The Last Gambit

by Om Swami

  I faintly recollected reading somewhere, ‘don’t poke the wild one’. It was a little too late for that now. The sleeping lion was stretching already. Majestically.

  THE LOST QUEEN

  I WAS BORN in 1911. My mother was always after me with a stick because I was a naughty child breaking earthen pots, ruining her pickles drying in the sun, causing a dust storm in the neighbour’s yard spoiling their freshly washed laundry or roughing up their children. Someone was always knocking on our door with a complaint or two.

  Unlike mother, though, father was a gentleman. Only once did he get mad at me. It was the harvesting season and I sneaked into our neighbour’s pen and let their cattle loose. The livestock ruined their wheat fields. This act was almost sacrilegious, for crops are dearer to a farmer than his own life. Father gave me a sound beating and he stopped only when mother intervened. He was the only son of his parents and my grandfather had been the only son of his. A sole heir, an only son – it had been going on like this for more than five generations.

  Mother couldn’t conceive even after six years of their marriage. My father was under immense pressure to bring home another wife so that a son could continue the lineage and look after our fields. But he wouldn’t agree. He loved my mother deeply.

  One late evening, a sadhu came for alms. Smeared in ash, he was carrying a trident. Being an ardent devotee of Shiva himself, father honoured him and requested him to stay overnight. Strangely, the sadhu was fond of playing chess and carried a set in his bag. He invited my father to a game. A giant glass of sweetened milk, full of cashews, almonds and sultanas and, seasoned with saffron was placed next to him, which he would sip after each move. My mother fanned him reverently while they played chess. Father gave him a tough fight but lost eventually.

  ‘Shiva Shiva Shankara. Shiva Shiva Shankara,’ he bellowed in joy, and said, ‘I’m very happy. Ask for a boon.’

  My parents fell at his feet but said nothing.

  ‘You want a son,’ he said firmly, ‘don’t you?’

  Out of reverence, my parents spoke nothing and remained prostrated.

  ‘So be it,’ he said, and gave a pinch of holy ash to my mother. ‘Drink milk from this glass for the next forty days,’ he added, and handed his glass to my mother.

  Ten months later, I was born.

  ‘A healthy baby, thankfully, with no horns,’ my father would often joke as he’d tell me the story of my birth.

  The celebrations had gone on for days. My grandparents, parents, sixty cows, eight pairs of bulls, five dogs, two parrots, three cats and a mongoose, we all lived in a big house surrounded by acres and acres of our land. At a distance of about thirty metres were the staff quarters where fourteen families lived tending to our fields and cattle.

  Mother could not conceive any more children after me. Many villagers suggested that my father remarry so I could have a sibling. The child mortality rate was high during those times and nearly half the children would never make it beyond twelve or thirteen years of age. Just like my grandfather, though, my father never brought another woman home.

  ‘I would never do that to you,’ he would say to my mother.

  I was pampered by everyone, especially my father and our workers. Life was most amazing sitting under the peepul tree and eating delicious mangoes, peeling succulent sugarcane, swimming in the river and eating roasted corn. Sometimes I would just sit on one of the cows while it bathed in the river. But, above all, my favourite activity was to watch my father play chess and win. Even the village chief, who was an accomplished player too, rarely ever won a game against him.

  I would not let my father play until he agreed that he would play with me after finishing his game. Sometimes I would just fall asleep in his lap while his games dragged on. It was the most beautiful thing, Vasu. Especially in winters when they would play around a bonfire. How I loved the delirious smell of the freshly roasted peanuts, the crackling fire, and starry skies. I would cover myself with a blanket.

  I was eight years old and had just started going to the village school. Although I was old enough, my grandparents didn’t want me to go to school. In those days, parents preferred to look after their kids at home. The men would work in the fields while the women would tend to the cattle. It was a simple life.

  Every morning, mother would give me a glassful of hot milk mixed with jaggery, two big chapattis drenched in butter, and pickle. I loved jaggery. I always asked for some more on the side.

