by Om Swami
‘Vasu?’ It was father. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you up.’
It was a pleasant surprise to hear my father’s voice. He rarely called me when I was away on tournaments.
‘I was trying to reach Master, in fact,’ I said. ‘How’s everyone?’
‘He had to urgently leave for his village.’
My heart jumped to my mouth but I knew that the cause must have been absolutely pressing and unavoidable. This was the one thing he had been preparing me for the last nine years.
‘He told me to pass on this message to you: Follow the plan. No deviations.’
Father seemed somewhat uncomfortable speaking more on the phone as he hung up almost immediately. He must be concerned about my sleep time, I thought.
Game 13 and 14. Master’s strategy worked flawlessly.
Andrei opened with Queen’s Gambit in Game 13 but I declined and went for Semi Slav, quickly shifting to the more unusual Chigorian variation. This took Andrei utterly by surprise.
I remember how he gulped down a whole cup of coffee as if it were a tequila shot. I continued to build a tight centre because, more than going for a straight win, my goal was to frustrate him. Out of that frustration would sprout a mistake that would lead me to build a winning attack. Master had trained me in all major lines of variations on Queen’s Gambit and Gambit Declined.
All this while, I had played closed and tight games, avoiding exchanging pieces, keeping the centre locked, dragging on with the extra time. And, exactly as Master had said it would, this had given Kulikov an impression of what sort of player I was. He had mistaken my portrayed patience and tactical play as my inherent chess temperament. The truth was, I had always been an impatient, angry and aggressive player. Something I had managed to hide in the championship so far.
In Game 14, I went all out with an opening that shook Andrei. He was forced to drop his hide.
Playing with white, I went for Vienna Game, a semi-aggressive opening. Giving the illusion of a playable opening, I offered a delayed King’s Gambit. This made Andrei think hard and long. He used over twenty-five minutes on this move. But that was only the beginning. Nandan Nath Upadhyaya had prepared me to turn this tender jolt into a catastrophic earthquake. Just when he was settling in, I went for the Frankenstein–Dracula variation. The rest, as they say, is history.
It had been quite something to watch Andrei drink coffee like there was no tomorrow. His digestive tract had processed more than fifty cups in the last two days. Like a boiled egg, each tap was cracking him. The human side – soft and shaky – of the chess automaton was emerging.
The score on 20 September 1992 after fourteen games – Andrei: 6.5; Vasu: 7.5.
Games 15, 16, 17 and 18 resulted in draws. That the last four games ended in draws was not as interesting a fact as how they had ended in draws. All four games had drawn on a mutual-draw offer, with Kulikov offering to draw in three of the four games. Maybe he had saved up some nasty surprises for the last two games. He needed to win only one game to retain his title.
End of Game 18 – Andrei: 8.5; Vasu: 9.5.
Everything was going as planned in the tournament, except that Master was still not back from his village and he hadn’t called me all this while. But this time I wasn’t angry at all, for I knew that if there was anyone who lived selflessly in this world, it was my master.
I was concerned about his health, but since father said that he had only gone to his village, I took heart.
27 September was a free day and my mind was tired from the endless grilling of the past many days. I thought of taking a break to freshen up my mind. There was nothing else to prepare. I knew my responses to any opening Andrei might choose. I popped a pill so I could sleep through the day. I had a light dinner and took another pill to get some good sleep. On the morning of the twenty-eighth, I casually picked up the New York Times over breakfast.
It carried an article by Olga Pyzik, the second ex-wife of the thirty-eight-year-old Andrei Kulikov. She was in New York to launch her book My Years with Andrei. The article cited the following passage from the book.
Saving a few times, like when he was sleeping, living with Andrei was a continuous challenge. He was just not designed with any sense of living in a world sans chess. He couldn’t even pour tea without spilling it in the saucer. He would never remember to turn the gas off after cooking. And the only thing he knew how to cook was an omelette. It was scary to be in the same car with him because he would just stop anywhere and start making notes on some game.
