The Last Gambit

by Om Swami

  ‘Soon your Mr Right will dig that smile, Mira,’ I said to cheer her up, ‘and whisk you away from us in no time.’

  ‘Oh, Vasu,’ she said irritably, ‘it’s not funny.’

  Finally, after nearly ten months of frantic searching, matching and smiling, she found the love of her life, so to speak – Mohan Vasisht, an accountant who worked in the same department as her. The match was suggested by Ganju uncle whose wife’s boss, a chartered account, was friends with Mohan. His parents said they wanted absolutely nothing in dowry. They just wanted to throw a big party, a nice reception, and have us foot the bill. How generous of them, especially when the guest list had only a few hundred people on it.

  The situation had become a little tense, but eventually my parents thought that the match was too good to let go, so they agreed to the condition. Half of dad’s provident fund was spent in funding the wedding. The other half in paying for Varun’s tuition fee. Plus, chess wasn’t cheap. Tournament fees, travelling to various locations, lodging, all required chips. On most occasions, I would recover the costs by winning the prize money, but the rest of the time, it really pinched to be asking dad for money.

  After Mira’s wedding, my parents were greatly relieved, for a major milestone had been achieved. Even though they stretched themselves financially, at least Mira was married to a good family. What they were little prepared for, however, was a ton of other expenses in the first year after the wedding. These were the first festivals.

  On the first Holi, the first Diwali, the first karva-chauth, their first anniversary, Mohan’s first birthday (as if he was just born), on everyone’s birthday and anniversary in Mira’s in-laws’ family, they expected my parents to give them gifts and other ‘tokens of love’. It was a New Year’s day and Varun was there as well. Everyone was home, including Mira’s in-laws.

  ‘I feel really bad, Vasu,’ she said. ‘I don’t like that our parents have to keep spending on hosting my in-laws.’

  ‘If you won’t tell them, Mira,’ I said, ‘they’ll keep milking us.’ ‘You think I should open my mouth?’

  ‘Why, haven’t our parents made us strong enough to speak our mind?’

  ‘What good is working for the Department of Language and Arts, Mira,’ Varun said, ‘if you can’t artfully send the message across?’

  ‘Artfully, huh?’ she said. ‘I’ll speak to Mohan.’

  ‘Now that’s like a good girl!’ Varun pulled her leg. ‘Tell our lovely Mohanji to stop stealing butter like Krishna.’

  ‘Mohan is a nice guy, Varun,’ Mira retorted instantly.

  ‘Tell him to be a good boy instead and buy whatever his parents need.’

  Mira merely rolled her eyes but after that day she put her foot down, much to the chagrin of her in-laws, and forbade our parents from spending on gifts and hosting them during every small and big occasion in the calendar.

  Time passed slowly after Mira’s wedding. Varun graduated and got a job in the same city as his college. Two years of struggle and he was more serious and mature than ever before. Mira got busier with her new family. It would just be the four of us at home – our parents, Muffin and I. Dad’s temples and sideburns had a lot of grey hair now. Fine lines had appeared on mother’s face. Yet, there was no difference in the way I was treated at home. She worried about my diet vocally, and he about my career, but quietly.

  At nineteen years of age – the year was 1989 – I looked forward to going to the biggest chess tournament of the time: the Linares International Chess Tournament in Spain. Started just a few years earlier, it was fast emerging as the Wimbledon of chess. We applied for a passport, but the officer wouldn’t give it to me unless we gifted him a photograph of Mahatma Gandhi, the one that you find on a hundred rupee note. Dad said he would approach the officer’s boss but remained firm about not paying anything as bribe.

  I found the right opportunity to sneak in and quietly offered the man a junior Gandhi – fifty rupees. The passport was released within minutes.

  Of course, I lied to dad that the officer relented seeing that I was going to represent our country at a chess tournament. I just wanted to have my passport and get my visa without any drama. Lying and bribing wasn’t my style, but I couldn’t afford a delay when I was going to play in my first overseas tournament. And while the tournament was important for me, I was well aware that funding it wouldn’t be a breeze. Dad told me to focus on my game and not worry about finances. He had arrangements in place, he said.