  ‘If I keep feeding you like this, it will become impossible to catch you,’ she would say lovingly. ‘You already climb up the tree after your pranks.’

  ‘Why, don’t you want your son to be strong?’ I would joke.

  ‘With all the trouble you cause, Nandu, I think you are strong enough.’

  I walked to school which was four kilometres away. I would take a big piece of jaggery to lick and chew on the way. Two of my favourite dogs, Kalu and Goblu, would follow me and see me off all the way to the school. When out of my mother’s sight, I would often let them lick the jaggery, especially towards the end. They loved licking it off my palms. Those selfish buggers never came to pick me up, though.

  Father would secretly give me money so I could buy sweetmeats during lunch. The same hawker would wait for me outside our school. On a bicycle, he would be carrying a wooden box with small compartments showcasing different sweetmeats. Mother strongly disapproved of wasting money like that, but father made sure I could buy sweetmeats every day.

  One day, it was drizzling outside. My mother fed me as usual, and asked me not to go to school since the weather was a little muggy. As usual, I paid no attention to her and insisted on going to school. I was in no mood to skip my candyfloss. The principal and the two teachers never bothered much with teaching. I even recall them playing cards and smoking beedis in the shade of the tree. All day, we would study for an hour at the most. Almost everyone’s parents were illiterate; so they had no way of knowing what was going on. And we thought even an hour was too much.

  Education didn’t have a major role in our lives anyway. We certainly didn’t need it to rear our cattle, to cook food, or to know what seeds to sow in which season. People didn’t need architects or masons; they built their own houses. The vocation of a plumber didn’t exist because there were no taps. We had wells. There was no electricity in our village. There was just one physician and he had never been to any school, ever. Yet, he would give herbal concoctions and extracts that could infuse life even in the dead, so to speak. There were no veterinary doctors, as our cattle rarely fell ill, and even when they did, the same physician who treated us would treat our cattle. There were no pesticides, weedicides or artificial fertilizers. All in all, school wasn’t the most important place for learning – it was for playing, though.

  That day started no differently. Kalu and Goblu saw me off to the school as usual. We were playing in the school courtyard. The cool breeze of the morning had turned into a violent windstorm. So, rather than studying under the tree – something that we did on most mornings and sunny winter days – our teachers called us into the room.

  Bhiku, one of the workers in the village, came to get me. I couldn’t say what time it was because we didn’t have any clocks in the school. Only the teachers had wrist watches. He whispered to my class teacher, who called out my name. I stood up. ‘Pack your bag and go home,’ he said. I didn’t think much of it. Bhiku rushed to close my inkpot, and kept my slate and pen in my bag. Lifting me in his arms, he dashed to his bicycle. He sat me on the front bar and pedalled fast and hard.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  He wouldn’t say a word.

  ‘Speak up, Bhiku,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. They just want you at home.’

  As soon as we neared the edge of our land, he haphazardly left his bike under the tree, lifted me in his arms again and ran to the house. As we w
ent through the fields, I could see my home at a distance. It looked as if a number of people were visiting. A few steps forward and I could hear wailing. It was common for women to come and wail loudly upon anyone’s death in the village. My heart pounded.

  I hope I haven’t lost grandfather or grandmother; they were perfectly fine when I left for school in the morning.

  I tugged hard at his shirt, ‘Tell me, what happened?’

  The sound of wailing was growing louder as we got closer. The whole village was there. As soon as I entered, my father took me from Bhiku’s arms. I remember feeling scared and nervous. I looked around. I just wanted to make sure both my grandparents were okay. I saw my grandfather sitting with other men. Then I looked in the direction where all the women were sitting, and there she was, safe and sound, my grandmother. She was wailing too. I suddenly felt a deep hollow in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Where’s mother?’ I tilted my head back a little to look at my father who was holding me tightly in his arms while I was looking over his shoulder.

  He looked at me, ran his hand through my hair and face, and hugged me tightly again.

