by Om Swami
Though nervous, I was also thrilled to be part of a tournament with real GMs and Masters. Five days of just chess, chess and more chess, against the best. I had quite an opening and won many casual games against other players. This boosted my confidence, perhaps a bit too much, because it clouded my caution. But after losing the first two games, one of which was against an unrated player, I came back to my senses really fast. I drew the next one and won the last game of the day. My ranking at the end of day one was 150.
The competition got tougher on the second day as I was playing against opponents who had won a similar number of games the first day. Yet, Master’s wisdom stood by my side like a guardian angel. I chose unconventional responses against known players and stuck to the basics in my moves. The strategy worked and I managed to win two out of four games on day two, losing the other two. My score was 3.5/8 at the end of day two. This was a very good score. I was in the top thirty now and it felt damn good to see my name in the first pairing sheet.
Day three, however, was a different ball game as I desperately scrambled for a draw even as I lost three good games. Absolutely no strategy worked. All of a sudden, my ranking dropped to seventy-eight. This is crazy. One bad day and I slid down like a skier from a high mountain. I tried an unconventional opening in my fourth game but it backfired and I lost the game in under thirty moves. Hell, Master should have been here to guide me. Soon, I was missing home. Dad was no good at lifting my morale.
I needed a lot more affection than a ‘you win some, you lose some, Vasu.’
I hadn’t come here to lose. I felt bad for myself but worse for my dad. He would just sit quietly and wait all day. It was no fun for him, for he didn’t know chess at all. He would be waiting outside the room to see me as soon as I finished my game. More than losing, it was painful to tell him that I had lost – to see him shrug his wide shoulders and smile that quiet smile.
My head was hurting from feeling low and thinking more than I could handle. It felt like my brain would just pop out of my skull. ‘I’ll see you in the room, dad,’ I said. ‘I just want to take a stroll.’
‘Don’t go too far,’ he warned. ‘It’s a new city.’
I nodded and agreed to meet him for dinner an hour later. I wanted to talk to someone – there was just one voice that would make everything all right, I felt. I opened the slip and stared at the number. I wasn’t sure if I should call. What the heck? I walked into the phone booth and dialled the number.
‘Hello,’ the voice on the other end said.
‘H … he …’ I cleared my throat. ‘Hello.’
‘Yes, who’s this?’
Really? Could someone who sounded like a street hawker from Akbar’s time be the father of such a pretty girl? My heart was thumping and I felt itchy on my head. Even though I had dialled, I didn’t know what to say to Rea’s dad.
‘How can I help you?’ he asked.
Give the phone to your daughter.
I just put the phone down, feeling washed out. I called again after a few minutes.
‘Hello.’ The voice was louder this time.
My heart was wrestling to emerge from my chest. Again.
Words would only end up as spit I would swallow. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Rea Verma Provision Store?’ I managed to blurt out a name, based on Rea’s surname.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s Rea’s Modern Mart.’
Of course!
‘Who’s this?’ he asked again.
‘I wanted to order some stuff.’
‘Sure, sir.’ The voice turned very polite. ‘If your order is more than Rs 100, we’ll do free home delivery.’
‘Do you have Dairy Milk?’
‘No dairy products here, sir.’
‘Not milk, Dairy Milk, the chocolate?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘Yes, we do.’
‘I require thirty Dairy Milk chocolates, seven kilograms of corn flour, five kilograms of sugar, three kilograms of almonds, three kilograms—’
‘Papa?’ It was Rea’s voice in the background.
Oh thank you, God. Thank you.
‘Mum—’
‘What papa?’ he said to her. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Someone was here.’
‘Mum’s calling you,’ Rea said in the background.
‘I’m taking a customer’s order,’ he said to Rea. ‘Stay here and help me pack it.’
You are here, Rea! Take the phone from your dad! Make my day!
‘Yes sir,’ he said. ‘Three kilograms of what?’
‘Rea.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Rea … real … real ghee, I mean.’
‘We only sell real stuff, sir,’ he said emphatically. ‘Absolutely no adulteration.’
‘Actually, it’s my sister’s sixteenth birthday,’ I said. ‘I wanted some gift ideas other than chocolates, for her friends. You won’t happen to know someone her age, would you?’
‘Why not, sir, my daughter can help you.’
I heard him say to Rea that it was a sizeable order and that the customer needed some help in selecting items for his sister’s sixteenth birthday.
‘I’ve nothing to suggest.’ I could hear Rea tell her dad. ‘Rea!’ he said curtly. ‘Speak to this gentleman.’
Sir, there’s this thing called a mouthpiece. It’s not a crime to put your hand on it while you talk to the other person.
‘Hello.’
Ah! I felt a minor jolt, as if electricity passed through me in slow motion.
‘Rea!’ I squealed.
‘Oh my God, Va … very good, sir, very good,’ she said.
‘What happened?’ her dad asked. ‘Don’t show so much eagerness even if it’s a big order.’
‘Mum said she wanted to see you urgently. I’ll take the order.’ ‘Gone!’ she whispered. ‘Papa’s gone. Vasu! You called!’
