by Om Swami
She forgot all about the movie, rushed to the kitchen and called Mira to help her. Varun was already taking cash out of dad’s wallet to get the things mom had mentioned. Each time he got a chance to buy anything from the shops, he would use the opportunity to buy something for himself as well: a pen, potato chips, chewing gum, some junk item, basically. It was at the most once or twice a month that we bought such things from the shops, or if someone visited our home at a short notice, like that day.
The volume of the television suddenly went up – it was a commercial break. This was a black-and-white TV with no mute button or even a remote. Dad quickly got up and turned the volume down.
‘Did he tell you about the fee?’
‘He said he would talk to you directly about it.’
‘Turn on the light outside. It’ll be easier for him to read the house number.’ We were always careful about turning off lights. ‘Every rupee counts,’ my father would say often.
‘And how was the tournament?’ ‘Oh, I came fifth.’
He smiled. ‘That’s good. I’m proud of you.’ Dad never burdened anyone with his expectations.
I went to the kitchen and returned the tiffin box to my mother. She looked aghast, appalled, for it felt heavy to her. ‘You did not eat your lunch today? Oh my God, what do I do with this boy?’
‘Mum, I—’
‘What mum?’ she cut in. ‘It took us two hours to trace Mewa Singh and I practically pleaded with him to deliver your tiffin.’ ‘Relax, mum. Relax. Sir gave me sandwiches and I had cola.’ ‘That junk is not filling. You are a growing boy, you need proper nutrition.’
I planted a kiss on her cheek, brushed aside her concern with a laugh and went to my room to put my chess set back. I then took off my shoes and slipped into something comfy. I was still young enough to cuddle and kiss my mother then. It made me stronger, it made me softer.
There was a knock on the door. We did not have a doorbell – the good ones cost over a hundred rupees. Dad spent both his time and his money with utmost care.
I ran to the door, barefoot. I wanted to be the first one at the door to welcome him.
‘Hahaha…’ Varun said. It was bloody Varun playing a prank. He laughed his head off, and I was quite annoyed.
‘Hot samosas, cold rasgullas, chilled cola! Yum yum!’ he said, trying to lure and tease me at the same time.
‘Huh!’ I went back to my room and he to the kitchen. While setting the plates, he would always eat one or two. Always. And he was the first to leap towards the plates as soon as the guests left. He had pledged to never leave anything for the next day, except his homework, of course.
I was barely back in my room when someone knocked again. This was a softer knock. I ran out once again, with my slippers on this time. It was him. My father came to the door as well.
‘Namaste,’ he said with folded hands greeting our elderly guest.
‘Namaste.’ My teacher looked back at his bicycle, wondering if it was okay to leave it outside.
‘Oh, I’ll get your bicycle, sir,’ I said, and ran out to park the old but immaculately clean bicycle.
Meanwhile, Dad led him in.
My teacher was seated in the drawing room, which was the most well-decorated, well-kept room in the house. We were not allowed to play there or entertain our friends in that room; it was reserved for the more important guests.
My brother entered first, with the plates of food. He touched my teacher’s feet and sat on the couch closest to the plates. My sister came next.
‘Namaste.’ She was holding a plate of pakoras. ‘God bless you,’ he replied.
My mother came in last with glasses of cola on a tray. ‘Namaste,’ she said, placing the tray on the centre table. ‘God bless you, beti.’
Dad placed a glass of the cold drink in front of him. I shivered a little thanks to my nervousness.
‘Thank you, but I’m sorry,’ my teacher said. ‘I don’t drink cola after sunset. It doesn’t let me sleep.’
‘Would you like tea?’ ‘No, thank you.’ ‘Coffee?’
‘No, I’m okay. Thanks.’
‘Have some milk, then,’ mom offered. Her guest must drink something!
‘Okay, I’ll have some milk.’ ‘Do you take sugar?’
‘One spoon.’
She returned to the kitchen.