  ‘Where is she?’ I shouted.

  He didn’t answer. Just then, next to where grandmother was sitting, I saw a body lying on the floor at a distance. It was my mother, covered with a white cloth till her neck.

  I tried to push myself away from my father and started beating his chest with my fists. ‘Let me go, let me go, put me down.’

  He put me down. I ran towards her and threw my arms around her.

  Her body was stiff and cold, her face blue.

  When I insisted on knowing what happened, they told me that she died of a snake bite in the farm.

  Even today, I still I think that had I not gone to school that day, perhaps none of this would have happened. Because whenever I was home, she would always be busy looking after me and would never get the time to do much else. Had I been home, she would have sent one of the workers to the fields instead of going there herself. She would have lived.

  I’m seventy-five now and I still miss her. Badly.

  My father never remarried, but he wanted me betrothed as soon as I turned fourteen. I was drawn to chess, though. So I was able to postpone the event. But finally, at twenty, I was married to a beautiful girl four years younger to me. Her name was Uma Devi. She was a stark contrast to my mother, mostly quiet and always shy. She took care of my father, my grandparents and me. I got her addicted to cola, but she would never drink it in front of my father or grandparents, but only in our room. She had soft brown eyes, and long hair that fell to her knees. Uma’s small round face was as beautiful as it was smooth.

  She was my lucky charm, Vasu. From the moment she stepped into our house, I progressed rapidly. Winning one tournament after the other, setting new records, scaling new heights, the chess world began to take note of me. I was mostly out playing tournaments and would be gone for long. Whether I played a tournament in another city or country, I almost always brought her a gift. She had no requirements. Whether I got her a plain sari or a silver ring, she was happy with anything. Happier still was she to see me.

  Sometimes…often, in fact, sitting next to an oil lamp, I would simply play practice games late into the night. In villages, people sleep early because they have to wake up at dawn and there’s no time during the day to rest. But she would remain awake for as long as I was up even though she knew nothing about chess herself. Whenever I asked her to go to sleep, she would shake her head and tell me that she didn’t want to waste a moment even blinking when I was around.

  (Master’s eyes held a spark as he spoke of his wife, as if he were living it right then. There was an eagerness in his speech, a glow on his face. His hands were animated. He was no longer stooping in his chair but leaning forward to ensure that I wouldn’t miss a word. I couldn’t recall the last time he had spoken about anyone or anything as excitedly. Not even chess.)

  But I was so engrossed in playing chess and winning tournaments that I didn’t really spend any time with her. I regret it to this day, Vasu. She just stood by me like a rock, whereas I never took her to any pilgrimage, nor to the village fair. I never sat down and had a meal with her. She would serve me hot food, fresh chapattis, and I would just start pushing pawns immediately after my dinner. She had no friends or anyone of her age group in our family. There was only so much she could share with the female workers in the field. Yet, she never complained, nor did she say a word. I wish she had complained and demanded me for things that made her happy. I wouldn’t have been so blind to life then.

  She would wait patiently for me while I was overseas or out of town. Upon my return, she would always wait till I was well rested and well fed before telling me all that happened in the village in my absence. I would busy myself analysing my games from the tournament while she would keep on chatting. She knew that I was barely listening, but it didn’t matter to her.

  I got my GM title when I was twenty-three. As—

  (‘Wow! You are a GM!’ I couldn’t control my surprise. But he continued in his matter-of-fact tone.)

  As it had been with my mother, Uma too wasn’t able to conceive even after six years of our marriage. I got the same suggestions from others that my father had got – marry another woman. I once joked with Uma, asking her what if I brought a second wife.

  ‘What second? Third,’ she said. ‘I’m the second wife.’

  I looked at her, intrigued.

  ‘Chess is your first wife,’ she added.

  And we both laughed.

  ‘But will you, really?’ she asked me in a sombre tone, lowering her head.

  ‘Never, Uma,’ I said. ‘You are the first and last woman in my life.’

