The Last Gambit Page 7

  The principal, however, wasn’t blind to Taklu’s tendency to overreact. The school needed me. I was its chess champion and would soon represent the school at the national level. However, disregarding a teacher’s complaint wasn’t going to set the right precedent either.

  ‘You are placed under suspension for one week, Vasu,’ the principal said. ‘This won’t go on your record, but it is our final warning.’

  Taklu had a contented smirk that neither I nor the principal missed. I begged her pardon and asked for a last chance, but she wasn’t willing to entertain any more pleas.

  ‘My office will issue you a letter,’ she said. ‘You can collect it in the next ten minutes.’

  ‘Can you please allow me to skip drawing and switch to physical education?’

  ‘Not this late into the session.’

  It was over. She indicated that I could leave.

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmured and walked out to get my bag.

  ‘And Vasu,’ she said from behind, ‘as a mandatory step, we’ll

  call your parents for a meeting to inform them in person.’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  I closed the door. I felt sorry that my parents would have to go through all this, but I wasn’t feeling humiliated or bad for myself. Perhaps it was just because I was young. Perhaps it was Rea’s letter.

  Master had said that the greatest chess players attained maturity of thought early on in their life. It’s a natural outcome of playing a thought-intensive game. But surely, thinking doesn’t make your raging hormones subside?

  When you’re in your teens, something nudges you to rebel at things you don’t even want to. You don’t want to get angry but anger is all that comes out. Half your time goes in feeling upset and guilty that you are not good enough. You curse yourself for procrastinating, for lashing out, for not following a discipline. And for the rest of the time, you are trying to please your friends, parents and teachers. You want them to acknowledge, recognize and appreciate you. You want attention and recognition. It’s very gratifying. But most of what you try doesn’t work.

  You want to but you don’t really give a shit about a lot of things. So: to hell with school. I began thinking of intensive chess sessions with the master over the next week.

  Trrriiinng. I stood outside Master’s house, waiting to ring it two more times because, for reasons best known to him, he always opened at the third ring.

  ‘Vasu!’ He opened it right away.

  Rather than the usual touching-of-feet ritual, I went for a hug. I wasn’t sad nor did I need any support; I did it merely to express my love. When I saw him, I realized that I had missed him. He hugged me back, not as hard as I’d hugged him, though.

  ‘Can you please speak to my mother and tell her that I’m okay?’ I said. ‘The school must have called home by now.’ ‘What happened?’

  I narrated the events that had begun two days ago as a prank and ended with my suspension. He stroked my head. I showed him Rea’s letter even though she had asked me not to show it to anyone. I couldn’t hide anything from the master. I didn’t want to.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Vasu,’ he said affectionately. ‘Are you sure you are okay?’

  ‘Honestly, Master, I’m not worried. I didn’t do anything wrong.’

  He called mum and told her not to worry about me and that he would come home in the evening to meet them.

  ‘Did you eat your lunch?’ he asked.

  ‘Did mum ask you to ask this question?’

  ‘No!’ He chuckled. ‘Let’s eat it together now. I haven’t had anything since morning either.’

  ‘Since morning? Why?’

  ‘I wasn’t feeling too well.’ ‘Why? What’s the matter?’ ‘Nothing. Just like that.’

  There was no point pushing him further because he rarely said anything he didn’t want to. Besides, I thought he might have missed his breakfast just like I missed my meals every now and then.

  We made some instant noodles, which took all of twenty minutes, not two, like the packet claims. Master was coughing. Not too much or too loud. I was worried but didn’t want to pester him.

  ‘I’ll get the cold drink,’ I offered.

  ‘I’m not sure if I should have one,’ he said after a brief pause. ‘No cola?’ I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘How can that be?’ He

  must be feverish, I thought.

  ‘Okay, I’ll have one.’

