Summer vacation and Chess!

I hope Vishwanathan Anand does not read this article. He is likely to get sleepless nights that his favorite game was treated with such irreverence. But this essay goes back to a time when Anand was yet to hit world stage. Back then, only two individuals were playing the game on the entire planet- Karpov and Kasparov. At least, the Chess ignoramus that I was, no third name came to mind.

The Chess board gathered dust in the cupboard. Once a year, during summer vacation, it was brought out with great fanfare when all other entertainment was blocked. It was too hot to go out, there was no TV, no comics to read and the children in the neighborhood had gone to their native places. That left my sister and me to battle it out at home. And what can be better than a cerebral game like Chess for an engaging afternoon?

Chess is an acquired taste, much like Mathematics. There are people who take to it like a fish to water. And then, there are others who tolerate it. It entirely depends on how you are wired. But like the basics of Arithmetic, you know how the pieces move. That is enough to play the game. My sister was a shade better than me, which is not saying much, but it made for an even contest.

In the absence of formal tutoring, a Chess upstart devices his own strategy. One of them is to play “black” and exactly follow the opponent move for move. If the white pawn is moved, you move the same pawn on your side. If the Bishop is moved 3 spaces, you do the same. It makes the opponent nervous as though you are stalking them. My sister was clearly irked. “You copy cat! Don’t you have your own mind?” The trick is to silently endure the barbs, make the opponent so ill at ease, that they forfeit the game.

Sound effects add an element of suspense to the move. Or you use it to irritate the opponent. Each time you move the Knight, you imitate clip-clop of the horse, and when it comes to a standstill, let out a full throated neigh! If you move the Queen, you mouth an evil punchline from the latest Bollywood thriller. If you cut a piece, you strike it with such force, that it goes tumbling and takes it with, a few adjoining pieces! The mind games help- the opponent becomes tentative, makes an obvious mistake and the game is yours.

When none of the strategies work, you simply delay the game, pondering for an eternity before every move. It gives the impression that each move is calculated and precise. After a point, the opponent loses patience. “Why do you take so much time just to move a pawn? What are you thinking?” “I was thinking about the ice-cream we are going to have in the evening!” “Enough! Stop day-dreaming and play the game!” It is easy to end a game of Chess when it is not going your way. All it requires is a little nudge to the board, as if you have clumsily upset it. No one recalls the position of the pieces and you need to start afresh.

Playing Chess with the neighborhood champion is a different ball game. He is too good for you. In a few moves, he has called out “Check”. As you dither to save the King, for every potential move, his fingers twirl on his Queen and he calls out a louder “Check”. Like a trapped deer, you prance around this way and that, till he ends the agony and calls out a final “Check-mate”.

But the best of them can be cornered on a given day. You start off with a completely unconventional move. May be, you move the Bishop all the way. It is like sending the pinch-hitter in Cricket. The surprise element rattles the opponent. He expects you to be a champion player, over thinks and succumbs. That day, you feel on top of the world- you are India’s answer to Anatoly Karpov!

The allure of Marina Beach, Chennai

The moment Mahatma Gandhi’s statue loomed large, you knew you had reached Marina Beach in Chennai. A crow would be invariably perched upon the Mahatma’s shoulder or sometimes on his crown. Its blackness blended with the rest of the statue- it appeared an integral part of the sculpture! Edward Elliot’s Road as the road was called then, ended at the statue. From the statue, the sphere of vision suddenly expanded, stretched like a screen in cinemascope! All you saw was an expanse of sand. The ocean, in the far distance, was a thin ribbon of blue.

The excitement to get to the water could not be contained anymore. Running on the sand was not easy. You removed the slippers, took it in hand, and darted off like a 100 meters sprinter. Even the stiff sea-breeze could not hold you back. The sprint ended when you felt the wetness of the sand and came face to face with the ocean. The majesty of the ocean is unmatched and at Marina Beach, it was available in its uninhibited fullness. There was no obstruction, man-made or imposed by nature, to block your vision. It was sea and sand everywhere.

Each time you went to the Marina, you promised not to go any deeper into the water and get the clothes wet. Initially, you followed the script. The waves were mellow and played with you like a spritely puppy. They hugged your feet and as they retreated, tickled your toes. Wave upon wave stirred up and crashed as if made of sugarcane juice- greenish-blue in color and creased with white foam. You got used to the norm and became complacent- that’s when a monster wave came from nowhere and trounced everything in its wake, and when it retreated, you were wet from top to toe!