  A few more years passed and I turned twenty-seven. One day, I returned from an international tournament that I had lost miserably. I was quite distressed, more than you are at losing in Linares, Vasu. Uma had that look in her eyes, something I can’t explain. Some day, you will know what I mean.

  ‘No chess tonight,’ she said after I had napped in the afternoon and had my dinner.

  ‘I must annotate my tournament games, Uma. I lost badly,’ I said, and opened up the chessboard.

  ‘You will be a father soon,’ she gently broke the news to me.

  I forgot all about chess, Vasu. I hadn’t felt as happy even when I got the GM title. I lifted her in my arms and danced in joy.

  ‘Careful, careful,’ she said.

  I put her down on the bed.

  ‘Promise me one thing,’ she said. ‘Be it a boy or a girl, you’ll make our child a world chess champion.’

  ‘You, Uma’ I exclaimed. ‘You are saying this?’

  I would like our child to be a genius like you.

  During her pregnancy, in the third month, my grandfather passed away. Grandmother felt that the child in the womb had brought bad luck, and so she consulted some astrologers and tantriks. One of the astrologers told her to immerse the horns of a goat in the Ganges. This would set things right, he said. The child would be very lucky for the mother but portentous for me, the father. Only the horns of a goat could save us, he reiterated.

  ‘I don’t want this child,’ Uma said to me after hearing of the prophecy. ‘Anyone who harms you has no place in my life.’

  It took a great deal of talking to placate her. I reminded her that the astrologer had said that if we did as he said, all would be well. Granny went ahead with the remedy as prescribed by the astrologer but, in a bizarre accident, slipped and, before anyone could do anything, she was swept away by the strong current. The horns of a goat couldn’t save her.

  Uma became even more paranoid. She would not let me step out. I told her that God was greater than any astrologer, but she wouldn’t stop worrying. The environment at home became tense and sad. Nevertheless, we were desperately waiting for the child now, especially my fa
ther and I. Both of us wanted a girl, but Uma wanted a boy. It had been very long since we had had any good news at all. The world championship was fast approaching too.

  I had already missed a couple of major tournaments because Uma wouldn’t let me leave the village. But there was no way I was going to miss playing the world championships. It was after decades of hard work that I had qualified to play for the ultimate title. FIDE, the current governing chess body, had little influence at the time. My opponent was directly decided upon recommendation by chess veterans based on our rankings. It was going to be with Alekhine.

  (‘Alekhine?’ I shouted. ‘The Alexander Alekhine?’

  Master nodded.

  ‘You’ve seen him in flesh and blood?’

  ‘I beat him, Vasu.’

  ‘Master!’ I jumped up.

  ‘But it wasn’t worth it,’ he said in his solemn voice. Unmoved, he continued as if it wasn’t Alekhine but a student he’d defeated.)

  Some more months passed and I was all set to leave.

  ‘Trust my sixth sense,’ Uma said to me. ‘Please don’t go.

  There’s no one around. The baby will be born any day.’

  ‘Uma,’ I said, ‘you are worrying about nothing. It’s only the beginning of the seventh month and I’ll be back in the eighth. Your delivery is almost three months away.’

  ‘I don’t want you to travel,’ she said. ‘The astrologer had said the child is not good for you.’

  ‘I’ve to play Alekhine, Uma,’ I insisted. ‘The whole world will laugh at me if I abandon the match.’

  She began crying, but I had no intention of forgoing the championship. I consoled her somehow and left for Mumbai two days later. My ship was to leave for Leningrad from the Mumbai port.

  Between my practice sessions on the ship, I kept thinking about Uma and our soon-to-arrive child. I was feeling guilty about leaving her when she needed me the most. She had always been there for me. She had loved me with her heart and soul, but when it was my turn, I chose chess over her. I thought I would buy her a nice gift, a Russian fur coat. What a scene it would be if I took her to the village fair in a fur coat. No one would have even seen anything like that in the village. She would surely be shy to put it on, but I knew I’d be able to talk her into wearing it.