by Om Swami
It was an exhilarating experience to be recognized on the world stage for all the sacrifices everyone in my life and I had made. I wished they were there with me. I was handed the World Cup, a gleaming, shiny beauty I could see my own reflection in. I gripped it tightly and planted a kiss on it. I never told this to Rea, but kissing the cup was a feeling like no other. US $10,00,000 – that was my prize money. It was fifty times more than the first prize I’d won at the last international tournament.
‘How does it feel to be the next world champion?’ a journalist asked me.
This was a question I had dreamed of being asked for nine long years. All the fun I had missed out on, the effort I put in, all the defeats I faced, struggles I went through – the sole objective of it all was that one day I would be on stage, with many people peeking through their cameras, some holding voice recorders in their hands, some taking notes, when someone would get up, point his pen at me and ask me this question.
I cleared my throat.
‘Imagine that you spend years and years of your life digging a tunnel. While eating, sleeping, bathing, resting, working, that’s all you think about – your tunnel. That’s all you work on. Your tunnel becomes your life. Your friends, peers and others keep excelling in life, they continue to flourish and progress, while you are chiselling away, one blow at a time, stuck in that tunnel. Your friends move into new houses and buy bigger cars, while you continue to pinch pennies.
‘You remain soiled, hungry, lacking, even poor, but you don’t give up because you believe in your dream. You only have hope that one day you’ll see the other end of this tunnel, but you can’t be sure. You cry, you laugh, you struggle, resist, battle, you feel depressed at times, but you keep pushing, and pushing, and then one day your blow has a different sound. It’s not as full, you feel just a thin layer separating you from the outside. Your heart throbs in anticipation. You hit harder and the hammer- head goes through.
‘And then, light stares at you. Right in your eyes. The light you have been waiting for. A gust of fragrant wind from outside cools your sweaty brows. You take a deep breath and you smell victory. It feels unreal, unbelievable, incredible. You pinch yourself to make sure you aren’t dreaming. And, for once, your reality is better than your wildest dreams. That’s how I feel right now.’
There was loud applause after a long spell of silence. It was overwhelming to see so many strangers rejoice at my success.
‘We noticed that your style of play in the last eight games was markedly different from anything you have ever played till date,’ a veteran chess reporter said. ‘What would you say about that?’
‘It was the plan. My master taught me four unconventional openings with many lines of defence exclusively for this tournament—’
‘We’ve never heard about your coach before!’ a senior female reporter from the New York Times said, cutting in. ‘What’s his name?’
I went quiet. The world should know that my master is not just anybody but the greatest genius ever known to the chess world. Many seconds ticked by and I kept quiet. Almost for a minute.
‘Mr Bhatt, what’s hi—’
‘Nandan Nath Upadhyaya.’ I leaned forward and spoke softly into the mike.
Suddenly, the room was abuzz with whispers and chatter. The FIDE chairman got up from his seat and looked at me. ‘The Nandan Nath Upadhyaya? Of 1938 fame?’ he said. ‘Yes. The one and only.’
A slip was pushed out to me by Richard Cook, which read: ‘US$50,00,000. Our final offer.’
‘Is he here, your master?’ another one said. ‘Can he come on the stage?’
‘He’s a bit of a recluse. That would be an understatement, actually.’ I chuckled.
‘We heard GEM has signed an exclusive sponsorship deal with you,’ a reporter said. ‘Would you like to share the details?’
I looked at Murphy James and Richard Cook and smiled.
‘We are in advanced negotiations at this stage,’ I said, adding jokingly, ‘they are offering me more than I can handle.’
‘Mr Bhatt,’ a young reporter asked, ‘when did you take up chess?’
‘After I failed in grade two in school.’
The whole house roared with laughter.
For the next one hour, they asked me all sorts of questions, ranging from how I met my master to how eating broccoli helped chess players perform better.
I went straight to my room and called home. I couldn’t wait to hear their excited voices. They already knew. Varun told me over the phone that a pack of reporters from leading dailies had reached my home and were currently sitting in my living room, having chai-pakora while interviewing my parents and quizzing them about the whereabouts of Nandan Nath Upadhyaya.
Father said that Master had given him his contact details, and agreed that we would immediately leave for his village upon my arrival. I felt relieved and light beyond words. Many bad thoughts had crossed my mind. Thank God there was no truth to them. I was finally going to see my master and share our success.
I turned down all invitations for exhibition games and media interviews, and took the next flight to India. To see Nandan Nath Upadhyaya.