  He probably agreed in order to shut me up from asking more questions. We ate our noodles and drank cola. He never liked talking or doing anything else while eating. Other than his occasional bouts of cough, it was a quiet but good lunch. Anything and everything was good in the master’s company.

  ‘Are you sure you are okay to play today, Vasu?’ ‘That’s exactly what I was going to ask you!’

  ‘Why? I’m okay.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘You know, I thought with all that happened in school and all—’

  ‘Nah,’ I said cockily. ‘I can handle that.’

  He quietly spread the chess mat and told me that, over the next week, since I had no school, we would replay the games of the grandmasters from Chess Informant, the bi-yearly publication that featured all the games of the grandmasters in all the rated tournaments across the world.

  ‘Do you know who the finest teacher is?’ he asked. ‘You!’

  Ignoring my answer, he continued, ‘Experience is the greatest teacher, Vasu. Always replay your own games to see where you went wrong and what made you play the way you did. People don’t lose because they make mistakes, they do so because they repeat their mistakes. The first time, it’s not a loss but a learning.’

  ‘So, how do I avoid making mistakes?’

  ‘Just don’t repeat them,’ he said after coughing and clearing his throat. ‘Be it life or chess, that’s the only difference between a grandmaster and an amateur. An amateur expects to reach a different destination by walking the same path. He hopes for miracles or serendipities. A grandmaster, on the other hand, relies on his own effort and intelligence. He does not commit the same error twice.’

  ‘But Master,’ I said, curious, ‘I do try my best to not repeat my mistakes. Why do I still lose?’

  ‘Because you nourish the body and starve the soul.’

  I gave him a blank look because I didn’t have a clue about what he just said.

  ‘Do you know the soul of chess, Vasu?’ ‘Winning?’

  ‘The soul of chess is pawn play.’

  He resumed after a brief silence. ‘You can retreat any piece but a pawn. That position, once lost, never comes back. Over the next seven days, I want you to pay attention to how grandmasters play with their pawns. I want you to understand how they treat their pawns.’

  Suddenly, many of my own games flashed in front of me, where I had just pushed a pawn impatiently because I couldn’t really figure a way out. I was reminded of many games where my own king or pieces had remained blocked behind my own pawns. In fast-forward, my mind replayed many games where Master had won because I couldn’t go past his pawns.

  Of course, that’s it. Pawns.

  ‘Today is not about chess, though,’ he sounded sombre. ‘Because, there’s life beyond chess, Vasu.’ He waited a moment before continuing: ‘Chess is not about winning. It’s about playing. The high you feel in victory is only there because of the tension of the game during the play. If you beat a much less skilled opponent without any struggle, the victory won’t be as fulfilling. That’s how it is in life too. Our obstacles and adversities add to the euphoria of triumph.’

  ‘Are you saying chess is like life?’

  He laughed. ‘There’s no comparison, Vasu. Chess has rules, life has none.’ Then he added, ‘Besides, chess is a part of life and not the other way around.’

  It was the first time he suggested that anything cou
ld be more important than chess. I couldn’t quite figure out why, though.

  ‘Do you know why your drawing teacher is always angry?’

  ‘Because he loves to see others suffer. He’s not a Taklu, he’s a poisonous berry.’

  ‘No point in speaking ill of a person, Vasu,’ Master said in his usual plain tone. ‘He’s angry for the same reason as you losing in chess repeatedly.’

  ‘You mean he is nourishing his body while his soul is starving?’ ‘Exactly. What is the soul of life?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Love, Vasu, love,’ Master spoke. ‘Love is the soul of life. Without love, nothing has any meaning nor value. Your drawing teacher needs love.’

  The first thing that came to my mind was how happily Taklu exchanged pleasantries with the GK teacher. Leaning on the staff room door, with a smile that seemed to be reserved for her, he would move his hands like a robot on Duracell batteries, sharing jokes and anecdotes with her.

  ‘But I don’t feel any love for Taklu.’

  ‘Not if you keep calling him Taklu. Do you like it when they call you a geek?’

