The Last Gambit

by Om Swami

  You are useless, Bajrang Bali, I said to the little statue of Hanuman sitting on my side table. You can’t make anything happen. Ever. I’m never talking to you again.

  As always, he was smiling at me, the mace effortlessly sitting on his shoulder. I turned him to face the wall. Look the other way. A couple of hours went by. Varun came into our room. He was four years elder to me and cracked jokes to make me laugh. He failed. Mira, six years elder to me, tried to console me by saying that dad would eventually grant me permission, but she was just trying to make me feel better. Mother only seemed concerned about my dinner right then, but I was adamant.

  There was a knock on the door, followed by absolute silence. My face was buried in the pillow, but because of the sudden silence, I knew dad had just entered the room.

  ‘Vasu?’ He came near me, dragged the chair next to my study table and sat on it.

  I did not respond.

  ‘Vasu? Beta? Listen to me,’ he said in his deep voice.

  I raised my head and sat up. Mira and Varun sat on Varun’s bed, and my mother took the chair from his study table.

  ‘You know that your mother and I are your greatest well- wishers, right? We are only thinking about your welfare?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What happened today at the tournament? You came home and suddenly wanted to pursue chess instead of studies?’

  ‘What’s the point telling you?’ I growled. ‘It’s not like you’ll say, “okay, go play chess”.’

  ‘At least tell me, Vasu.’

  I narrated the story of the old man to my parents. ‘He said he would teach me if and only if chess is my sole priority.’

  ‘Is this what you really want to do? Do you want to reconsider?’ He sounded much gentler now.

  ‘I thought about it all day. This is the only thing I want to do.’ ‘I am only worried because it is your future we are talking

  about.’

  ‘Have faith, dad,’ I said confidently. ‘I won’t disappoint you.’ ‘It’s not going to be a piece of cake, you know.’ He ran his hand through my hair. Everyone smiled, because we knew that whenever he gave in, rather than saying ‘yes’, he made a loving gesture.

  ‘How much will he charge?’ I could see a trace of concern in his calm eyes. But the question meant that he had nearly agreed.

  I got up and rammed into him. ‘Oh, I love you so much, daddy.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘What’s his fee?’ ‘I didn’t ask him.’

  ‘I would like to meet him once,’ he said, and left the room. ‘What’s this?’ Varun said to mum. ‘When I wanted to play

  cricket, I was told to shut up and focus on my studies! But in just a few hours, Vasu gets permission to play chess? This is not fair,’ he protested. ‘I want a new bike.’

  ‘Good try.’ Mother smiled and walked out.

  ‘You know you are not getting a new bike,’ I teased my brother.

  ‘Fine, then. You win some big prize money, Kasparov Bhatt, and buy me a bike,’ he said mockingly.

  I picked up a pillow to throw it at him but he had already dashed out.

  ‘And next time, don’t cry like a little girl. Boo hoo,’ he called back.

  I tried to play some practice games in preparation of the tournament the next day, but just couldn’t focus. I tried to sleep after dinner, but couldn’t do that either. I kept tossing and turning. A million questions were bothering me. What if my teacher asked for too much money? What if I never became a grandmaster? I looked up at the clock: already an hour past midnight. I was feeling tired and my eyes were a little heavy. The train of my thoughts shifted and I started dreaming about winning tournaments, titles, prize money…

  The alarm woke me up. I had a hurried breakfast and rushed out for the second day at the tournament. I couldn’t wait to see him, my dream maker.

  ON BOARD, OFF BOARD

  THE PARKING STAND was nearly full by the time I got to the venue. Some of the older players – many with grey hair – were already practising, having set up their chessboards on their bikes. The ones who smoked preferred to practise in the parking lot, puffing away at their cigarettes. I rushed inside to speak to the old man, my master.

  I saw a few familiar faces from the previous day; more players were trickling in. The officials were walking around, checking the arrangements. In the corridors, on the benches, players were playing casual games while onlookers watched and commented. Some were analysing their games from the previous day, some just sipping tea and eating bread pakoras.

