by Om Swami
‘We missed you at the retirement party,’ father said.
‘What’s going on, dad?’
‘Have something to eat, Vasu,’ mother interjected. ‘You must be tired.’
‘First tell me what’s going on. What have we bought?’
‘I’ll take your leave, Bhattji,’ Duggal uncle said and quickly got up. Adjusting the bulging bundles in his pockets, he walked out quickly.
‘There’s nothing to tell you, Vasu,’ father said.
‘First, let’s eat something,’ mother said in a hurry.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I shouted. ‘Just tell me what both of you are up to.’
I reached out to my father’s pocket to grab the pouch, but he pushed my hand away.
‘Vasu!’ he said. ‘It’s all sorted now.’
‘What’s sorted?’
They wouldn’t answer.
‘That’s it,’ I said, sitting down on the floor like I used to when I was a child. ‘I won’t eat or drink or get up from here till you tell me what’s going on.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Vasu!’ father prodded. ‘Get up.’
‘I swear I’m not budging till you tell me.’
He heaved a sigh.
‘We just got your mother’s jewellery back,’ father said. ‘We’d pawned it five years ago when we had to send you for Linares and other tournaments. I just got my provident fund money, so I used some of that to pay the remaining amount.’
I sat there, stunned. How come I hadn’t noticed how plain mother had looked at Varun’s wedding? Was I really so self- obsessed, so lost and engrossed in my own dreams? I had completely failed to see how, other than her mangalsutra and a nose pin, mother hadn’t worn any jewellery for the past five years. I felt dizzy. And now, my father had spent his lifetime’s savings – his provident fund – to get back something that should have never been given away in the first place. In five years, they must have returned at least double the amount. I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.
How they had shielded me, protected me, put up with me all these years! And what did I give them in return?
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I said. ‘I had my winnings saved up from the last few tournaments. I could have chipped in.’
‘Vasu,’ mother said, ‘don’t we know how much books, travel and tournaments cost?’
‘Besides,’ father added, ‘parents earn for their children, Vasu.’ ‘But you spent your lifetime’s savings on me!’ I felt like crying, washing their feet with my tears. All this while, so much had been going on right under my nose. But I had been too busy rushing in and out of the house for one tournament or the other, too busy to notice how they had been watching every penny. The GM title had come at the cost of their sacrifices.
In the last five years, I had come to believe that the new Vasu was different from the Vasu who had lost at Linares. But nothing had really changed. My parents had continued making sacrifices while I had been consumed by my need to excel. I was the same selfish Vasu, only older and much more confident, with a GM title to my name. Tears rolled down the corner of my eyes.
I turned my face away, but father turned me around by the shoulders and hugged me tight. I could hear his heartbeat. His body was not as stout as it used to be when I was a child, as if telling me that it no longer possessed the strength it once had. Over nine years had passed since I last hugged him. The last time was when he had allowed me to pursue chess with my master.
In the last nine years, I had hugged Rea countless times, but not my own father. The man who silently put up with all my nonsense, the one person who provided for me – how come I had never told him how much I loved him?
The humiliation of losing to Andrei Kulikov hadn’t hit me as hard as the realization of my utter selfishness did now. No matter how many tournaments I won, I could not give them back the years that my selfishness had stolen away from them.
Seven months was all I had now to make them proud. The one thing for which they had toiled so hard was to make my dream come true. I realized in that split second that my dream was their dream too. Theirs and my master’s.
KNITTING WITH ANDREI
THE DATE FOR the first match was set. 1/9/1992. Twenty games to be played over the next thirty days. I felt like an athlete preparing for years to give his everything in that nine- second run at the Olympics racetrack. It wasn’t a you-win-some- you-lose-some situation; it was more like a you-win-now-or-you- will-be-eternally-forgotten situation. Everything I had worked for in the last nine years was at stake over the next thirty days.
With a minimum score of seven, whoever led with three points would be the world champion. Or whoever was ahead even by a point at the end of game twenty would be declared the winner, whichever occurred first. If the defending champion, Kulikov, and I, the challenger, ended up on equal points, he would retain the title.
One point for a win, half point for a draw and zero for a loss.
I was determined that my wins would be more than my losses at the end of thirty days. Then again, Andrei too would have his heart and mind set on winning. Besides, in the battle of minds, in a game like chess, my determination didn’t mean much at the end of the day. I had no illusions about how towering was my goal, how lofty my dream.
The organizers had checked me into the Ritz Carlton at Battery Park in New York City, which was walking distance from the venue. It was by far the plushest hotel I had ever checked into. A private cab would pick me up at 4.30 p.m. every evening so I could be at the venue well in time. The game would start at 5 p.m. every day and could easily stretch past midnight.
‘Bless me so I may win, Master,’ I said over the phone. ‘Go for a draw, Vasu,’ he replied.
‘Draw?’
‘Andrei is an aggressive bull, Vasu,’ he said, ‘and draws will rattle him. Wait till he loses his patience.’
‘What about the theoretical novelties we had coined?’