  Sensing where he was going with the conversation, I said, ‘I don’t call him Taklu to his face.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter, Vasu,’ he replied. ‘What we call someone behind their back is how we see them. That’s how they shape up in our mind. Your drawing teacher is trying to do his job. Labelling others based on their appearance is a sign of mediocrity and pettiness.’

  I felt bad, even ashamed, of myself. How conveniently I’d been referring to Ms Claire as Cadbury, and Mr Goyal as Taklu, and there were many other not-so-nice nicknames assigned to others. But just one reference to me as a geek or a chess freak and I was totally shattered. Master had just shown me a mirror.

  ‘And let me tell you something,’ he said, cutting into my thoughts. ‘Mediocre behaviour is not befitting of great people. Just like average play doesn’t lead to winning in chess, average demeanour does not lead to great things in life.’

  ‘I feel like a really bad person.’

  ‘You won’t if you learn to feed your soul,’ he replied. ‘On that note, if love is the soul of life, how do you feed it?’

  ‘By loving others?’

  ‘Yes, but what does that mean?’

  As usual, I shrugged. What did I know about love? I thought giving my mother a hug was an expression of love. I thought being friends with Rea would be something like love. Maybe playing chess was loving … or cracking jokes with Varun was. It was a feeling I had felt for all these people but not for Mr Goyal or the indifferent security guard at my first chess tournament.

  ‘Love is to feel good about the other person,’ I replied nevertheless.

  ‘Not quite,’ he sipped his cola and coughed. ‘Forgiveness is love. Acceptance feeds love. When you accept the other person the way they are, you begin to respect how they are. You begin to value what matters to them. Forgiveness for their mistakes arises naturally. Love blossoms like a lotus upon sunrise then. And when you are in love, everything feels all right. No matter how life actually is, it just feels right.’

  ‘How do I forgive my drawing teacher?’ ‘By seeking his apology first.’

  His answer upset me. It didn’t make sense.

  ‘Hadn’t you already labelled him Taklu before you even got to know him?’ he said as if he’d read my mind. ‘Love starts by taking responsibility for our own actions first, Vasu. Write him a sincere apology. Set your karma straight first, Nature will take care of his. When you beg his pardon for your thoughts and conduct, love will flow from you. Basking in your love, he will undoubtedly feel love for you in return.’

  Master was coughing even more. He got up to spit.

  Like a carefully crafted chess strategy, his wisdom penetrated all my defences. I decided to not only write an apology to Mr Goyal but also go to school the next day to deliver it in person.

  ‘What about Rea?’ I asked as soon as he sat down. ‘What do I do with her?’

  ‘Forgive her. Accept her.’

  ‘And let me tell you something more,’ he said. ‘Rea is a keeper.’

  ‘Really!’ I couldn’t contain my surprise. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, let’s say, your master has played enough games to sense if the queen is going to hang around till checkmate. Though, a gambit is more important than a checkmate in love.’

  I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant.

  ‘Because Vasu,’ Master continued philosophically, ‘love is not about winning but offering. The first gambit is care, second appreciation, but it’s the last gambit that matters the most.’

  ‘And that would be?’

  ‘Self-sacrifice. Until you offer yourself wholeheartedly, you can’t win. In love or in anything else.’

  We didn’t play any games that day but only examined various end-game permutations. I wasn’t distracted but I couldn’t really focus either. There was plenty on my mind but I was mostly dying to tell Rea that I would like to sit next to her in class.

  With all its challenges, one of the most beautiful things about the teenage years is love. It’s so easy to fall in love when you are growing up. Maybe because you are so sure of everything, or because you want to give yourself to someone. There’s so much to look forward to. Although, it could just as easily be because you are a green bean and don’t know any better.

  Whatever it might be, today I felt like a winner. I felt big for my own shoes. I was willing to apologize to Taklu. Yes, I could call him that this one last time. Rea said she wanted me. I felt victorious. A champion – albeit on a one-week suspension.