A trip to Marina was complete only when you played in the sand. You either dug a well or built a mountain. If it was a well, it had to be deep enough till you met the water. Sometimes, you abandoned the project midway because you disturbed a crab’s family. If it was a mountain, it had to be tall and patted to a finish with wet sand. You dug tunnels from four sides till four sets of tiny fingers could shake hands inside the mountain! Later, you scoured the sand till the pockets bulged with the booty of colorful sea-shells.

As the sun set, darkness was quick to descend. The ocean looked more ominous now. The waves were darker and bigger, and the roar, a decibel louder. A twinkle in the distance indicated a lonesome ship. A row of lights in the distance marked the harbor. The light-house now came alive. Its encircling beams cast a patch of light in each direction. It was time to head home.

Beach vendors enticed you with raw mangoes- sliced into thin strips and arranged in an arc, like miniature coconut fronds! Smeared with a generous coating of chilly-powder and salt, raw mangoes were an irresistible treat. It did not matter that it was too spicy and the sides of the mouth burnt with its tingling sensation! As we hopped into the car, it could not be more uncomfortable! The clothes were dripping wet, caked with sand and clung to the skin. And the entire evening was fanned by Chennai’s summer heat and humidity. Still, there was not one complaint. It was the best evening you could wish for.

I have not been to Marina Beach for a long time. The entire essay has been written from memory dating back to childhood. But memory is a great companion. As you think, more details emerge and you are transported back in time. I hope the Marina is still as inviting as in my dreams. I hope to go to the beach and find that child once more. I hope to stand at the ocean-edge with my hand held out and ask, “Appa! If I swim in this direction, where will I reach?” “May be, Sri Lanka!” “And what if I swam keeping this angle, appa?” “Well, who knows? May be, you will reach America!”

The magic of the fountain-pen

The “coming of age” moment is different in each generation. For many of us, the moment was in school, when we transitioned from the pencil to the fountain-pen. It was in sixth grade, but the excitement of the passage-rite is not forgotten. The fountain-pen stayed an inseparable companion from then on, right through college and the years at work.

Fountain-pens were messy, especially for a sixth-grader. The pens leaked and the finger-tips had a perpetual blue stain. Any excess ink on the fingers readily went to the hair and served as a natural conditioner! Filling ink into these pens required the precision of a chemist. The ink-filler either went missing or lost its natural suction. It meant tilting the ink-bottle in full and filling the fountain-pen. Accidents were many. The white of the floor lay splattered in blue-ink and had to be cleaned-up in a tearing hurry, before other questioning eyes could witness the crime-scene. Despite all the care, sometimes, pens fell off the table. One fall was enough to cripple the pen’s nib and it could rarely be salvaged from then on. Still, we loved the fountain-pen. For exams, multiple pens were kept in perfect shape, like an archer with a quiver-full of sharp arrows.

A fountain-pen did not work as intended, the moment you bought it. It had to be tamed and domesticated as one would train a pet dog. In the beginning, the pen had a mind of its own. It was rough, scratchy and with no smooth flow. It had to be coaxed and cajoled and as we wrote more, it fell in line with the writing style. Some pens were stubborn and refused to be reined in. It required strong-arm tactics like polishing the nib on a piece of coarse sandpaper. In due course of time, it was no longer a pen, but an extended arm. As we dotted the ‘i’s and crossed the ‘t’s through reams of paper, it was artwork all the way!

In those days, fountain-pens made a suave style statement. There was an air of sophistication associated with the pen. It was clipped to the shirt pocket so that only the golden-glint of the cap-holder was visible. Just the manner someone pulled out the fountain pen, wrote a few lines in an elegant calligraphic hand, and placed it back in the pocket, made an instant impact. We were filled with awe and went weak in the knees, as if in the presence of Shelley, Byron and Tennyson, all rolled in one!

Fountain-pens and diaries went together. Many an aspiring poet or budding writer, in the first flush of youth, maintained a diary where their imaginative minds found poetic expression. Recently, I chanced upon an old diary of mine from college days. Eagerly, I flipped through the pages to perchance stumble upon some long forgotten secret. I had no such luck. There was one page with a single entry that read “gulab jamun two rupees, fifty paise”. It was written in running hand, in a breezy style, and with a flow indicative of a good fountain-pen. I could not help but admire the piece of calligraphy, and of course, the thought provoking content. The fountain-pen does that magic. It has the ability to convert the mundane and the ridiculous to the sublime!