  I couldn’t find the only person I was looking for. Like a calf separated from its mother, before I even checked the lists that day, I went around searching for the old man. I ran to every group to see if he was there. I even inspected the washrooms. He was nowhere. The day had just begun; so, though I was anxious, I didn’t think much of it. I was trying to be patient, I had no other choice anyway. Maybe he will come a bit later, I thought. My ranking looked good at start of the day; I was in second place with four-and-a-half points. The player in front was only half a point ahead. The competition was getting tougher too, since winners were playing winners. I was playing black in my next game, which meant my opponent would open with white.

  I made every move as if my life depended on it. The caution and calculation paid off and I won the game without any major upsets. I was suddenly on the top of the chart. It was a good feeling but with four more games to go and no sign of the old man, I was beginning to feel uneasy and distracted. Once again, I barged into every group, and checked the washrooms. I looked in the office. I ran into every person I didn’t give a damn about. Just not him.

  Dismayed, I couldn’t focus on the next two games. I gave a tough fight but lost both due to minor but expensive mistakes. I was at number five on the chart now. It was no longer the chart but the absence of the old man that worried me. He was nowhere, and I didn’t even have his contact details. This tournament was not at a regular chess club; it was a high school turned into a tournament venue for the weekend. If I missed him that day, I would have no way of reaching him.

  The second-last game drew and, with my score of six out of ten, I had gone from topping to being sixth on the chart. I was playing the last game under tremendous stress. The whole day had passed and the old man was still not here.

  ‘Vasu Bhatt?’ The referee approached me in the middle of my game.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s someone here to see you. It’s urgent, he says.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ I got up and threw my hands up in the air. ‘Yes, it is very urgent.’

  I didn’t ask where. I just ran to the door. That’s one thing I’ve always liked about chess, unlike any other game, you can just get up and leave while the clock is still ticking.

  But I didn’t find the old man waiting for me. The referee too was out by now.

  ‘He’s waiting just outside the main office.’

  ‘Thank you so much!’ I flew like a poorly tied shoe off a flopping foot.

  He was not there either.

  ‘Bhaiya ji?’ A familiar voice called out to me.

  ‘Mewa?’ It was our maid’s husband. Him? I ran for him? What was he doing here? He was standing there calmly, and I felt like banging my head against the wall.

  ‘You forgot your tiffin at home,’ he said. ‘Your mum has been worried sick since morning. She said it was way past your lunch time.’

  ‘Mum!’ I ground my teeth.

  ‘Varun bhaiya is out playing cricket and your father has taken Mira didi to a painting exhibition,’ he continued solemnly. ‘I was specially called back from home to bring you this tiffin. I came here as fast as I could.’

  ‘Take it back,’ I shouted. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  He placed the tiffin between the bars of a window and walked away.

  ‘Sorry, Mewa,’ I said, holdi
ng him by the wrist. ‘I didn’t mean to yell.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ He gently released himself from my grip and went his way.

  I picked up my tiffin and went back to my game, feeling bad about my behaviour, equally frustrated with the world, mad at mum, and madder at the old man.

  The clock was ticking. I had lost five minutes, but my position in the game was strong. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself down and focus again. It was a close-ended, tough fight. In close-ended games, the play is lot more tactical. The two players focus more on building their defences and a longer-term strategy than quickly exchanging pieces to open up the board. I wanted to clear the board, but my opponent stuck to his plan and kept all pieces in play. It was as if he knew I was running low on patience.

  What does the old man think? I can’t win without him? Revolt has a strange way of giving you strength. It gives you the energy and conviction to stand up for yourself. Even if foolishly and temporarily, it makes you fearless. Right then, I was so mad that I could have taken on anyone. I wanted to crush my opponent and that’s exactly what I did.