Varun was grinning, probably visualizing himself with the bottle of cola.
Dad struck up a conversation about the weather, about the state of our nation and other irrelevant things. He was waiting for my master to initiate the main topic.
Mom came back with the milk and placed it in front of our guest.
In between sips of milk and the rasgullas, samosas and pakoras that were constantly proffered and various off-the-track topics, he came to the point.
‘I saw your son play yesterday,’ he said. ‘He has potential. Enormous potential. Just needs good guidance and a lot of practice.’
I looked at my mother. She was getting emotional. Mira was smiling with a sisterly pride. And Varun, he was looking at the samosas. Unblinkingly.
‘Vasu mentioned that you coach,’ dad said. ‘That you are willing to train him.’
‘I don’t coach, normally. I haven’t taught anyone in the last thirty years, but yes, I’d be happy to train your son.’
‘That’s very kind of you. By the way, may I please know your name?’
‘Anand. Anand Sharma,’ he replied, looking directly into my eyes. ‘I was a rated chess player once.’
‘To be honest with you,’ dad said, ‘I don’t know much about chess, but this is what Vasu wants to pursue.’
He fell quiet. There was a solemn silence in the room, which was rudely broken when Varun banged his hand against a plate while trying to pick up a pakora he had dropped on the floor.
God, how I hated him at that moment.
‘We were wondering if you would charge per month or for the full course,’ dad said.
My master chuckled.
‘I don’t want any money. My fee will be his time. Every day, straight after the school, he should be at my home for four hours. During the weekends, I’ll need all his time. He can even sleep at my house. I am seventy-seven years old. I live alone and there’s a maid who comes for an hour daily and cleans the house and does the dishes. I cook my own food. I don’t mind feeding him too. Or maybe he can offer me a hand there. During his school vacations too, he will need to spend all his time with me. It is through intense training alone that he’s going to run like a Ferrari.’
‘Oh wow!’ Varun squealed. ‘A Ferrari? That’s what they gave Kapil Dev for winning the cricket World Cup!’
I wish I could just burn him with my stare. Besides, they hadn’t given him a Ferrari but an Audi.
‘Varun!’ Father chastised him.
‘Listen, kid,’ my teacher said to me, ‘I’ll be giving you all the knowledge I have. All my time. Are you absolutely sure that chess is what you want? Once the boat is undocked, there’s no sailing back.’
‘I promise.’ The voice came all squeaky. I cleared my throat. ‘I promise.’
‘Are you committed to put in the time as your sir said?’ ‘Yes, dad.’
‘Well then, he’s all yours.’ Dad smiled at my teacher. ‘Let’s play to win.’ My teacher smiled at me.
‘Chess should be the only thing on your mind. When we get tired of analysing, we’ll play; when we are tired of playing, we’ll analyse; when we are tired of both, we’ll watch others play; when we are tired of watching, we’ll do chess riddles; when done with riddles, we’ll play rapid; when tired of rapid, we’ll play blitz; when we want to take a break, we’ll play blindfold. The only rest you’ll get is either during sleep or while at school. Are you up for it?’
‘I’ll do whatever you ask me to do,’ I said.
He scri
bbled his contact details on a sheet of paper.
As he got up, everyone touched his feet, for he was almost my dead grandfather’s age.
We went outside, all except Varun, who got busy finishing the goodies.
‘I didn’t say it in there, but not just a grandmaster, I will make you a world champion,’ he whispered as I helped him with his bicycle.
I stood there speechless.
We bade him goodbye as he pedalled his way out of our sight but into my heart.
A PAPER BOAT
DO YOU THINK I care if the area of the moon is fourteen or fourteen million square miles? This fact is as interesting to me as the dimensions of the red rear of an African baboon. Pushing my boring physics book aside, I dwelled on a novel chess opening, with three lines of attack. Now that’s something I would kiss and keep. I had to write it down right away.