We do not know when the fountain-pen went out of fashion. In some ways, it was a definite victim of the IT revolution. Now, people write less and type more on their computers and laptops. Writing has fallen out of favor, and with that fountain-pens have been relegated to the background. Even children have other pens- ball-pens and gel-pens but rarely a fountain-pen. We have reached a point when the hands tremble just to sign a bank-check. So woefully out of touch we are, with writing. Fountain-pens are on the verge of extinction and will find their rightful place in the glass cases of future museums. We will take our selfies with fountain-pens, much as we do with vintage cars, as relics belonging to an earlier age.

Paan-India delicacy

If there is one eatable that has a pan-India appeal, it is “paan”. The fascination for betel-leaf extends across the country- from Banaras to Belur, from Baroda to Bongaigaon! Like any indulgence, moderation is the key. But there is no doubt, that this betel-leaf preparation is India’s favorite delicacy. Every street-corner has its little paan-shop.

The paan-wala in the Northern parts of India, has a regal presence. A ball of fragrance hangs around him. His compact shop is packed with varieties of betel-leaves, dozens of silver containers and copper pots. Wiping his hands off his red rag-cloth, he is truly an artist, as he gets to work. His canvas is the green betel-leaf. He coats it with a calcium paste in white, adds a liquid in brown, and then, mixes the colors to a light pastel shade. His nimble fingers now get into action- a dash of power from one container, a sprinkle of coconut filings from another and a shake from another dispenser. He tops it with a spoonful of rose-petal paste, a pod of cardamom, folds the betel-leaf in a triangle and hands it out in style. For special customers, he has an ice-box filled with customized, frozen paan- the betel-leaf embossed with a silver-foil and with a cherry-top toothpick to hold the betel-leaf together. Who can resist this indulgence?

The South Indian betel leaf is slightly different- It is smaller, greener and spicier in taste. There are not as many paan-shops in South India, but the fixation for the delicacy is no less. In earlier times, bus journeys were a great opportunity to observe a betel-leaf aficionado, who sat beside and indulged in his pet pastime. Much like the cellphone is an integral part of a person’s make-up today, in earlier times, it was the compact, silver, betel-nut case. Open the case, and it was stacked with sheaves of betel-leaves. The indulgent carefully pulled out a couple of leaves, shook off the water droplets and peeled off the tiny leaf-stalk. His fingers dug out some slaked-lime paste from a side-compartment. He finger-painted the betel-leaf and topped it with a sprinkling of fragrant betel-nut flakes. He meticulously rolled it up in a bun, and even as we watched curiously, popped it into the mouth. With the betel-leaf tucked in a ball to one side of his cheek, he was a changed personality! The irritation that accompanied the long, arduous bus journey was gone. His face exuded an indescribable calm and happiness- he was at peace with himself and with the world at large!

Betel leaves have a prominent presence in South Indian weddings. They are given prime-place in the wedding-hall with a table specially reserved for this. The betel-leaves are arranged on a silver-tray with the satellite accompaniments- packets of aromatic betel-nut crushed powder, areca-nut sliced flakes and a bowlful of sugar-crystal. By mid-day, the hoopla of the wedding celebration comes to a close and the hall empties out. The blazing sun outside, the coolness of the hall, the satiation following a full wedding-meal, all combine to keep the last few guests still lingering in the hall. They laze around in the hall to catch a quick, afternoon siesta and then reach out for the betel-leaves. As they work on the betel-leaves in the mouth, in a sort of reverie, it is best to avoid conversation. Betel-leaves and conversation do not go together. Much as we would like to know if they need a ride back home or a cup of coffee, we get no proper answers. The lips are stained a bright red and the juices threaten to overflow the sides of the mouth. All they can do is nod, mumble and gurgle incoherently. We leave them to complete their rumination!

The names are many- “beeda”, “maghai”, “banarasi”, “vethalai-paakku”, but the relish is much the same. The indulgence in betel-leaf is truly a connoisseur’s pursuit- where sight, smell, taste and after-taste all intermingle to make it such a delightful experience. It is iconized in film and song. Who can forget Amitabh Bachchan’s feet-tapping song in the 1970s- “khaike paan banaras wala”?

Why do we follow Cricket?

My earliest memory of Cricket goes back to the 3 Test Series that India played in Pakistan in 1978. It was an iconic series, perhaps the first time, we had live telecast of the matches on TV. I was too young to understand the nuances of the game. But the black and white images of Gavaskar and Kapil Dev, Zaheer Abbas and Imran Khan have not faded one bit. What began with this series, is a love-affair with Cricket that continues to this day.