Many reporters were already waiting for me at Delhi airport. I answered a few questions briefly and, tearing through them, rushed to my taxi. It’s only when I got closer to home that I realized that I hadn’t bought any gifts for anyone. Master was all I had thought about.
I knew they would have made great preparations at home for a grand celebration, but I was in no mood to do anything without Master. Varun and Mira would be there. Rea would be waiting too. But what fun would it be without Master? He didn’t even know how his Vasu had played the last game to win the championship. The thing on top of my priority list was to see his reaction when I showed him how I trampled Andrei Kulikov. What would he say when I told him about the exclusive sponsorship offer? I hoped, wished and prayed that his impenetrable mask of indifference would slip off just this one time at least. The dream we had together, the dream he had dreamed with his wife had now been made real.
Mother came running outside as soon as my taxi reached home. She put some mustard oil at the entrance to protect me from the evil eye. Father joined her soon after along with Varun and Mira. A couple of reporters were waiting outside my home and they promptly took pictures. Varun managed to distract them as they approached me to ask questions.
‘Master’s not back yet, right?’ I asked my father as soon as I set eyes on.
He just shook his head.
Mother had baked a small cake. Her smile and the cake had one thing in common – both looked down and beaten.
What’s going on? Is this how we’ll celebrate this victory? My World Championship?
‘We’ll leave for Master’s village in the morning. Let’s have dinner now,’ mother said.
‘Yes, Vasu,’ father said. ‘You must be tired and hungry.’
Varun seemed distant; Mira too. She had left her daughters behind with her husband. Something was amiss and I couldn’t quite figure out what.
‘Am I missing something?’ I asked. ‘You guys don’t seem very happy at my victory.’
‘No, Vasu,’ mother came running and cupped my face. ‘We are over the moon.’
‘Of course, I just mean—’
‘Let’s have dinner first.’
I was quick to catch that subtle nuance.
‘First? You mean there’s something.’
‘No, Vasu, there’s—’
‘There’s something you should know, Vasu,’ father intervened.
A hush fell over the place. Mother was shaking her head and looking at father, asking him to wait until later.
‘Your master is no more.’
‘No more?’ I said collapsing into my chair. ‘But I just won the championship for him!’
Father came close and held me by my shoulder, bu
t I gently shrugged him off.
No more. Master was no more.
Never to return.
Nandan Nath Upadhyaya. Gone.
No tears trickled down. I didn’t feel queasy nor sick.
‘His body?’
‘He was cremated in the hospital crematorium as per his will.’
‘Hospital?’
‘Master had been sick for many years, Vasu,’ father said, pulling up a bit closer. He had lung cancer and had been admitted to hospital on numerous occasions. It seems every time he went to the village, he was actually in the hospital.’
That master strategist had it all worked out. I hated him. I should have known that the secretive genius would depart the way he had lived – quietly. He always had the last word anyway.
Why didn’t he tell me? He could have! He should have!
‘I must go to Master’s home right away, father.’
‘We can’t, Vasu.’
‘What do you mean we can’t?’ I almost shouted at him.
‘He left the will with his lawyer, along with the house keys. It was his lawyer who informed us of his death.’ He added that a meeting was already scheduled the following morning.
I walked into my room without another word. It was a still night. Like wet wood burns slowly, producing more smoke than heat, my heart was smouldering inside. I wished to see Master at least once. Just once. I wished I could share one cola with him, our last bubbly.
I opened my old chess notes where Master had scribbled many things in his scrawny handwriting. I stroked the letters as if they somehow allowed me to reach out and touch him. I looked at the phone in the room, wishing he would just call asking me how I fared in the championship. Or that he would just show up, gently ringing the bell and I would rush out to take his bicycle from him and park it properly. Or he would be kind enough to lash out at me for losing the penultimate game in the championship, or for not signing the big sponsorship deal. Who knew what he would do or how he would react.
There were two other people waiting at the lawyer’s office in the morning. One of them was not unknown to us.
‘This is Dr D’Souza, chief neurosurgeon and a trustee at St. John’s hospital,’ the lawyer said, ‘and he is Mr Singh, chairman of the Department of Language and Arts, and a government- appointed trustee of St. John’s hospital.’
I couldn’t really see the connection. What were the trustees of a hospital doing here?
‘There’s a letter Mr Anand Sharma left for you.’
The lawyer gave me an envelope.
Finally, something from my master. My beloved master.