  WHEN MASTER CALLS

  ‘MUM!’ I SHOUTED as soon as I got home.

  ‘Sshh…’ she whispered. She looked grave. ‘Your father is really angry. They called from your school.’

  This was some serious shit because father rarely ever got mad; but when he did, he would lose it completely. No one in the family had forgotten how hard he had slapped Varun four years ago. My brother had already failed in two exams but father had not lost his cool. But soon Varun had bunked school for a whole week and submitted a leave of absence forging father’s signature. No one had found out. Theoretically, it was not a bad plan but it had backfired when Ganju uncle had turned up at home.

  Ganju uncle was not just anybody. Even though he sat at home and never really worked while his wife slogged in an accounts office, raising a family of four, he was an expert at transport – of packets of information.

  We used to call him AIR – short for All India Radio. That day, he had his share of tea and biscuits and, when he was about to leave, he casually dropped a bomb saying he saw Varun loitering around a B-grade cinema hall on two occasions in a single week. We all turned to Varun who denied the accusation vehemently.

  ‘But I saw you eating a samosa, beta,’ he said unctuously. ‘You were in your school uniform.’

  And what were you doing at a B-grade movie hall, uncle?

  Dad had dismissed uncle saying that he must have been mistaken, but he quietly made enquiries at the school to get to the bottom of the matter. All hell broke loose when he found out the truth. The slap was so hard that Varun’s face got bruised and he had fallen on the floor. Dad had helped him up, but Varun cupped the left cheek to avoid getting another. He was no Mahatma Gandhi to turn the other cheek – which didn’t stop dad from delivering a resounding slap on the other side. With his left hand, this time.

  Varun had wisely run away and spent two days at his friend’s place until dad calmed down and called him back.

  ‘Vasu, after I got the first slap,’ Varun would recount later, ‘it felt as if the temple priest was blowing a conch in my right ear. The next one landed and it was Bismillah Khan playing shehnai into my ear with various accompaniments. I felt I was on another planet, maybe dead, and celestial beings were all around me, li
ke fireflies. In the middle of all that stood our father, glaring at me, like the mighty Ravana at the helpless Sita. Hey Ram!’

  I had no friend like the one who had given Varun shelter. I could go to Master’s house but I wasn’t comfortable exposing that side of my father.

  ‘Vasu!’ A loud, angry voice sent a chill down my spine. I trembled like a dry leaf at the sudden gust of wind. I seriously thought of turning back and running away. But it was a little too late for that.

  He was already here, my father. Angry, mad, red-faced. In one jerk, he took my school bag off my shoulders. It twisted one of my arms but this was the least of my concerns presently. He tore open my bag and took out the chess set. With one hand, he flung the bag on the wall. He dragged me by the wrist and went to the veranda. With all his might, he slammed the chess set on the floor. Its hinges broke in an instant and cracks appeared.

  I stood there in shock. Mother was standing in a corner, looking petrified, Varun and Mira beside her.

  He sat on the floor and put his hands on his head.

  I thought the storm had passed. I didn’t realize that it had been building up in him the whole day. This was just the sea retreating before the giant tsunami. Completely unaware and mistaking his current posture as an indication of calming down, I went little closer. It was a big mistake.

  ‘I’m sorry, father,’ I murmured.

  ‘No, you are not sorry,’ he roared. ‘You bloody little rascal.’ He was yelling. ‘Where do I go, God? What do I do with these dirty eggs? I damn the day I ever became your father. I damn the day you were born. You guys think life is a walk in the park. It’s all easy, a bed of roses.’

  He got up and picked Varun’s cricket bat. ‘You are dead meat, Vasu.’

  I saw not my father but death looming large. I was so terrified of him swinging the bat at me that I shrunk in fear, cupped my head with my hands, and didn’t move an inch.

  Mother immediately sprang to stop him.