  I returned home from Master’s one day to walk into a moment of uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t the usual quiet. There was something strange about it even though I couldn’t figure out what. Maybe it was because Duggal uncle, our family friend, who also happened to be the jeweller who had made all the gold jewellery for Mira’s wedding, had come by himself. Whenever he visited our home all these years, he had always been accompanied by his wife.

  They were having tea and Duggal uncle was carrying a bag. I sat down, curious, but Dad said that they required privacy for a while, and I went into my room. The visitor left after tea and mother was back in the kitchen preparing dinner. Dad came in to my room. He said he was proud of me that I would be playing in the Linares. He gave me a big lecture on how to stay away from strangers, keep my traveller’s cheques and passport safe. Dad asked me to carry emergency numbers with full contact information in my wallet at all times.

  ‘Tomorrow, we’ll pay the tournament fee and book your tickets,’ he said. ‘We require those documents for the Spanish visa.’

  ‘Why was Duggal uncle here?’

  ‘He just stopped by for a cup of tea.’

  ‘By himself?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What are you not telling me, dad? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Vasu!’ he said a bit gruffly. ‘Don’t read anything into the situation. There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘I was concerned, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t think about the expenses, Vasu,’ he said. ‘We’ve got it covered.’

  ‘But I didn’t mention money!’

  He brushed that aside and asked me to just focus on my practice and play the best I could. Then he went into the kitchen to help mother.

  For the first time, I felt that perhaps I ought to have acquired a proper degree and got a proper job. I could have played chess part-time. Like Mira, I would have been financially independent too. Like Varun, I would have also got a job upon graduation.

  I wouldn’t be hovering around like a desperate bumblebee over a dry flower then. While most parents of their age were planning for life after retirement, my dad was still running from pillar to post, arranging funds for me.

  This was the checkmate I hadn’t seen coming at all. The boat was midway now. There was no going back.

  Other than it being my first – and solo – overseas trip, the prize money at Linares was a big attraction. The first position would give me enough to not only cover my expenses but have a decent financial buffer for the next two years. It would ease my parents’ financial burdens too. This was my ticket to freedom. I dreamed on.

  I would buy a saree for mum and a pendant for Rea from my winnings. But I also knew that I was counting my chickens before the hen and cock even got together. Linares would be harder than anything I’d ever played. There would be more than a hundred GMs there, and IMs by the dozens. Yet, I had the right to dream. Don’t we all? Sometimes, that’s the only beautiful thing about life – our dreams.

  THE CHESS MISSILE

  ‘CROWS ARE CAWING, Vasu,’ mother had said when I was leaving for Linares. ‘Let a few minutes pass now before you leave. It’s an ill omen.’

  ‘These dumb crows can’t stop me from coming back a winner, mum,’ I said, dragging my suitcase out of the house.

  I clapped hard. A trio of crows perched on the terrace railing flew away frightened. I mooed loudly like a cow. My pan
icked mother cupped her mouth with both hands.

  ‘That should cancel the omen now,’ I said, making an innocent face.

  Mother forcefully fed me a spoon of yoghurt and sugar. I felt its cool texture tingling the inside of my mouth. She told me to be cautious and not trust any stranger. But above all, she reminded me that I must only focus on chess and not worry about anything else.

  ‘Don’t be down when you lose a game or two,’ she preached. ‘Losses lead to victories for those who don’t give up.’

  The flight to Linares was a plain affair since, between boarding and disembarking, I didn’t realize how time went by. I thought it would be a big deal but practice games and chess puzzles gobbled up my time. The plane landed safely at Linares. My luggage didn’t.