‘Vasu?’ I thought I heard someone call me but I wasn’t sure. ‘Vasu?’
‘Hmm…’
‘VASU!’ she screamed at me.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. Thud. ‘Oh shoot,’ came out as I banged my knee against the desk while standing up. That hurt.
‘What were you doing?’
‘M … me?’ I stammered. ‘I was … was making notes about what you were saying.’
‘What is the area of moon?’
‘Umm … in square kilometres or miles?’ I said while rubbing my knee.
She marched straight to my desk, army style. This was the science period at school. Only the third period of the day.
‘Show me your notebook,’ she demanded.
I didn’t utter a word. She picked it up from the desk and glanced at it.
‘What’s this, e4, e6, g3, b6, f4, Bb7, d4…?’
Now I was genuinely confused. I didn’t know if she was actually asking what opening this was, or what I had written.
‘I just coined a variation to the standard e4,’ I answered seriously.
‘What e4!’
Before I could say anything, she shouted, ‘Get out of my class!’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ I mumbled and lowered my head.
‘Get out and stay out!’
I looked at my watch. Still thirty minutes to go in the period. It was a bit humiliating but what made it particularly painful was that I wasn’t allowed to carry my notebook outside. I had to record any variations in my head now. I walked out of the class and stood there, distressed, for the first few minutes. But then I had an amazing response to the queen’s gambit. The day seemed to be one of epiphanies. The next thirty minutes passed in a flash while I was still working out lines of defence in my head.
‘You disappoint me, Vasu,’ my teacher said as she walked out at the end of the class. Reema Claire. Yeah, that was her name. We had nicknamed her Cadbury, after the Cadbury éclair toffee.
I pretended to hang my head in shame, then went back in to the class with a false and cocky smile. It felt good to sit again.
‘You were good, man,’ a couple of my friends said. ‘Kilometres or miles!’ another said. ‘That was cool!’
I just smiled and got back to finishing my notes. I had to seek my teacher’s opinion on my discovery. Not Cadbury’s, Mr Sharma’s.
I must have looked at my watch at least a hundred times before the last bell rang and I ran to the parking lot as if my back was on fire.
I headed towards the address he had provided. My little moped was any day faster than a bicycle. It was bought for my sister but she didn’t like it. My brother wouldn’t touch it because it was beneath his tough image to be seen on a ‘girly ride’. So, it ended up with me. Fine, not a girl, at least I had a girly ride. It was a loyal mount that, it got me wherever I needed to go. My little town was my world – I had never been outside it on my own. I asked my way around to reach his home.
There was no nameplate, just a house number in white on an old, rectangular metal plaque, painted black. Rust was visible at the two screws, diagonal to each other, that held it against the wall. The other two were missing. The faded nameplate reminded me of his faded jumper. Just below, facing the street, was a window of his house. It was closed. The house was in an old area of the town. Each house was joined to the next; most even shared a common wall. His main door was through a narrow alley, almost like a corridor. I parked my moped on the street next to his house, climbed up the ramp and there I stood, in front of his main door, a gateway to my dream world. Underneath the doorbell, a hand-written slip was stuck. Doorbell, it read. I chuckled.
Trrriing. I could hear the bell ring inside his house. The few seconds I waited felt like eternity.
Trrrriiiinngg. I pressed again.
Some more time went by. Till date, I remain unsure if it was I who was impatient or if he actually did take a long time to come to the door.
Trrrrriiiiinnnnggg. I buzzed once again, a bit longer, but a little hesitatingly this time. While I didn’t want to annoy him, I wasn’t exactly enjoying standing expectantly like a monk waiting for alms.
I was about to press it the fourth time, with the intention of gluing my finger to the button. The door opened just then. He opened a little bit first to check who was at the door, saw me and opened it fully. He looked majestic to me just then, standing like that at the door. He was wearing a different pair of glasses, with a nice metal frame. I bent down, only just, to touch his feet, more as a custom than out of reverence.