I told her about the argument with Master, not winning too many games, and how I’d been feeling low and dejected.
‘I’m feeling lost, Rea. I don’t know if I can do this … this tournament.’
‘Why don’t you call your master?’
‘After that argument?’
‘Vasu,’ she said firmly, ‘he’s your teacher. Call him.’ ‘No way!’
‘Please do, Vasu. Do it for my sake. I want you to win.’
‘Rea?’ her dad said. ‘Is the order complete?’
‘Order? Umm … yeah … no … I mean … he was … the phone got disconnected.’
‘Put it down, then,’ he shouted. ‘How will he call back otherwise?’
‘I love you,’ she mumbled almost inaudibly.
Beeeeeep…
My head was not hurting any longer. I was feeling confident again. Hunger was tugging at my tummy. Rea’s voice was still running through me like blood through my veins. I desperately wanted to just hold her hand and hug her right at this moment. The whole conversation was playing back in my head.
I’m not going to call Master. If he doesn’t need me, I don’t need him either.
I met dad for dinner. He was surprised to see me cheerful. I was gorging on food like there was no tomorrow. He must have thought I got a dose of wisdom or something from the master.
‘Did you speak to your master by any chance?’ ‘No.’
‘You look rather happy after you got back from your walk.’ I just shrugged and carried on with my meal.
‘We can call him from our room,’ he offered.
I just shook my head.
We went back to our room, I practised some more and formulated my strategy for the next day. I knew how I would open with white but I still was bit unsure how should I play with black.
I’ll figure something out, but I’m not going to call my master. Let him also wo
nder how am I faring in the tournament.
I went to bed with my thoughts jumping from Rea to mother, from chess to Muffin, from Varun to Mira, and sometimes from Master to dad.
‘Not just a grandmaster,’ a soft voice whispered in my ears, ‘I want to make you a world champion.’
‘You’ve come, Master,’ I exclaimed. ‘You said you wouldn’t join me.’
Master said nothing more. He was coughing. I waited for a little while.
He stood there quietly, looking at me unblinkingly. He was smiling.
‘Don’t leave me, Vasu,’ he said. ‘You’re all I have.’
‘Why did you throw me out?’ I protested. ‘You’d promised to never do that.’
‘I’m an old man, son,’ he said. ‘I’m tired of living.’
I felt helpless. I wanted to make him feel all right and see him laugh. I lunged at him with an overwhelming need to hug him tight and wipe his tears. But he took a few steps back. Again, I stepped forward; again, he moved back.
‘Why can’t I reach you, Master?’ I asked, scared. Stretching my arms out, I moved towards him.
Master’s clothes turned white and light emitted from him. He began walking away from me, in the air, as if moonwalking.
‘Don’t leave me. Master!’ I screamed. ‘Master!’ I called out. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Vasu, son? Vasu? Are you all right?’ I opened my eyes to find my dad leaning over me.
‘I just had a nightmare, dad. I want to call Master.’
‘It’s two in the night, Vasu! We’ll call him in the morning.’
‘No, dad, I must call him now!’
‘Vasu, he’s an old man, it’s not right to trouble him like this.’
Old man? Yes, that’s what Master said as well.
For the first time, I realized that Master was indeed an old man and that one day, he would no longer be there. I felt dizzy. What would I do without him? Chess seemed meaningless without my master. If it was just me, chess would be simply a game. He made it come alive. It was my master more than anyone else who I wanted to please by winning my games.
I don’t know how long it took, but I fell asleep again and the morning alarm woke me up. I rushed through my breakfast and went straight to the phone booth.
Tring … tring. Tring … tring. Tring … tring. Tring … tring.
His phone continued ringing. I felt as if my heart had slipped out of its place. I dialled again. It rang again. Even if something terrible had happened, the milkman would be there soon, he would knock and suspect something. The maid would also come around mid-day. She would wonder, and hopefully alert the neighbours. I rang once again.
Tring … tring. Tring … tring. Tring … tring.
I’ll call Varun and ask him to reach Master’s place and break open the door.
‘Hello.’
‘Varun, sorry, I mean Master,’ I said. ‘Where were you?’ ‘I was here.’
‘I tried calling you so many times!’
‘I was in the washroom, Vasu!’ he said softly. ‘An old man needs his time and peace in the washroom.’
‘I was worried.’
‘So was I, Vasu. I called your home last night to find out if you’d reached safely.’
‘I only won four out of twelve games. Drew two.’ ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘It’s your first tournament.’
‘That’s what dad says, but I want to do better!’
‘There are still two days to go!’
‘Yes, but I don’t know what to do.’
‘Go back to the basics,’ he replied. ‘No fancy moves, no thinking about numbers and points. Just the game. Before making—’
‘I wish you were here!’
‘—before making any move, ask yourself a simple question: “Is this my best move?”’
‘You think I can win?’
‘Vasu,’ he said firmly. ‘You know everything there is to know about the game. Play it in your own style.’
