This morning and very early afternoon I accompanied a fond friend, Sharron, to some medical appointments. This was her first visit to a new doctor, and Sharron was nervous about getting there, but I told her that Lorraine’s doctor had had an office in the same building, so I was quite familiar with the place and surroundings, and that if she drove I would be happy to navigate. Her appointment seemed fine; I exchanged some pleasantries with the downstairs receptionist; and then we shopped. Or rather, she shopped and I accompanied her, as a fond friend is wont to do. Miller’s Meats is not the Brahamanical choice but my navigational skills were not required. As we get back into her car, she said, ‘Do you mind if we go to my place first? I want to use the bathroom, and put the frozen stuff away, and then I’ll drive you home.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I will wait in the car.’
‘No, come on up, it may take a while.’
We reach. ‘Would you like a drink as I do my stuff?’
An offer I have rarely refused, even from friends much less fond than Sharron who do not serve double malt Scotch from a balcony with a glorious view of green Winnipeg on a warm summer afternoon.
Sharron emerges eventually and joins me on the balcony with a fresh drink.
‘Sekhar, you should go back to playing bridge.’
‘I lost my love for the game.’
‘Then why don’t you play chess?’
‘I prefer bridge.’
*
En route to my place we drive down Wellington Crescent, once the most prestigious residential road in Winnipeg, and even today much more aristocratic than our ultimate destination in River Heights.
‘There’s Archie, watering his lawn.’
We are on the other side of the street. She takes the nearest U-turn to enter his fine driveway to say hello. Archie is Sharron’s family. Their families are not only intermarried but are neighbours and adjacent property owners in Winnipeg and Palm Springs, as well as perhaps other destinations to which I have not yet been invited. I know Archie slightly through bridge, but I would not call him family.
Archie turns off the sprinkler and greets Sharron warmly. Despite our claims that we can only stay for a moment he insists that we must come around to the back so we can appreciate his newest pergola addition. We speak of this and that: the weather, traffic, world politics, local gossip; an upcoming bridge event in Wisconsin for which Sharron suggests that I partner Archie. I politely decline the invitation and continue admiring the koi pond while Sharon excuses herself to go use the bathroom, and when she returns, noticing that I seem upset and that the warm afternoon has turned distinctly socially chilly, she bids Archie adieu and hustles me into her car.
*
Many hours later, now home, I listen to a message from Sharron and since I had not answered my phone, she had also sent a brief email. Apologising for no reason. She was totally innocent, and totally supportive, as she has always been.
Re: Chess Championship (can’t compete in the Worlds because she is Israeli) Please accept my apologies for putting you in such an awful situation this afternoon. Archie is, and always has been, an ass, and I should have known better.
But I worry about you Sekhar. You can’t stay holed up by yourself in that ramshackle old house forever. Forget about bridge (certainly forget about that horrible Archie!). What about chess? Maybe you don’t go to tournaments to compete for trophies. Maybe you take younger players, take them under your tutelage and show them how to play, teach them why they play, let them go to tournaments and win trophies and become prodigies and eventually figure out what one does in life after having been a child prodigy.
I just received a link in my email about an Israeli champion, a girl just seven years old, who is barred from competition solely because of her citizenship. When I watch her video I am so struck by her joy, her innocence, her love of play; and I feel that those are the things you need more of in your life – not sitting around drinking scotch in the afternoon or heaven forbid, helping Archie win some stupid American meetup/jerkoff.
*
I opened my email to reply to her message.
Re: Chess Championship (can’t compete in the Worlds because she is Israeli)
Beautiful girl. Thank you for the picture. So unfortunate that her ethnicity has raised fences against her. I would so like to play a game of chess with her.
Many years ago, Cecil Rosner asked me if I would host a burgeoning young chess player from Madras (now Chennai), whose parents wanted to send him to Winnipeg, where the Canadian Open Chess Championship was being held, but who sought a friendly South Indian Brahmin home for his security and well being. Of course (more for my peace of mind than theirs), I put him up at Uma’s. He ate well.
Krishna Something was his name – I forget. He played well. He rose to be India’s second best player. Vishy Anand was the world champion. I think he has faded since. As has Anand. As have I.
But I read last Saturday that another Chennai chess player recently became the world’s youngest grandmaster. 13 years old. I would love to host and watch the Indian boy and the Israeli girl play chess in my living room, or your balcony (not in Archie’s beautiful backyard, however).
*
Still not right. Delete, try again.
Re: Chess Championship (can’t compete in the Worlds because she is Israeli)
I remember my first chess trophy. It was in Bangalore. I was in the MA post-graduate course in Madras Christian College, and had gone to Bangalore to visit my parents for a long weekend – and, of course, to play in the Bangalore/Mysore Open. I bought a return ticket on the overnight train between Madras and Bangalore, packed a small rucksack and hoped for the best.