  After a close middle game and a tense, long and tiring end game, I won. A couple of mistakes in two earlier games had thrown me from first to fifth and pulled me down real fast. My ranking was the least of my concerns, though. I was only thinking about the old man and felt increasingly angry and helpless at his betrayal.

  I wasn’t keen on attending the prize distribution ceremony. I didn’t want to go on stage to receive a certificate of attendance and a consolation prize of fifty rupees.

  But fifty rupees would cover my tournament fee and my fuel expense. So I parked my ego and disappointment aside and attended the ceremony. The emptiness and anxiety of not finding the old man returned soon after. I thought of every possibility for his not showing up, including him dying, meeting with an accident, or forgetting about it, but nothing pacified me. My head was beginning to hurt.

  Gradually, the players began to leave the venue. The tournament organizers were wrapping up, the watchman was locking every room. The venue was beginning to look sparse. Players were chatting, discussing their games, analysing where they went wrong. Some were moving towards the front door, many towards the parking stand. I sat there in a chair, in a lonely corner. Where the hell was the old man?

  It was already six. It was the month of October, and the sun would disappear by seven. I had to be home before dark; this was the non-negotiable rule.

  The watchman asked me to vacate the chair so he could put it back in the room and told me to go home or to the parking stand which had a separate entrance. Casually, I asked him if he knew anything about the old man who attended the previous day. He replied in the negative without even asking me what he looked like.

  That’s why he’s just a petty watchman. Because he’s lazy. He’ll retire and die as a frigging watchman. I was angry.

  I wanted to step on cockroaches, to pluck the legs of a spider and let it crawl on the ground. I wanted to turn a beetle on its back and see it shake its legs in the air helplessly. I felt like feeding a mouse to a cat and watch it maul its meal first.

  And then I felt intense sadness engulf me like rainclouds gather in the sky.

  I got up and walked towards my moped slowly. What would I say to my parents? I kicked a stone as I got closer to the mostly deserted parking stand.

  Someone was sitting on the kerb. His back was towards me but I felt a pull. My heart pounded, it raced. This man’s jumper was hand-knit too, and he was slender … could it be him? My pace increased.

  There he was, eating a sandwich, the sides of which were sliced. His large glasses looked like they were dancing on his ears as he unhurriedly nibbled on his sandwich. Next to him was a bottle of Campa Cola. I wanted to snatch his sandwich and cola and hurl them at the wall. I felt like shaking him and asking him how come he did not understand the importance of his own words. I wanted to shout at him.

  I did none of those things. ‘Sit,’ he said.

  I did not. I was fried.

  ‘I’ve got a sandwich for you.’

  He offered me one. I didn’t know him long or well enough to express my anger outright. I sat down.

  I was so relieved to see him that a tear rolled down my eyes. Quietly, he brought the sandwich in front of me, a few inches below my nose.

  I let a few moments tick before I took it. A faint smile made its way to the edge of my lips.

  ‘I love cola,’ he said, ‘I play much better when I am drinking cola. What about you, what’s your favourite?’

  ‘I looked for you everywhere today,’ I said. ‘Everywhere?’

  ‘You promised yesterday that you would see me today,’ I said, without answering his question.

  ‘It’s still today, isn’t it?’

  ‘Do you even know how distressed I was?’ I complained. ‘I got so distracted, I lost my games.’

  ‘Rule number one: focus,’ he replied. ‘Never let anything distract you. Ever.’

  ‘But, why didn’t you show up earlier? I searched for you in every nook and corner.’

  ‘How did you fare?’ He didn’t seem interested in answering my questions.

  ‘I came fifth.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Had you showed up in the morning, I would have won all games.’

  ‘You are like the puppy that gets distracted at the sight of a biscuit. A true grandmaster never lets anything distract him. Ever. It could be your mother’s dead body lying next to you but you must play your game calmly.’

  ‘I searched for you everywhere!’