It was dated a week before his death.
My dear Vasu, my son,
When you read this letter, I’ll be no more. I know you have won the championship. And what I also know is that ‘Vasu, the World Champion’ will mourn my loss for a long time. He’ll regret the last bottle of cola that he couldn’t share with his master to celebrate his victory.
Everyone has to die one day, Vasu. How one dies is immaterial. What’s more important is how one lives. I’m at peace as I write to you, for I’ve made good on my promise to Uma.
Success holds in itself a unique spark that only a rare few have. I saw that spark in you nine years ago. I always knew you were destined to be a champion. It couldn’t be any other way for my son.
Some stuff I’m leaving behind for you. Start a chess school. I’m proud of you. Always have been.
Master
A tear trickled down my cheeks, which I quickly wiped away. ‘Mr Anand Sharma has bequeathed all his assets – including 90 acres of land in his native village and his house – in your name, along with a responsibility,’ the lawyer told me.
I was silent.
‘Mr Bhatt,’ he continued. ‘Mr Sharma was the biggest donor and chief trustee of St. John’s hospital. He has nominated you in his place. Mr Singh and Dr D’Souza are here to authorize your appointment.’
‘We are honoured to have you aboard, Mr Bhatt,’ they said. ‘Mr Anand Sharma always spoke very highly of you.’
‘Nandan Nath Upadhyaya.’
‘Sorry?’ they mumbled.
‘Master was Nandan Nath Upadhyaya. World chess champion. Not Anand Sharma.’
They looked at me blankly, as if I were speaking in Mandarin. I must have looked a little crazed to them, but it didn’t matter.
‘Can I please have his house keys?’
The lawyer took my signature at a few places to complete the legal formalities. I told father that I wanted to go and spend a few hours at Master’s on my own.
The hustle-bustle outside his home, in the street, was still the same, as if nothing had happened. Some children were playing cricket, a vegetable hawker was passing through, Bollywood songs were blaring loudly on someone’s TV. A neighbour was dumping garbage from the first floor onto the street.
I stood outside Master’s home. My hand automatically reached out to the doorbell. That had been my ritual for the last nine years. Master might just come out. I let a few minutes pass. I could feel my lower lip trembling. I unlocked the door and bolted it behind me. I collected the newspapers lying in the lobby from the last few days, took them inside, and flung them on the couch.
The house had a musty smell. Of a closed house, of Master’s house, of Master. Like the blanket of night that covers the buzz of the day, a strange shroud of peace made me mushy inside.
I walked to the fridge and opened two bottles of cola. I put one next to his chair and one on my side. And then I waited because it felt like he would just emerge from the other room or the washroom and sit in his chair. I wished it were all just a set-up to surprise me. But no one came and sat down to enjoy his cola with me. I was mad at Master. I waited nine years to make him proud and he couldn’t wait nine days.
As I sat on the floor, next to his rocking chair, tears began rolling down. Master liked everything in its place. The mess of newspapers I had just created was staring at me. I waited for Master to just chastise me for leaving them like that. But he didn’t. I got up to organize and stack the newspapers, and a pamphlet fell out of one of them. It was an invitation to a local event for a token entry fee. It reminded me of Master even more.
I opened the cupboard in his bedroom. His clothes, old but clean, were hanging immaculately. I took my clothes off and put his on. Master was lean but I was leaner. His shirt was a little loose, but it didn’t matter much as one of his sweaters fit me alright. It was a hand-knit sweater, neatly patched at two places. I took one of his mufflers and, wrapping it around my head and neck, pulled it slightly over my chin. I could feel his presence around me.
I saw myself in the mirror and a smile broke out on my face. With a stubble of two days and wearing Master’s clothes, I looked like I could have been a relative, maybe even his son. I took out his bicycle, checked the air pressure and cleaned the seat with a tiny piece of cloth Master always hid just under the seat. Locking the door, I glanced at the address on the pamphlet and rode down to the venue. A school. It was the weekend, and many children had gathered around two chess players having a casual game during the tournament break. I quietly stood there, next to the talkative and eager kids.
Modern children, dressed nicely.
It was an interesting game. They leaned forward to study the chessboard closely.
‘Paidal chalao,’ I said.
The children burst into laughter. Tears welled up in my eyes, remembering every tiny detail of the morning I had met my master nine years ago.
I looked at their faces, searching for an impatient pair of eyes.
Eyes with a spark in them.
his book with friends