‘No surprises early on. He’ll up his game by several notches then. We go all out in the last eight games. Remember, Vasu,’ he added, ‘your patience will break Andrei more than your moves will.’ A pause, then he concluded: ‘Don’t be the eager pawn. Be the graceful emperor.’
The venue was an ultra-quiet room on the 107th floor of the South Tower of World Trade Centre in Downtown Manhattan. It almost felt like I was up in the sky. If not for the absence of engine noise or the opulent living space, I might even have forgotten that I was not looking down at the tiny figurines and cars from an airplane but from a room. Numerous skyscrapers were visible, some more lit than others. Most of them had skeleton lighting on. Every now and then, you could see an ambulance or a police car zipping through the streets. You could only see the flashing beacons and never hear a siren from that height. In any case, the room was soundproof.
The carpet was plush and cushiony, the glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling. There were two attached washrooms, two couches, two chairs and a table. There was a little red button on the table to call the referee when needed. Two nameplates, our country flags, chess sheets with pencils and a chess clock rested on that table. Plus, there was the chessboard, of course. A live broadcast would televise the event throughout the world. Having said that, there isn’t much to watch live in a chess game. But I suppose if we have fishing enthusiasts who patiently sit and wait for hours before the rod feels heavy, it’s no surprise we have chess evangelists who want to see the game unfold before their very eyes.
The boardroom of a multi-billion-dollar financial institution had been provided for the world championship match. This was where a human (that was me) and a robot would compete. Really, he should have been named Android, for he looked more robot than a human to me. His hair slicked back from his forehead gave him a Nordic look. His charcoal-grey suit was fitted to perfection, tailored to his slim physique.
Of course, I didn’t lose sight of
the fact that behind this well- groomed look was an eccentric chess player of extraordinary calibre, someone who couldn’t care less about what he wore.
The old Andrei Kulikov was known to play in tees and jeans, and to show up for the most important games with an unshaven face and ruffled hair. His sponsor, a large software company, had nearly gone to court, forcing Andrei to dress formally.
Other than that, nothing had changed about him in the last four years except his rating and ranking, both of which had gone up significantly. A world No. 1, the current world champion, with the highest-ever ELO rating of 2920; the only giveaway that he was not an alien or a robot chiselled to perfection were his fingernails. Despite the well-manicured hand his finger nails seemed to be embedded deep into the skin. Oh well, maybe he had bitten more than he could chew.
His lack of courtesy was as consistent as his play had been over the years. Once again, during the first match, he extended a limp hand without looking at me. I felt as if I were holding a thawed piece of chicken leg.
He might be the current world champion, but I didn’t get here twiddling my thumbs over a chessboard either. Kulikov’s coldness gave me a strange strength this time. I found it more amusing than intimidating. He seemed like a stunned automaton, as inanimate as any pawn on the board. I wondered if he remembered me from Linares.
Kulikov was to open with white.
‘Ready?’ The referee said and, starting the clock, walked away into the next room. There would be no one else in the room other than Kulikov and I.
Kulikov made his move before the referee even stepped out of our room. A standard king’s pawn opening.
For a moment, my heart fluttered, stomach churned and the hair on my hands stood on end. This was the world championship. Against Andrei Kulikov. Out of hundreds and thousands of players in the world, I alone had made it here. This was the tournament after which you would either be the beloved world champion or the famous loser. I shook off all thoughts and looked at the chessboard, and just like that my mind was yoked to it.
Everything went by the book for the first twenty moves and then my robot friend offered an exchange of knights. If I didn’t go for the exchange, he could take my bishop for his knight, gaining a slight material advantage. And if I opted for the exchange, my knight in play would be gone, giving him a space advantage – more room to play. Yet, the exchange would benefit me because he would end up with doubled pawns on e-file, an important centre column. This was unusual because, clearly, doubled pawns or two pawns on the same file create a weakness. No GM, especially a world champion, could make that dumb a move. Surely he couldn’t possibly think that I would let him take my bishop. Unlike the queen move at Linares, this was not something he could take back. Where was the trap? Why did he throw me this bait? Why would he weaken his position? What was he thinking? I thought hard. For thirty minutes, without blinking. I couldn’t believe he had made that error.
I went for the exchange and looked him in the eye. He should know I had picked up on his mistake.
Kulikov made the next five moves at lightning speed, as if he were playing rapid chess at the local club and not a world championship match. He had it all worked out. The gravity of my own mistake only hit me a little later when I was down by a pawn with an exposed centre seized by his bishops. Then, he castled on the queen side, which was now an impregnable fortress with a three-base pawn chain, and went all out to mate my king.
The game wrapped up on the forty-eighth move. I resigned before he announced checkmate.
The result?
Andrei Kulikov: 1. Vasu Bhatt: 0.
‘Master, he knocked my socks off!’ I called and reported the result.
‘Calm down, Vasu. Walk me through your moves.’
We both set up chessboards at our end.
As soon as we got to the twentieth move and Master heard me take that knight, he exclaimed, ‘That’s a blunder, son!’
‘But his pawns would be doubled!’ I brought his attention to this important point.