‘Come in.’
The walls were painted yellow, the doors were grey. This was an old house. The couch was comfortable and had fluffy cushions.
‘Take a seat,’ he said.
My eyes popped at the sight of a large bookcase full of chess books. It was touching the ceiling. Now this was certainly more interesting than the coloured butt of a baboon.
He got two bottles of cola from the fridge; one for each. I noticed the floor was cemented and slightly uneven because the centre table felt wobbly as he placed the bottles on it. I was still looking around furtively when he reached out to a nearby box. My gaze settled immediately – like a hungry dog’s would at the sight of food.
It was a mini briefcase, he opened it gently, even elegantly. In it lay a chess mat, chess clock and chessmen – all immaculate. Old. Clean. A little worn from use. He spread the mat on the table and asked me whether I wanted white or black. I picked white.
I thought he would ask me how my day went and all that, but not a word.
Okay! No worries. Serious stuff. I didn’t ask him either. I’ll play along. I wanted to get his opinion on my variations. Maybe another day.
‘Twenty plus five.’ He set the clock to give each of us twenty minutes with an additional five minutes if necessary.
I made my first move – the standard king’s pawn opening
the one I knew best. This opening allowed for quicker development of my minor chess pieces, bishops and knights.
He responded like a machine too – by the book. The first six moves were the standard ones. From the seventh move, he started playing differently. It was a variation unknown to me. He was already attacking, all his forces directed at f2, g2 and h2, the squares next to my castled king. Before I knew it, I was on the defensive. His play was tactical and his plot ingenious. My king was cornered before I could finish my drink.
‘Checkmate,’ he announced.
The game was over in eighteen moves. The clock had only ticked 20 per cent of its allotted time. I was a bit embarrassed about losing like that, but I put on a brave face. It was only your first game for heaven’s sake. Plus, do you see how many books he’s read on chess?
‘Let’s play one more.’ He was white this time.
I reset the clock. You are not running through my fort this time, sir.
All my plans failed. They fizzled out like the fizz in my cola while he smothered me in under fifteen moves. The clock was only 10 per ce
nt through this time. He made moves at lightning pace.
I was filled with both awe and fear. I was more intimidated than pissed. I tried to compose myself.
‘Wow! You played really fast, sir.’
‘Yes, but why did you?’ he asked. ‘Why did you alter your pace, Vasu? You must never change your tempo to match your opponent’s. Don’t race with a bike if you are on a moped. Frustrate them; make them slow down to your pace.’
‘But, I knew from the word go that I had no chance of winning against you.’
‘If you want to rely on chance, go play cards.’
‘But, you are a much stronger opponent!’ I shrieked. ‘That doesn’t mean you play a lousy game.’
‘I didn’t!’ I was getting irritated. God, this man is mean.
‘You certainly played much worse than you did at the tournament.’
‘I was nervous, all right,’ I admitted petulantly. ‘I’m sorry, but I was nervous.’
‘Nervous?’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Vasu,’ he said gravely. ‘There’s no room, nor reason, for being nervous in chess.’
Something in his voice calmed me down.
‘Let me tell you a little story.’ He drank more cola, sat back and started talking in a faraway tone. ‘I was just about your age, a year younger, maybe.’
‘I was from a small village and it was my first tournament in a town. I rode all the way, twenty kilometres on my bicycle. The only bus to the town was never on time and there was no other mode of transportation available. I reached the venue two hours early, spread my chess mat, opened my book and started practising. Other players began trickling in and soon the place was abuzz.
India was still under the British Raj and there were two separate halls for brown and white people. Everyone knew that the hall for the whites had a table set-up with coffee, tea, water and snacks while ours had nothing in it. Their hall was equipped with ceiling fans, desks and chairs whereas our hall had mats spread on the ground. We were to sit on the ground and play, much like how it had been in my village school.