  I went from one corner of the airport to the other, and saw many suitcases indifferently going around in circles on luggage belts, all but mine. All my clothes were in the suitcase, but I wasn’t too worried about them. A chess player can easily survive on one set of clothes, smell like fish, look unkempt and dishevelled, and still be considered a genius. But my chess set, clock and strategy sheets – those I needed. My little Bajrang Bali was in there too.

  I spotted an airport official in a turban, a Sikh gentleman. Relieved, I ran towards him. The tall Sikh, however, greeted me not in Hindi or English but Spanish.

  ‘Luggage problem,’ I said in broken English, hoping that even if he didn’t understand English, at least he would know some words.

  ‘De la India?’ he said.

  I had no clue what he said but hearing the mention of India, I jumped with joy.

  ‘Yes, yes, India, India!’ I said.

  He chuckled softly and spoke to me in Punjabi with a Spanish accent. I could understand most of it because Punjabi was quite similar to Hindi. He made a few calls and assured me that my luggage would be delivered at my hotel in the next two days. He even gave me his personal phone number and told me to contact him in case of any problems.

  Two days to deliver my stuff? I regretted shooing the crows off our balcony. But were they done teaching me a lesson yet? At the hotel, the first man I saw in the lobby was Andrei Kulikov, the chess missile. He was given that epithet for his merciless and annihilating attacks that left his opponents gasping for breath. Andrei never played to draw and always went for the kill. My hopes of winning the tournament disappeared upon seeing him.

  He was sitting like a wax statue with a sort of Mona Lisa smile – I couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or mad. Or maybe God had only given him a straight line by way of lips. Andrei’s coach, a former world No. 1, sat opposite him. Two men, also in t-shirts bearing corporate logos, were scribbling something in notebooks. It was no secret that Andrei travelled with an entourage of his coach and two chess analysts at all times. They were his think-tank.

  I nearly went closer to check him out personally, maybe even shake his hand, but my heart was thumping – what if he just shooed me away?

  Every veteran in the chess world had predicted that he would be the next world champion. Andrei had an intimidating coldness about him. Not much was known about him apart from the ingenious attacks he had coined even in the most hopeless games. The famous Kulikov Bullet was named in his honour after he practically came back from the dead, checkmating the reigning world champion from a position that was as good as lost.

  Regardless of his victories and fame, Kulikov was a private man. Journalists dreaded interviewing him; he was curt and unfriendly, almost hostile.

  ‘It’s beyond your peanut-sized brain,’ he had said ending the last interview in one sentence when a reporter asked him about how he devised a strategy before every tournament.

  A man of very few words, and fewer gestures, he often refused to shake hands with the opponent at the end of the game. Was it arrogance or a lack of social skills, or both? Andrei’s impenetrable, expressionless mask of a face was discomforting, to say the least.

  Make him lose to someone else, Bajrang Bali, so I don’t have to face this monster.

  I checked in and made a couple of quick calls to my parents and Rea. I kept the calls brief because I wanted to speak at length with my master. Unlike Andrei, I didn’t have my coach with me to share my thoughts. At least, I could take heart by hearing his voice.

  Master picked up the phone at the first ring.

  ‘Master!’ I screamed in both elation and anxiety. ‘Guess whom I saw!’

  ‘Umm … Vasu,’ he said, ‘I was just stepping out.’ ‘I saw Andrei Kulikov. The Andrei Kulikov!’

  ‘That’s good, Vasu,’ he said as if he hadn’t heard me. ‘I’m going to my village for a few days.’

  ‘Oh. Can’t you postpone the visit?’ ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘How will I contact you?’

  ‘I’ll call you from there in the next couple of days.’

  ‘Do you promise?’ I reconfirmed. ‘I must speak to you so I know how to fight against Andrei.’

  ‘I will call you.’

  ‘I hope it doesn’t turn out like last time,’ I continued. ‘I must speak to you or I know I’ll lose.’

  ‘Vasu,’ he said. ‘Listen to your inner voice. I won’t be there forever.’

  ‘I don’t know about forever, but this time I must have your guidance. Please.’

