The Last Gambit Read online

  I got close to drawing on three occasions, but winning was nowhere in sight.

  What’s the point in chanting Hanuman Chalisa every day, Bajrang Bali? I’m still losing. That’s not a fair exchange!

  Why couldn’t the master be a little kinder and let me win at least once? Was that too much to ask for? I didn’t think so. That day again, we played and I lost, we played more and I lost more. If one win proved so difficult, how the hell would I win the hundreds required to be a GM?

  ‘Will I ever win?’ I asked him one day in the middle of a game, just after I lost my queen for his irritating knight that was jumping all over the board.

  ‘Of course,’ he said plainly. ‘You will win when you are ready.’ ‘And I am not ready yet?’ I flung the knight in the box. ‘What about all the time I put in?’

  ‘Vasu!’ he bellowed. ‘No one slams my pieces!’

  ‘Not even one win against you!’ I argued.

  ‘Too bad.’ Exhibiting no empathy or concern for my turmoil, he got back to his plain tone and pushed a pawn. ‘Your move.’

  Move? Does he really not care about how I’m feeling? His indifference threw me over the edge.

  ‘You are so mean.’ I growled. ‘I am only fourteen!’ ‘Fourteen is young, huh?’ he snorted with utter contempt in

  his voice. ‘Chess is not for you. Go play marbles and don’t show me your face again. You think someone will just hand you the game in real life? If you want it, you have to earn it.’ He cleaned the board and chucked all the pieces in the box. For a moment, I was scared. But I was more mad than scared.

  ‘I’m sick and tired of losing, losing and just losing,’ I shouted. ‘To hell with chess. I don’t even like you any more.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ I absolutely detested that indifferent tone of his. ‘Chess is not for chicken.’

  ‘Whatever. At least I won’t be humiliated.’

  ‘Haha! A beggar wants respect.’

  ‘I am not a beggar!’

  ‘Of course you are.’ He rolled the chess mat. ‘You want charity, not victory.’

  ‘I hate you!’

  ‘I told you the very first day, there’s no magic pill, Vasu,’ he said evenly. ‘I thought you were champion material, strong enough to face defeat. I didn’t realize you were a sissy. Let you win, huh!’

  And then he went quiet. The silence was deafening. I wanted to storm out of there. But go where? I just sat there, blank and fuming.

  Some time elapsed, I don’t know how much, and both of us were staring at the chessboard. I didn’t know what he was thinking.

  ‘Even one win would have restored my confidence, you know,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Shall I serve it with cola, sir?’

  ‘Give me a break, all right?’

  ‘Go watch a circus, Vasu. Don’t waste my time.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Stop it! You don’t have to be so cruel.’

  I was struggling with my tears. First the losses and then his callous indifference.

  Maybe he’s right, I’m no champion material. My eyes welled up. I lowered my head and sobbed quietly.

  He did not get up to pacify me. I threw a quick glance his way but he wasn’t even looking at me. I sniffed and snorted while he kept staring at the table. The chess clock was still going tick-tick-tick-tick. He thrust an old cloth into my lap – the same one he would use to clean the chess pieces. I dabbed my tears and blew my nose.

  ‘Make sure you wash it before you leave today,’ he said.

  I could hear the constant noise of kids playing in the street. Intermittent sounds of motorcycles, scooters, the tinkle of cycle bells would emerge at a distance, get louder and then trail off. It was the first time in the last six months that I paid any attention to the noise.

  Part of me knew that he was right – no one out there would just hand me the game. I had to earn it.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say those things,’ I murmured. ‘I didn’t mean to shout.’

  ‘Listen, son. If I go soft just to keep you happy, you will never learn the ways of the world or the game,’ he said gently. ‘To make good pots, a potter must knead hard to make the clay malleable. He must slap, pat and caress it with the right pressure at the right time or the pot will be useless.’