‘I’m just scared.’ ‘Of what?’
‘Of losing.’ ‘Losing what?’
‘The tournament!’
‘You are not there to win the tournament. You are there to show the world that you know how to play the game. Better than them. One move at a time.’
One move at a time. This insight hit me like lightning on a lone tree in a vast prairie. I don’t have to think about points and winnings and prize money. I just have to play a lot of good moves.
After losing the first game on the fourth day, I went on to win the remaining three. With a score of 7/16, my ranking shot up and I was on number nineteen. We called home from our room. Mother worried about how I was holding up under all that stress. Varun was having a blast, he told me. In dad’s absence, he woke up late in the mornings and got back home late in the evenings. Mira was busy with her painting as usual. Though she didn’t play chess, she showed the most interest over the phone to know how was I doing in my tournament, what was it like, whether I was enjoying the whole thing.
On the fifth and the final day, I played most strategically. I went in with the mind-set that I would play closed games with extreme patience. Closed games lead to tense and tight situations in the middle of the board. It requires complete mastery over tactical play if one is to have any chance in closed games. I had already paid the price of impatience and overconfidence. The strategy really paid off and I went on to win all four games on the final day. My final score stood at a commendable 11/20.
It wasn’t a stellar performance but I had wrapped up much better than I had hoped for in the first three days of the tournament. The first place was shared by two grandmasters, the second one was secured by a grandmaster as well. The third place was taken by a new unrated player. No, it wasn’t me. Vasu Bhatt showed up fourth on the list. The prize money was peanuts for the player ranking fourth, but it wasn’t the prize money that was the real reward for me. It was the rating. Yes, I had become a rated player. Master sounded pleased to hear that over the phone.
I had secured two wins against two different IMs and one against a GM. IM stands for International Master, a rated player with a rating of or higher than 2400. It felt funny reporting the result at the bench with the same GM whose autograph I had sought just four days back. It was an awesome feeling to be in the big league.
Those victories had given me a solid start. As a result, my rating by FIDE, Fédération Internationale des Échecs, also known as the World Chess Federation, opened very high. An Elo rating of 1948. This might sound like the year of Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination but it was actually a very good thing (the rating). 1948 was something to celebrate, because if I continued this way, with a rating of 2400, I could be an IM in one year.
Heck, I could even be a GM. All I needed to attain the title of GM was a rating of more than 2500, and fulfil some other criteria. It felt surreal that I was so close to the titles that had once looked as far as the twinkling stars in an unknown universe.
I went to see Master as soon as I got home. He opened the door at the first bell. I bowed down to touch his feet. Today I was feeling more reverent because his single phone call had given me hope and confidence at the end of day three.
No congratulations. That’s not how he worked. The first thing he said was, ‘Did you annotate your games?’
‘All but the drawn.’
‘Always annotate all games,’ he said. ‘It is how we go back into your head to know you better. And the more you know yourself, the better you become at everything you do.’
He walked to the fridge, got two bottles and came back to sit in the rocking chair that lay diagonally to where I sat. He always sat in the rocking chair except when we were playing a game of chess. Then he would sit in the couch opposite mine.
Tssss … He handed me the bottle of cola. The bottle opener was always on the side table next to his chair. A small tim
epiece, the phone, a notepad with a pen and a bottle opener occupied that side table, always.
Tssss… That sound of the bottle opening would always make me thirsty.
He mercilessly analysed my games over the next four hours. His cough was much better; he actually didn’t cough even once. Out of all the games I lost, one stood out in particular. It was a clear case of reckless moves. I’d sacrificed my knight even though there was no mating attack in sight. My annotation read that I had done it in the hope that my opponent would move his bishop thereafter; he simply started exchanging pieces.
‘What were you thinking?’ Master said, a bit annoyed.
‘You won’t be mad?’
‘Go on.’
‘This was my first game and he was an unrated player too. He looked so shabby and distracted, so unlike a chess player, that I never thought he had any chance against me. He actually went on to win one game after the other and eventually came third in the tournament.’
Master chuckled.
‘I don’t blame you, Vasu,’ he said. ‘It can happen. It happened to me many years ago…’
I HAD ALREADY won a few prestigious tournaments. I was sitting in a park once. With a chess book in my hand, I was playing practice games.
A young girl, hardly seven years old, was walking with a lady, probably her mother. They came and stood next to me. I paid no attention at first, but some ten minutes later, they were still standing there. It was a bit annoying to have them hovering around. Yet, I ignored them, until the older lady said, ‘Can the little one have a game with you?’
‘Excuse me?’ I exclaimed.
I looked at the girl as I uttered those words. Most unusually, though, I felt that those hazel eyes in her innocent face were laughing at me, challenging me. It made me uncomfortable. To be invited to play against someone who had just graduated out of toddlerhood when I was a rated player – well, it hurt my ego big time. Really, I thought the mother should just go home and give her a doll to play with.
I could not say no, though, for it would have been impolite. After all, it was not about winning or losing with the little one. It was just meant to give her a game.
The little girl sat across me and I set up the board.