Cricket folklore passed on from generation to generation ensures that even heroes of a distant past, rub shoulders with the stars of today. That way, Cricket memory has no beginning. Through the tales told and retold by my grandfather and father, both cricket freaks, the embers of Cricket of an earlier era, continue to burn bright. Mankad and Merchant, Pataudi and Chandra may have left the Cricket arena well before my time, but it was as though, I saw them bat and bowl right in front of my eyes!

For a Cricket enthusiast, it is not just a game. We play out our life, against the backdrop of Cricket. Each of life’s flag-post events is matched up with a corresponding event in Cricket and vice versa. When my daughter was born, I was as much excited about her arrival, as about Sehwag getting to his triple hundred! And when it comes to Cricket’s crowning moments, we know exactly where we were, and what we were doing on that day. Dhoni and team may have won the World Cup, but we held the trophy in our hands standing in the apartment balcony!

We are often asked why we follow Cricket so closely. We may have played the game in childhood and derived some fun out of it. We do not actively play anymore. What is the point in following the sport so closely, investing so much time and mind-share? A Cricket nut struggles to answer. He can only mumble incoherently- it is like love, it has no logic. There is a sense of inevitability to it.

Why do we follow Cricket? It is for the sheer excitement of looking forward to something. We know after the IPL is over, India will spend the summer in England, followed by the T-20 World-Cup. The carpet is already laid out for the entire year. The thrill is in the wait, in the anticipation for the next cricket event to unfold and then the next, ad infinitum. Without this, life will be too drab, robbed of all fizz.

In following Cricket, we ride a roller-coaster of emotion. When India was all out for 36, it was a personal embarrassment. We sulked in silence; we could not show our face outside. Family members consoled us, “Why are you moving around with such a long face, as if some grave calamity has befallen you? Look! Even the Cricketers have forgotten about it!” And then, when India won the next test, the happiness couldn’t be contained. There was a new spring in the steps, cheer on the face and even this Corona ridden world, seemed the happiest place in the universe! Such is Cricket!

Keeping in touch with Cricket, we stay young. The body may age, but not the child in us. Spotting a red tomato in the kitchen, even now, we grip it, as we would a Cricket ball, and give it a few turns like Kumble. In the process, the tomato may slip out of hand and lay squashed on the floor, leaving us red-faced, but that’s another story. Or walking down a corridor in the apartment, the body suddenly breaks into a bowling action, forgetting even the curious onlookers around us.

The IPL Cricket extravaganza has just begun. I sit in front of the TV much like that school boy did decades ago. I wait with bated breath as the toss ritual gets underway. The first ball is about to be bowled. The bowler is at the top of his bowling mark. The umpire ends the suspense, drops his extended arm and announces, “Gentlemen! Let’s play!”

Identity Crisis!

We face this identity crisis often. The situations vary- may be, you need a new passport or a new bank account or renew the Driver’s License. You carefully go through the list of identity-proofs. The options are many- Voter’s Id, Aadhaar card, PAN card and Driver’s License. Most lists require 2 photocopies of each document (both front and back) and 2 recent passport-size photographs.

You rummage through the cupboard looking for these proofs. Call it Murphey’s Law, each time you spot the back of an Aadhaar card, you expectantly turn it over, but the photograph shows a different family member! You wonder whether you left the original the last time you went to the bank several months ago, or maybe at the airport. After a feverish search during which you have emptied out the shelves from all the cupboards and the entire room is littered with documents, you finally find your clutch of identity-proofs.

But the battle has just begun. Two photocopies are required for each document. It does not matter how many times you have photocopied these documents in the past and stashed them away for safekeeping. When you need them, there are none. You decide to end the futile search and get a fresh set of photocopies. And yes, this time, you plan to get 10 copies of the same document (both front and back) so that these repeated trips can be avoided. As far as passport photographs are concerned, less said, the better. None of them are ever recent. They belong to an earlier avatar when you had a moustache, floppy hair hanging over the ears and a silly grin. Those are the only ones you can find. The most recent photograph is a single copy that cannot be paired with the moustache one. There is no choice. It requires a trip to the photo-studio and this time, you swear to take more photographs than you will ever need in life.

