ‘other money and perks’. It was incredible to see how income from bribes and corruption was considered part of the package. Some would say softly that they didn’t want anything in dowry but if my parents wanted to give furniture, jewellery, appliances, or a car, etc., to Mira, they would not object.

  There were some good matches from non-Brahmin families, but our parents were, sadly, against it.

  ‘We are broad-minded,’ they would say, ‘but, that doesn’t mean we forego our traditions.’

  And even if they were to relent, there was enormous pressure from our relatives to marry within the caste. At such times, I always thought of what would happen when Rea and I decided to be together for life.

  There were weekly ‘showings’ of Mira and someone would either come to our home or she would be taken to a neutral location like a temple or a restaurant where the potential husband and Mira could steal a glance at each other. All this felt like a big joke, as if Mira was a cow being taken to the animal fair to be showcased to potential buyers. The poor girl was quiet through most of the ordeal.

  ‘You are so lucky you are a guy,’ Mira said to me once. ‘If I could, I just wouldn’t marry. I feel bad our parents have to go through all this. And for myself. I hate dressing up like a mannequin in a shop window, with a fake smile pasted on my face.’