  ‘I’ll definitely try to call you, Vasu. Got to go.’ And he hung up on me.

  Try? Just a few sentences ago, he’d promised he would call me and now he said he would try.

  I took some deep breaths and calmed myself down. I didn’t want to start this tournament on the wrong foot. In fact, the tournament didn’t turn out too badly at all. I started out really well and breezed through the first four rounds, as the Ganges murmuring gently in the spring. The fifth and the sixth I drew. I won the seventh game as easily as I lost the eighth and ninth. My rise and fall continued, but it was an exhilarating experience. I enjoyed each moment of testing my skills, matching my wits against my opponents’.

  Meanwhile, five days had passed and two things had not yet happened. Firstly, my luggage hadn’t arrived and the airlines couldn’t trace it. Secondly, and worse still, Master did not call. I didn’t even know the name of his village, much less his phone number there. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was no phone at his home there, maybe there wasn’t one in the entire village. God only knows where his village was. I had managed to pull through the first nine games and reached the quarter-finals.

  Then the worst happened. On the sixth day, I was paired against Kulikov.

  I called Master’s home. Of course, he wasn’t there to pick up the phone. I sent my dad to his place to see if he might have returned, and to find out from his neighbours if they knew about his whereabouts. But no one knew anything. I even asked dad to check with Dr D’Souza at the hospital. I remembered how the chief neurosurgeon had stood up and greeted Master with great familiarity. Dad told me that Dr D’Souza had appeared somewhat tight-lipped. In summary, no one could tell us where the hell my mentor was. And here, Kulikov was dancing on my head like a messenger of death.

  Quarter-finals was a knockout round and one of us would be kicked out. I spent the whole night alternating between hope and despair. I hoped that I might win, that Master might call. I was anxious; Kulikov could wipe me clean within a few moves. To my shame, more than anything else, I dreaded the disgrace of being thrown off the chessboard so soon. I couldn’t sleep the whole night. I showed up on time, red-eyed, for my match. Until stepping out of my room, I had waited for Master’s call. I was going to be butchered, and for once I had hoped he’d save me in time.

  Kulikov and I shook hands at the beginning of the game. He made no attempt to grip my hand or look me in the eye. He shook hands as if he couldn’t care less.

  ‘Vasu Bhatt,’ I introduced myself.

  He pointed at his nameplate on our table.

  He was much colde
r than what I had read about him, and far more unfriendly than I had anticipated. Kulikov didn’t wait for the game to develop but went on the offensive from the first move. Strangely, though, in the style of a beginner, he put his queen on the offence in the seventh move. I calculated and deliberated for a good twenty minutes about his thoughtless move.

  What was his queen doing so early in the attack? What was Kulikov trying to do? Twenty minutes later, I made a very cautious move and the next instant, he retracted his queen, moving it back to the original position. Why did he act so dumb? It wasn’t until I made my next move and went to push the button on the chess clock that I realized what he had accomplished. It was truly brilliant. He had gained a twenty-minute advantage over me.

  I had wasted twenty minutes thinking over a move that had no significance. I felt stupid. It was a familiar feeling, the same one I had felt countless times while playing against Master.

  Soon enough, Kulikov started with the real attack, which made me think harder and harder. I was now running around in circles thinking and rethinking my strategies before making a move. Every thought cost me a few ticks on the clock. I was feeling damp near my armpits. In the end, I was running out of time and rushing my moves.

  When I realized that the game was certainly over, I looked him in the eyes, and he merely blinked to confirm. He didn’t even announce the checkmate. Not that it was required, or I hadn’t seen it coming, but it was the courteous thing to do.

  I thought I ought to look past his rudeness to appreciate the man’s genius. Just as Kulikov prepared to leave without ceremony, I mumbled without thinking: ‘Any words of advice for me?’

  ‘Take up knitting instead.’

  That condescending piece of advice, even though it hurt me, didn’t bother me as much as his smirk did when he uttered those words. There was that derisive tic on his lips. It was momentary, but I had noticed it.