  ‘Maybe I have been too hard on you. I have been living alone for forty-five years. I have lost touch with the world. I have mostly forgotten how to express my feelings. You’re not wrong in not liking me.’ He choked a bit.

  I got up from my seat, pushed the chess table aside, and sat on the floor by his feet. Putting my head on his lap, I started crying again. The tears just came out.

  ‘I’m sorry. You are the bestest in the whole wide world.’

  He took off his glasses with his right hand and let it rest on the armrest, and patted my head softly with the left.

  ‘I am thankful for everything you are doing for me. No one can be as kind and as loving as you,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t make me all sentimental.’ He took his hand off my head. ‘I am worse then.’

  Both of us chuckled.

  ‘Never ask me to not show you my face again,’ I said.

  ‘Only if you promise to not spatter my trousers with your tears and snot.’

  I giggled.

  ‘All right, get up now. Let’s get back to work. I will teach you Alekhine’s Gun, a classic offensive strategy.’

  He proceeded to set up the pieces as if nothing happened. ‘Alekhine, huh?’ he chuckled and looked lost in his thoughts. ‘What about Alekhine?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He chortled.

  Alekhine’s Gun was named after the great Russian player and a former world champion, Alexander Alekhine. Even though I learnt the method, I knew it was not prudent to get my hopes up regarding my chances against the master. For a change, I was right – we played four games and I lost all four.

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ I said, ‘but if I haven’t won even once against you all these months, what chance do I really have of becoming a grandmaster, let alone a world champion?’

  ‘Imagine building a hundred-metre long tunnel. Even at the ninety-ninth metre, when the end is only a metre away, you won’t see any light. If you want success, you must go right till the end.’ ‘I do try my hardest. I try to go till the end. Still, I lose. Why?’

  I asked this question with the greatest composure, matching his plain tone.

  ‘You are a genius, Vasu,’ he said. ‘I’m investing all my time in you because I know some day you’ll surprise everyone, including yourself.’

  My chest swelled with pride.

  ‘And that day is not far,’ he added.

  I felt as if I had won the world championship. He thinks I’m a genius! I couldn’t contain my smile and adjusted myself in my couch.

  ‘But,’ he said, gently bringing me down a notch, ‘you are not consistent. You do play some brilliant moves, but they don’t add up.’ As always, he had a nugget of wisdom. ‘Every move, Vasu, every move must put greater pressure on your opponent. To win, you must play good moves and do so consistently.’

  ‘The same goes in life too,’ he continued. ‘A consistent and persistent man of average intelligence is more likely to succeed than an erratic and lazy genius. A hundred well-played draws, or a hundred lost but well-fought games are better than one victory by fluke. Success by design is infinitely better than a win by chance.’

  Success by design is infinitely better than a win by chance – this got etched in my mind. This was it. The missing link. I had been playing in the hope that success would come, that it would just happen. It dawned on me that success was a sculpture that I had to carve and chisel at patiently. I had to design my success.

  ‘All right, enough philosophy for now,’ he said. ‘Let’s go out and celebrate!’

  ‘Go out?’ I exclaimed. ‘Ce
lebrate?’

  ‘It’s my birthday. I haven’t celebrated anything in decades, but tonight I want to. We’ll watch a movie, eat popcorn, drink cola, have a nice dinner and return late.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ ‘I just did!’

  ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘a good chess player is able to make and modify his plans at the last minute.’

  ‘Fine! But no bicycle today,’ I asserted. ‘I’ll drive and you will sit behind me, on my moped.’

  ‘On a moped? No way. I’ve never sat on any two-wheeler other than a bicycle.’

  ‘Today you will!’

  He argued at length about the dangers of us falling down. What if someone crashed into his knees, what if I could not balance, what if this, what if that … But the argument wasn’t taking place on a chessboard that he would just win; I didn’t budge and he gave in eventually.

  He put on the same old hand-knit sweater, same old trousers, everything looked antique and ancient, except his charming smile.