He continued without asking me about my next move, ‘Doubling of pawns is a small price to pay here for opening the f-file for attack. He’ll line up his bishops on b2 and c3, then castle his king on the queen-side, double his rooks on f, and end up with a strong pawn chain which he’ll soon open to attack your weak f7 and h7. This will force you to give up a pawn and retreat your minor pieces. You’ll lose on tempo and material. Another nine moves, and your queen will be cornered protecting the king, while his would be dancing behind his rooks.’
‘That’s exactly what he did, Master!’
‘Listen, Vasu,’ he said, ‘don’t forget, even for a moment, that you are playing the world championship. Don’t go for easy victories and draws. You can only beat him with caution and patience. When anything looks too good to be true, it probably is.’
‘Should I go for one of our novelties tomorrow?’
‘No. Stick to our plan. Don’t worry. He’ll come around. He’ll err. Every human does.’
‘Do you think I still have a chance?’
‘Vasu!’ he chuckled. ‘We’ve only just started. No one’s invincible. We’ll leave him gasping for breath from Game 13.’
Master patiently went through the rest of the game, identifying areas where I could have salvaged the situation. It was a long phone call.
I wrote down whatever I could recall from our conversation and pasted it on the mirror in my washroom. I spent the next few hours playing practice games.
The next day, and at every subsequent game, I extended a flaccid hand too. We were merely touching hands to complete the formality of a handshake. That automaton though, showed no reaction at my change of demeanour. This went on for the next eight games that were drawn without any major drama. At the end of nine games, the score was 5–4.
We were getting used to each other. I was even beginning to develop a slight affinity with him. I would jump out of bed each morning with Andrei’s cold fish of a face flashing in front of my eyes and eagerly go through practice throughout the day to meet him, to mate him in the evening.
I would always call Master before leaving for my games and, in every phone call, he would remind me to be extremely patient and go for closed games that are clogged in the centre and require mind-numbing tactical play.
‘Shouldn’t I take more risks?’ I asked.
‘Wait and watch, Vasu, he’ll make a blunder. He will.’
‘But he doesn’t show any reaction at all! He has no fear.’
Master laughed. ‘He may not show it, but he does have fear. Everyone does. Fear of loss. And we’ll exploit it at the right time.’
GAME 10.
Score at the end of the game. Andrei: 5; Vasu: 5.
Exactly as Master had predicted, Andrei faltered. I couldn’t be sure if he had gone for a reckless line of variation because of impatience, complacency or overconfidence, but whatever it was, I registered my first victory against the current world champion, Andrei Kulikov.
And the wonder of all wonders, my master had been by my side all this while. Every time I needed to speak to him on the phone, he was available. It was a double victory.
‘Master!’ I screamed over the phone. ‘I won! I won!’
‘Vasu,’ he said plainly, ‘we have to be ultra-careful now. He’ll come back with a vengeance. He’s going to up the stakes. Play by the book.’
Game 11.
I opened with white and played exactly as Master had told me. The result was a predictable draw.
The scoreboard read: Andrei: 5.5; Vasu: 5.5.
Game 12.
Today, the chess robot walked into the room more like a human. His eyes were a bit red, as if he had been up all night. He wasn’t walking like Michael Jackson taking the centre stage, but more like a Rottweiler herding sheep – with a certain uncertainty. What really gave away his change in temperament, thoug
h, was the way he shook hands. His grip was firm. I kept mine limp. For the first time in fifteen days, he looked me in the eye.
To my surprise, although not completely, Kulikov chose an aggressive and risky opening. Sicilian Dragon. In the past fifty years, no GM had played this opening in any tournament, let alone in a world championship. There was very little research material on it. I didn’t know many lines of variations on this. I would have loved to play by the book, but the truth was, books had very little to say about this opening. I didn’t think anyone in their sane mind would even consider the Sicilian Dragon. One tiny miscalculation on either side would be enough to lose a point.
The risky opening paid off for Andrei. He smothered me in thirty-two moves. Today was the first time that I understood why he was called the chess missile. It was a clinical attack of ruthless precision. Yet, I was okay. Not afraid or down. I was still itching to show him what I had up my sleeves. If not for Master’s instructions to play safe for the first twelve games, I would have gone for it already. All things aside, the score stood at 6.5–5.5.
I called Master from my room, but he didn’t pick up the phone. I dialled a second time, but there was no reply. I didn’t get mad. After all, Master was an old man. He was probably in the washroom, or had stepped out to get veggies from the street vendor. Besides, it wasn’t like I had any exciting news to report. I waited for about fifteen minutes and called again. No reply.
I called yet again, another fifteen minutes later. No reply again. This was a bit worrying. It was nearly midnight in New York and I wanted to catch up on my sleep, but I didn’t want to hit the sack without speaking to Master.
While waiting for his call, I picked up the day’s sheet to see how I could have handled the game differently. At least ten possibilities emerged immediately upon a brief examination. I could have chosen better replies to Sicilian Dragon. A couple of hours passed as I examined multiple lines of variations. I could have easily parried his attack. The phone rang.