  ‘Clearly, you didn’t look in the parking lot. Did you? I was here the whole day.’ Then he said, ‘Eat your sandwich.’ And he pulled out a chilled bottle of cola from a bag that looked insulated. ‘Here, have this.’

  I rested the sandwich in my lap and opened the bottle. Tsss … Oh, that sound! Now I was both hungry and thirsty. I devoured it and quickly gulped down the cola.

  ‘No matter how lucrative it appears, no matter how hungry you are, never rush. Like the sandwich and the drink, it’s all in front of you, yours for the taking, but rushing is erring,’ he said. ‘Another sandwich?’

  I could do with another one, but I was feeling shy. I just looked at him quietly. Behind his glasses, his eyes no longer looked bulgy or funny.

  He pulled out another sandwich. I took it and unwrapped it quickly, but finished it slowly. He thrust another cola in my hands.

  He continued, ‘You see, whenever you win because of a carefully executed strategy, you always feel full, like you did after the second sandwich. If you win because your opponent made a grave mistake or you got lucky, then win you may, but you won’t feel as if you’ve earned it. Always go for the complete meal, you know what I mean?’

  I nodded. I still hadn’t got over the fact that I’d found someone like him.

  ‘Your parents must be waiting for you.’

  ‘Oh, can I please talk to you about a couple of important things?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I spoke to my parents—’

  ‘I know they agreed. That’s why I spent the last half hour teaching you.’

  ‘Yes, they did, but my father was asking about the fees. He also wants to meet you.’

  ‘He’s a good father.’ He took a sip from his bottle. ‘I will talk to him. How about now?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  My heart pounded. What if the old man charged more than we could afford? It was a good idea to clear it up as soon as possible. I could not wait to get started either.

  ‘So, will you follow me?’

  ‘I’m on a bicycle. I know the lone moped parked in this lot is yours. You give me the address, I’ll reach there by myself.’

  His lack of material comforts mattered no more to me. However, I worried whether my
father would accept him. He might even argue that if I spent my time just playing chess, my old age would be like my teacher’s – impoverished. Another thought crossed my mind: if he was such a great player, how come he could not afford a car or even a scooter? But it was just that – a fleeting thought.

  I jotted down my address at the back of a blank scoring sheet. ‘If you want, I can ride slowly and we can go together.’

  ‘It’s okay, Vasu, you carry on. I’ll see you in thirty minutes. You go at your pace and I’ll reach at mine. This is something you should know in the game too: never let your opponent alter your pace of play with his moves, tricks or gimmicks. Learn to move at the pace you are comfortable with, learn to alter it effortlessly when necessary. You make fewer mistakes that way.’

  I touched his feet, a little hastily, for when I got up, he was still placing his hand on my head to bless me, and I ran to my moped.

  My moped was not designed to go more than thirty kilometres an hour. It felt particularly slow that day. I parked as fast I could and slam-opened the door. Everyone was in the living room, watching the Sunday evening movie. There was no cable TV back then. Only one channel: Doordarshan. A programme featuring Bollywood songs on Wednesday and a movie every Sunday were just about the only attractions, unless you enjoyed watching classical music and Krishi Darshan.

  ‘Mum! Dad!’ I shouted.

  They were happy to see me gleaming, hyper.

  ‘Looks like someone won the tournament today,’ exclaimed my mother. ‘He’s coming home. My teacher!’ I shrieked. ‘He’ll be here in fifteen minutes. He’s coming to talk to you.’ I looked at my father.

  ‘Now? Is he coming now?’ mom interjected. ‘Oh my God, what am I going to feed him? Go quickly, run to the shop and get some sweets and samosas. It is dinner time. Also get some yogurt. He might have his dinner here. Do you know what he likes to eat?’ We knew her instructions were for my elder brother but her question was for me.

  My mother would never let anyone leave our home unfed. How could I know what he liked? I only saw him eating sandwiches. ‘Oh yes, get a Campa for him,’ I said. ‘He likes cola.’