  ‘Do I look all right?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s this? You’re always wearing the same clothes!’

  ‘That’s not true. I haven’t worn this shirt in years.’

  ‘And it’s under your crocheted jumper! I can only see the collar.’

  ‘Oh come on, it’s okay. Let’s go.’

  ‘No! First you change.’

  ‘Worry about what’s inside, son. Only the inside matters for a good player.’

  ‘Maybe, but we are not going for a tournament. We are going out for dinner. It’s your birthday, we are celebrating! Please change.’

  He went back to his room and came out ten minutes later.

  ‘How do I look now?’

  It was another crocheted jumper, the same shirt, similar- looking trousers, bright socks and, of course, the same shoes. But ‘you look awesome now’ is what came out of my mouth.

  We had a blast. He was in a good mood and shared many of his childhood stories, how sometimes while helping his father sow the seeds, he would make piles of grains and start playing chess instead. How he would nudge his father to play chess with him rather than rest under the big peepal tree in the afternoons, and almost every time they did that, he would end up with some bird droppings on his clothes or on the chessboard. Each story had something to do with chess or a chess tournament. The more I heard him, the more I understood what he meant by eat, live, breathe, sleep chess. That’s what he did. No matter what he talked about, it either began with chess or ended with it. If there were a curry called chess, he would order it for every meal.

  Master was not just a teacher. He was a practitioner. He practised what he spoke about and he spoke about what he practised. He lived by what he stood for. His priorities were clear. His life had only one theme, he only lived for one passion – chess.

  PLENTY OF FISH

  A WHOLE YEAR passed. I was fifteen and even though I still hadn’t won any game against the master, I was certainly improving. I had already won two tournaments, including the chess championship at school. They had started calling me the PC geek, for I always carried my pocket chess with me. If there was a break of more than five minutes, I would set up my board and start practising variations. My friends stopped playing against me because they had no chance of winning.

  I only realized just how popular I was getting when a voice interrupted me in the middle of a chess problem one day. Our teacher was on leave and it was a free period.

  ‘Vasu?’ It sounded soft and too close to my ear. I was abruptly pulled out of my chess world.

  A pretty face with hazel eyes and thick eyelashes was smiling at me.

  Jai Bajrang Bali. Help me, Hanuman. I gaped with my heart in my mouth.

  Rea was gorgeous. And I was nervous, for good reason. It was only the second time in my fifteen years of unexciting existence that a girl had stopped by to speak to me. (The first time had been a disaster and that girl was not even half as cute as this one.)

  ‘So, Kasparov,’ she said, ‘how are you doing?’

  I wasn’t pleased by her reference to Garry Kasparov because, even though he was young and emerging fast on the world chess scene, it was Anatoly Karpov who was the real chess champion. Anyway, I took heart from the fact that maybe she compared me to the world No. 2 because he was young and handsome, unlike Karpov who was a plain-looking bloke in his thirties.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’m good. You?’

  ‘Do you have a queen in real life too or you just keep knocking the one on the board?’

  At first, I couldn’t tell if she was joking or simply trying to carry on a normal conversation with me. Then she winked and smiled with a momentary raise of the brows. I was confused. As it was, I didn’t think I would be of interest to anyone. I didn’t exactly have the body of a wrestler or the panache of a cricketer. To be honest, I was just a gangly teenager who could easily pass off as a skeleton hanging in our biology lab.

  Nevertheless, I went along.

  ‘Of course, I’ll have a queen by my side.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t want to be by your side?’ she quipped. ‘How will you lure her?’

  ‘Well, miss,’ I spoke with conviction, ‘I’ve eight pawns to make eight potential queens.’

  I smiled. She didn’t.

  I honestly thought I had given her a rather intelligent answer because if you can make it to the last rank in chess, you can turn any pawn into a queen. I thought she would appreciate the theoretical novelty of my response; any chess player would have. It was only after she’d rolled her eyes, said ‘what a nerd’ and stormed off that I figured it wasn’t my best move.

