Tuesday, January 23, 2024
Year : 2, Issue : 4
Year : 2, Issue : 4
FICTION
by Shammi Huda
As a 5-year-old, I was aware of the game of chess from TV and other media, but had never physically come near a board or pieces. I was born in the early 80s in England, but at the age of five, my parents decided that living in the UK was too isolated and too lonely. Looking back, I think they were probably scared of having to deal with teenage kids asking inevitable questions: “Why can’t we go to the disco…and drink…and socialize…and date…and wear hair and clothes like everyone else in our peer group?”
Returning to Sylhet in the late 80s, with plenty of relatives but no entertainment in terms of TV, or stimulation from school and peers, it was tough for a 5-year-old who was by now used to being entertained every given moment. Then there was the food and the heat and the toilets in the ground. The water and milk tasted strange, too.
In mum’s village, where she grew up, her neighbours had a monkey, and going to see that was, of course, one of the biggest moments in the life of a 5-year-old. Upon instruction, it did tricks but at the end of the day, the human-like eyes and the chain around its neck were upsetting.
Then an uncle, one of mum’s countless first cousins, called me over. In front of him was a chessboard with all the pieces.
“Aita daba, this is chess. Hik tai ni? Do you want to learn?”
I was mesmerised by the white and black patterning of the board. The mysterious pieces, their shapes, and their particular movements. I drank it all in with the thirst of Tantalus escaping his bonds and accidentally taking refuge in a wine cellar. Drunk with newfound knowledge and pleasure, I played again and again until the azan sounded the day’s end. We were not to linger outdoors, for tradition dictated at sunrise, noon, and dusk, when shadows could not be discerned, the shadowless djinn would walk the earth and the malevolent ones would seek out and possess His believers.
Returning to my father’s ancestral home, I demanded a chess board and would not rest until finally, in the evening, someone brought a set back from the stadium market.
From that time on, I just have memories of my mum and dad constantly arguing, and my mum wanting to return to England for my sake. Without saying, I felt for her, too.
These arguments ended after mum fell ill and had to go to a hospital. She never came back. Over the years, I grew up with rumours about a botched, unnecessary surgery. Out of guilt, I suppose, Dad never remarried, retreating into his responsibilities of looking after family properties and businesses.
Chess gave me a strict world of immutability where the rules were hard and fast, with no deviation. From all the changes, impermanence, and upheavals in my life, I retreated and sought refuge in a world where things could be predicted and planned, where logic and rationale ruled supreme.
After a few years, at school level, I had beaten all my peers, won all the competitions, beat the high school champs, and then the local college and university champs. I was a chess champion, a child prodigy. I entered adult-level district tournaments, then regional, then national. The press and national attention grew with newspaper, magazine, TV, and radio interviews coming fast and thick, as I climbed the ladder.
Though I got knocked out in the semis of the national tournament, I was given a special scholarship by the National Chess Federation for my father and I to stay in Dhaka and get coached for international tournaments.
I remember one day with my father, when we were both being measured up for a suit. We bought a shirt, a tie, and shoes. A few days after the suits were delivered, we dressed up and a fancy car pulled up to our guesthouse. We drove across Dhaka city, a part I had never seen before, all clean, smart, broad tree-lined roads. A huge gate with sentries opened, and the car pulled up to a huge house.
It was the residence of the British ambassador, and I became an international cause célèbre with the UK government offering the finest boarding school education, guaranteed university board and tuition, and many incentives to my father as well.
My father, as you have gathered by now, was one of nature’s idealists with pragmatism sounding too similar to some Hindu philosophy to be avoided rigorously. He reasoned that he had grown up in a poor land that had been plundered by the colonial powers and he was not going to give away another national treasure.
Later, a right-wing UK government then went on to strip me of my British nationality riding on a Britannic wave of nationalistic populism.
Over the years, as I moved up the rankings, tournament after tournament, nation after nation offered ever increasing inducements to take up their citizenships. My father shunned them all and kept me insulated like a modern-day Rapunzel, away from distractions. This no doubt was responsible for my early achievement of the rank of International Grandmaster. But I regret not being exposed to the Russian girls, drinks, and drugs that apparently was their way of disorienting players before or during big tournaments.
My success allowed my father to quash guilt of my lack of life experience, my mother’s death, and justify all of his decisions.
And me? I can’t help but think of that monkey going through the motions at its master’s bidding and its resignation to its chains.
Checkmate.
Author works in family business covering agriculture and pharmaceuticals.