He would forget his wallet in the restaurant and keys in his car. It’s hard to imagine that the genius Andrei, immaculate on the chessboard, would be so clumsy in real life. The man who could think through lengthy lines of variations in his head could not string together two words to hold a conversation. He never spoke to my parents. He would say he didn’t have any conversational skills. Surely, he could have learnt these skills, if only he had made an effort.
I kept my hopes up for six long years and then one day I realized that ‘if only’ doesn’t work with people like Andrei. If it could, he wouldn’t be Andrei then.
I wondered if I was destined to read that article today, for as soon as I put the paper aside, something inside me changed. I no longer thought of him as a pretentious snob, but a man who was just wired that way. A wave of sympathy washed over my hard feelings for Kulikov, no, Andrei. I had known him for days now. But sympathy has no place in chess. There is room for variations, for mistakes, for a whole range of human emotions but not sympathy. You show sympathy and you are dead. If you spare your lunch, your opponent will have you for lunch.
I thought of Andrei’s misdemeanours, his sarcastic advice to me so I could once again feel a surge of anger towards him. As Master had said, my anger was my energy and at Game 19 of the World Championship, I couldn’t afford to lose even a tiny fraction of an ounce.
Game 19. When Andrei walked in, the article I’d read that morning kept flashing in front of me. I couldn’t help but offer a firm grip for the customary handshake. I felt that I had been judging him, and I had no right to. But all my feelings took a backseat when, once again, like the first time, he made no attempt to shake hands. Any emotion or feeling of sympathy quickly left me, but it took my mental peace along. I felt agitated and angry.
Things didn’t get any better when Andrei absolutely shocked me with the most aggressive display of his game. Maybe he had read the article too. He practically rammed into me and, from the sixth move onwards, I was on the defence. It was a humiliating defeat with his mating attack materializing on the twenty-eighth move.
He pushed his pawn, checking my king, and turned it 360 degrees in the square as if he were screwing it in.
‘Checkmate,’ he announced. There was elation in his voice. And that smirk. The I-told-you-to-take-up-knitting-instead smirk was most humiliating. I felt like breaking the glass and jumping from the 107th floor and landing on some yellow cab parked underneath. This image wasn’t too far off from the reality because, figuratively speaking, my final position on the board today had been something like that.
Score at the end of Game 19 – Andrei: 9.5; Vasu: 9.5.
I walked back to my room greatly distressed. The game progressed so fast that I didn’t even know what the hell actually happened. Why did I change my tempo? Why did I lose my patience? I couldn’t forgive myself. I missed Master terribly. I wished I knew his village contact number. I wished he would call me.
The chances of winning the final game were very slim because Andrei would play by the book. To retain the title, he didn’t have to win. He just had to draw. If I lost the last game, I would lose; and I would lose even if I drew it. He wouldn’t take any chances. He didn’t need to.
I called Master’s home, out of sheer desperation. I called father to find out if he had made any contact. No luck. I sat there thinking about what I could possibly play next aga
inst Andrei in my last game.
Master, Master, where are you? I prayed with all my strength.
A soft voice spoke in my head. ‘What would Master do if he were playing?’
Of course. Master is here, with you, right now. Your master is in the training he’s given you all these years, Vasu.
I knew what to do.
I spent the whole of the next day going through old games of unconventional openings. That’s what Master would do. He would surprise Andrei. He would choose an opening where it would just not be possible for Andrei to play by the book.
Game 20. I tried to reach Master again in the morning, but no luck. Somewhere in the deepest corner of my heart, the corner reserved for my dreams, I kind of accepted that I might not win the World Championship. That I might not be able to make my folks proud this time around. But I will come back for you, Andrei Kulikov. By that I did not mean that I had given up. I had every intention to fight till the last pawn stood on the board.
I walked in right when the game was about to start. Casually, while I was sitting down, I extended my hand without looking at Andrei. The referee pressed the button and the clock began ticking.