  That was that. I resolved to keep my focus limited to the queen on the board. She was enough for me, because all my dreams began and ended with chess.

  But another day, she woke me up from that dream. A female voice was a welcome change. A real-life queen would certainly complete my world.

  ‘Yes, Rea,’ I said in serious tone. Hiding my nervousness and excitement.

  I can’t believe Rea wants to talk to me. Me! Rea! Everyone wants to talk to her.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you in private,’ she whispered. ‘Sure. Me?’

  ‘After school today? In the parking lot, near your moped?’ ‘Sure.’

  Yahoo! She’s certainly not going to be asking for your science notebook in the parking lot, Vasu. Yes, yes, it’s what you think it is. Oh thank you, Hanuman. You rock!

  ‘Here,’ she said and handed me a folded chit.

  She left quietly. Oh, how gracefully she walked, like a queen.

  I opened the slip. In beautiful handwriting it was written: You are the emperor of my heart.

  I forgot all about the chess problem and had a sudden urge to hold my chest, which was thumping louder than the gongs of Tibet. I rushed to the boys’ room to check myself out. I was looking all right. I needed a haircut but other than that everything looked good. My shirt was ironed, my tie was gleaming, pants weren’t crumpled and my shoes were polished. I took some water and combed my hair with my hand. My fingers smelled of coconut oil.

  I don’t know why mum insists on putting oil in my hair.

  It had all run down to my face, which was shining like tinted glass. I took the hand soap and washed my face with it. I was smelling of fresh detergent, but I didn’t have any perfume. I raised my hand to smell my underarms: the faint fragrance of rose talc was still there. I checked the other armpit too. Master had said average consistency is better than occasional brilliance, or something like that.

  I wolfed down my lunch and vigorously rinsed my mouth. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting any kisses, but I didn’t want to smell like aloo-bhindi.

  The next three periods crawled like a drunken snail. She was sitting in the third row, six desks ahead. I kept stealing a glimpse of her every now and then. She too gave me sidelong glances at
the end of every class, topping them with a promising smile.

  Everything just lit up. Butterflies were not merely flitting about tenderly in my stomach, they were razing my garden. I counted every moment. The last bell rang and I looked at Rea, and it seemed as if she blinked at me in slow motion. I ran to my moped and quickly cleaned its seat.

  For the first time, I hated my moped. It was such a put-off. I wished Varun were there with his bike. Though old, he always kept it squeaky clean. I would have asked him to leave me with his bike for some time. I quickly checked myself in the side mirror of a bike parked nearby. The hair was a little unkempt and the oil had added its shiny gleam once again.

  I sat on my moped and waited, but I was too restless, so I got down. I waited in the greatest anticipation, as if I were going to announce checkmate in my next move. Some ten minutes passed but she didn’t turn up.

  Maybe she’s just fixing herself in the washroom. Oh these girls, they always take forever.

  ‘Waiting for someone?’ Two girls from my class asked as they pulled out their mopeds from the parking lot. They were Rea’s friends.

  ‘Umm … no, not really.’

  They whispered something to each other and laughed.

  W-H-A-T-E-V-E-R.

  Another ten minutes passed. The parking lot was getting deserted. There were still a couple of bicycles along with another moped. The last few kids were walking out of the school canteen. Rea didn’t show up.

  Maybe I should have asked those girls if they knew where Rea was. Perhaps she is waiting till everyone’s gone. Wait a minute, the whole school knows she takes the school bus! Where is Rea? Maybe someone is coming to pick her up a bit later. But half an hour is already gone and she isn’t here.

  I thought of checking back in the classroom but what if she turned up at the bike stand while I went looking for her? It was a strange predicament. The watchman would come any minute and ask me to leave the school premises. Master must be waiting too.