It is now the moment of reckoning. You are at the counter with all the identity-proofs and their respective photocopies neatly stored in a plastic pouch. Till then, you were just fine and relaxed. Call it nerves or a sudden attack of panic, you fumble to find the correct document just when you are asked for it. The man at the counter has no time for the likes of you. Behind you, the line snakes till the door and beyond. It is as if, he has placed a revolver on your forehead and in flat 30 seconds, you need to fish out all the documents and their respective photocopies or tough luck, you just have to make way for the next person! Somehow, you manage to submit the documents. In a trice, he returns two out of the three documents as invalid. In one, he has spotted an anomaly in the spelling. The surname has an extra “A” that is not matching with the other two. As far as the second document is concerned, the home-address is not the current one. With an air of irritation, he dismisses you off- you need to get a Rental Agreement as address-proof or a recent Electricity Bill with your name on it. He does not like your passport photograph either, since it is not against a white background. You cannot argue or furnish an alternative document from the pouch. Your time is up and you have been elbowed out of the line by the person behind you.

There has to be way out of this crisis. We require an out-of-the-box thinking- perhaps, a garland that can be worn. Strung to the garland will be all the documents- a passport hanging off it, a driver’s license, a PAN card and their respective photocopies. It will make it easier for everyone. Like the security check at the airport, you simply lift your arms and submit yourself at the counter. The person can go around you and pluck whichever document he needs and their respective photocopies. It is also time we re-evaluated the basic necessities in life. Along with food, clothing and shelter, we need to add the 4th basic necessity in every home- a photo-copying machine!

Born again this spring!

We recall the time when movies were all black-and-white, and then came Technicolor! The screen was ablaze with a new genre of films, which celebrated color! We remember the transition from the black-and-white TV sets to the world of color. For days on end, we stayed glued to the TV because it was such a visual treat! How we waited to go to school in colored clothes, setting aside the monochromatic uniforms for that one day- on Children’s Day! The whites of Cricket made a transition to colored wear and with this change, came a brand new fan-following for the sport. It is clear- the leap from the world of black-and-white to color is nothing short of dramatic!

Nature follows this transition from black-and-white to color each year. The months of winter are like a bunch of black-and-white photographs. The frosty days and long nights ensure shades of grey dominate the landscape. The trees are bare and the branches stick out like the skeletal remains of a scarecrow! The sun stays behind a curtain and makes an occasional, desultory entry, if at all. The eyes develop a fatigue, deprived of all color. Even the best of us are weighed down by the winter blues. Though most parts of India are spared from such a bleak winter, still, it is not easy in the northern states.

Suddenly, spring bursts forth in a riot of colors. Nature is like a child that has been held captive for too long. It frolics in spring’s new-found freedom as if it has laid its hands on a box of colorful toffees! The trees get a fresh cloak of green, the sky is awash in a deep-blue tint and flowers burgeon at every nook and corner. Nature has taken out its big paint-box and has laid out all the colors on a palette! Like an Impressionist artist at work, it coats the canvas with bold strokes of crimson and red, pink and purple! It is as if all the silk sarees have been emptied out of the shelf and now lie scattered, layer upon layer, in rich hues, all around us! Birds warble in symphony filled with joie de vivre. The Himalayan snows show the first signs of thawing and the rivers gush forth, gurgling with joy! The Valley of Flowers comes alive. As the poet would say- “Ten-thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance!’ It dazzles the eye! Such is nature’s bounty! Our cities seem distant from all this vibrant action. No doubt, it is muted, but the signs are visible for the one who looks for it. The car parked by the roadside overnight has a sprinkling of tiny blossoms on the roof as we drive out!

Holi heralds the onset of spring. It celebrates this splash of color. In some parts of the country, it is followed with overflowing enthusiasm- with pichkaris and water-balloons, gulaal and colored-powder! The fun is infectious and an unwary bystander can well be pulled into the celebration with a sudden deluge of colored-water! There is a popular Holi quote, used commonly in the Northern states. Loosely translated, it reads, “Please do not be offended. It is Holi!” More than being a license to take liberty and ask for pardon later, this quote has more than meets the eye. We try our best to be sensitive to everyone’s feelings. Still, if we inadvertently offend someone, we ask for forgiveness in the spirit of Holi. Holi is also about the timeless message of the spring season. It is the message of abundance, distributed to the world at large with no expectation of a return favor. We remember this message of inclusion and mentally embrace the entire world in one sweep.

We may not be part of a formal Holi celebration. Still, we celebrate Holi through our silent appreciation of nature that is born again every spring. We are as much a part of nature. The body may age; in sprit, we are born again each spring! Come! Let us celebrate this spring with a new spring in our steps and add more color to the days ahead!