Playing with white, I went for an opening no one in their right mind would pick. Not against Andrei anyway. But I did. Because that’s what Master would do. I went for Grob’s Attack – one of the least played and least respected openings. The chances of a draw were next to nil with this one. I would either win or lose. I knew instantly that it startled him; he raised his eyes and settled his gaze on mine for a few seconds right after I opened.
Andrei thought for over ten minutes before responding to my first move. Ten minutes. No GM invests ten minutes on the opening move. Three moves later, I went in for the variation – Keene Defence. Andrei thought for another fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, he had already downed two cups of coffee. Double- shot espressos.
He was cautious as expected and I was reckless, which perhaps was also expected. Like when you throw a stray dog a morsel with the intention of kicking it when it approached you, Andrei offered me a gambit. He was happy to lose a pawn to gain mobility of pieces. Rather than taking his gambit, I went for another line of variation, even more dangerous, the Romford Countergambit. Andrei drank three cups of coffee before making his next move. I was thirty minutes ahead in time advantage. But thirty minutes mean nothing if you have no attack or defence. I had the chance to build my attack.
At move seventeen came my first breakthrough when I got the opportunity to plant my knight on g6, safely nested in his V-pawn chain, protected by my pawn on h5. My king was safely castled on the queen side. But it wasn’t till the twenty-third move, when my rooks aligned to launch a catastrophe on the g-file behind my knight, that the mighty Andrei Kulikov got up and began pacing up and down the room.
He was mumbling to himself, shaking his right hand in the air. He sat on the couch and threw his head back, but got up the very next moment and resumed pacing up and down. He got back on the table and pressed the red button for more coffee. He gulped one cup and another. Five in a row. Got up to go to the washroom. He opened the door of the washroom and rather than entering, he rushed back to the table. Andrei kept staring at the board and then went up and down the room again.
Finally, he advanced his pawn on the b-file. It wouldn’t take a GM to know that his position was hopeless on the king side, where my offence was going strong. The only way out for him was to launch a counter-attack on the queen side, where my king was castled. But it was a little too late for that. My other knight jumped to the king side attack in two hops and with my bishops already lined, I went into his fort like I had nothing to lose.
One sacrifice of a bishop and another three moves later, his king stood there, fully exposed. He was officially screwed.
Andrei got up began pacing up and down the room again. He sat on the couch and had some more coffee. I had lost count of how many by now. I could smell victory. I was barely three moves away. All forced moves, where Andrei had no choice.
We were only twenty-nine moves into the game and I could see my master smiling. He appeared in the soft lighting of the room like a guardian angel, smiling at me. I felt that he was saying to me, ‘I’m proud of you, son. I knew you had it in you. I knew it.’ His eyes seemed moist. Mine were too.
Andrei returned to the table and looked at me. His mask was still impenetrable, but his eyes held a sort of admiration. Something like the spark that lit up my eyes when I had asked the GMs for autographs during my first rated tournament in Bangalore.
He got up again and went to the washroom. I was somewhat worried when he didn’t emerge for almost ten minutes. I nearly called the referee, but he came back and sat at the table. He stared at me again, with the look that an avid chess player would have in the middle of an epiphany, as if he had chanced upon a winning attack. For a moment, my heart pounded and I looked at the board again. Had I made a mistake? Andrei looked so assured.
His hand hovered over his side of the board and eventually landed on his king. I was a bit surprised because it was not in check and, with the pawns in front gone, there was no sense in moving the king.
He lifted his king by its crown and laid it gently on the board.
‘I resign,’ he said and extended his arm to shake hands. Andrei Kulikov shaking hands at the finish.
‘I knit all right, don’t I?’ I said, gripping his hand a little longer than needed.
‘Excuse me?’ he said, a little puzzled.
I just looked at the scoreboard that read Andrei: 9.5; Vasu: 10.5.
It was time to go down for the press conference.
MOVE YOUR FOOT SOLIDER
ANDREI FADED AWAY into the background as I walked through the corridors, stepping on a plush carpet to catch up with our referee and two executives in impeccable suits. They had been sent to escort the new world chess champion to the podium, I figured. I couldn’t help but cast one last glance in Andrei’s direction; my opponent stood looking outside the big glass window.
You did it, Vasu! World Chess Champion!
I braced myself for the media frenzy and the autographs that would follow the win. I even racked my brain for a suitable response to ‘how do you feel about being the new world champion?’ I certainly didn’t want to flounder and fumble like a bumbling idiot on an international broadcast after winning the No. 1 title.
To my surprise, there were no journalists waiting with bated breath to get a quote from me, no mics or flashing cameras either. For a fraction of a second I was disappointed to see the silent boardroom. There were four people in expensive business suits seated around a long table. The very air reeked of power and wealth. One of the more friendly faces of the four got up. He was at once tall and imposing.
‘Congratulations, Mr Bhatt,’ he said, shaking a firm hand. ‘I’m Anatoly Zaslavsky. The A-Z of Chess.’ Everyone joined him in the laughter.
Anatoly Zaslavsky was the chairman of FIDE, and I wasn’t expecting to meet him right away. Then again, I didn’t really know what all came with victory. He introduced me to other people in the room who were executives of a Fortune 500 company.
‘Mr Murphy James is the CEO of GEM, Global Enterprise Machines,’ Anatoly said. ‘They are the platinum sponsor of this tournament and have something for you here.’
‘We’ve been watching you grow over the last few years, Mr Bhatt,’ Murphy said. ‘We would like to offer you a five-year, $2 million exclusive sponsorship deal. In particular, to endorse our range of supercomputers. We are entering in the Indian market in a big way.’
I didn’t know whether to jump in the air and touch the ceiling or appear solemn and serious like them, pretending that it was a routine matter.
Instantly, my mother’s face flashed before me. My mother, who had pawned her jewellery and lived without it for four years; my father, who had emptied his provident fund to pay for my expenses. Maste
r’s old clothes, his bicycle, our basic no-frills home, old motorcycle … it all came to my mind. How easily I could enrich their lives. Another man, whom Murphy introduced as Richard Cook, their legal counsel, smiled at me and gently slid a one-page document in front of me. A Mont Blanc pen was resting on it.
‘We will send the detailed contract to your attorney,’ Richard said. ‘You can sign your conditional consent here. This simply means that, unless you find something unacceptable in our contract, you will not back out. Plus, we’ll have the first right of refusal if you go with any other sponsor.’
I picked up the pen to seize the golden opportunity, but a voice inside stopped me.
Can you say, Vasu, that this victory belongs to you and you alone?
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen.’ I put the pen down. ‘I can’t sign without the consent of my master.’
‘Your master?’ Anatoly exclaimed. ‘I don’t recall you making a mention of him at any of the events before.’
‘All in good time, Mr Zaslavsky,’ I said, feeling a sense of pride for Master.
After a few whispers amongst themselves, they upped the offer by another $5,00,000. They wanted to announce the deal at the press conference, they told me. So there was a press conference. Good. When I declined again, they handed me their business cards and said they would wait. We were led to the media room by Zaslavsky who flung open the door dramatically, his hands pointing in my direction, and declared, ‘Here, I give you the new chess world champion!’
The media room was packed with journalists, dignitaries and various notables. I was bathed in the flashlights of shutterbugs.
Wow! All these people are here for me!
I felt overwhelmed, underprepared. Smiling, I opened the bottle of water and took a sip in style. Calling me a chess protégé, an original thinking machine from India, Zaslavsky gave a long statement. He said my style of play reminded him of some of the greatest chess players of all time. I tried my best to not let my expressions betray my feelings. Within, I was bursting with joy and pride, but on the outside, I maintained a steady, even artificial smile.