In those days, in important tournaments, if a chess game was adjourned, that is, if both players had made forty moves in the allotted two hours and thirty minutes, the unfinished game would be resumed the next day.
Going into the last round I am a half-point behind the #1 seed. I am a teenage upstart. He is my final round opponent. I must beat him now, this afternoon. I cannot play on the morrow. I have to beat him quickly. His name is Prasad Something. ‘Rad?’ I forget.
I cannot play my normal defensive rope-a-dope strategy (the way I still play bridge). So I attack. Clearly, he is surprised at my uncharacteristic aggressive approach. Good. Surprise is good. (Sun Tzu, The Art of War, the world’s best playbook). I play well and I beat him.
And made my 8:00 pm train.
*
I re-read the draft and realised that it did not properly address the situation. I chose an earlier email in the thread and started again.
Re: Re: Panchavati
The chess set in the photo (of me with a younger beard and a little girl, who you cropped), was a gift from my sister Vasanti.
The white squares and white pieces were marble and the black squares and pieces ebony. I brought that set with me to Canada when I first arrived.
A few years ago, my sister Uma, cleaning her basement, asked what she should do with it.
I said, ‘Toss it.’
Then, some days ago, Uma made a touching gesture. She had prised off and retained the brass inscriptions on my trophies, chess and bridge, naming the year and the event. She had stored all these labels in a secure bag.
I was so touched. She has been so caring and generous to me.
Not I to her.
‘Toss them,’ I said.
*
Still not right.
While all those things are true, and germane to my history with Sharron and pertinent to the discomfort she had witnessed and responded to so graciously, the real story had occurred while she was back in the house, and Archie and I were alone in his lovely back yard.
‘So you are not going to play with us in the Wisconsin tournament?’
‘No. You will do fine without me.’
‘I remember you usually partner Lorraine … you know she and I used to date?’
‘Oh,’ I shrug.
‘Yes, we were classmates. I took her out. Give her my regards when you see her.’
‘It might be a while,’ I say. ‘She died some years ago.’
‘I thought her husband died?’
‘Yes,’ I say.’ He died last Monday. Lorraine died two years ago.’
I was desperate to leave. Any mention, any thought, and remembrance of Lorraine makes my tear ducts surge, despite the double cataract surgery, despite the two years. Maybe he saw some sign of weakness; maybe he was just being a prick. He pressed forward.
‘Did you know Lorraine?’
I dam my ducts.
‘Yes, I knew her. I knew her well.’
*
I deleted the draft email and started again.
Re: Visiting Archie
Thank you for the drink. Mellowed me to behave half-decently at Archie’s. Though Archie taught Al Mowat how to play bridge I would be reluctant to go to Milwaukee with him. Your presence, and the MOAB, helped me keep some cool, be deft and witty and courteous in the face of Archie’s arrogant asshattery.
I appreciate your concern for my well-being, and will try to do a better job of getting out of the house (and answering my phone and emails more promptly) but I am not sure I have anything to give as a teacher. The girl in your link is wonderfully inspiring but her problem is not chess, her problem is the world itself (and the assholes who currently run the world) and fixing that is far beyond my meagre capabilities.
So while chess (and bridge) are off the table for the moment, I do acknowledge your greater point, I should do something productive with my time. Perhaps I will try some writing: a few reminiscences, a memoir, maybe just a quotidian narrative of Winnipeg life in the modern day.
Hope your dietary regimen returns you to 100% (minus 6 kg).
Sincerely,
*
For many decades I was A G Sekhar: a very logical sequence, a good alternative to the use of surnames. The surname, especially in patriarchal societies, identifies the father but does little else; it may suggest a sibling connection but not much more.
A logical sequence goes further into detail and tries to identify the individual person. Thus A=Angarai (the home land, the place you came from), G=Ganesan (your sire’s name), followed by your own name. Sekhar, son of Ganesan, from Angarai.
Angarai is a village south south east of Chennai (used to be Madras). In the 14th century the Rajah, the ruler of the region, an autocrat but one who knew (unlike some modern leaders of nations) that he should seek, and heed, intelligent and balanced advice, hired a Brahmin to be his chief minister.
In 1371 he thanked his advisor for long and profitable service. ‘Two hundred acres in Angarai for you.’
‘Very good land, my king.’ said my ancestor. ‘Thank you. But my lord, my king, all our people need temples.’
The Rajah said, ‘Absolutely. I will build you a temple. Hire Wren, Corbusier, or Frank Lloyd Wright. I will pay. But I have a caveat: you and your family must, over centuries, welcome out people, and all peoples, across the world, to the temple. You will sing the invitational morning song.’
‘Rajah,’ my ancestor said, ‘I will try.’
Some years ago I attended a munificent celebration in New York. On a magnificent terrace, overlooking the iconic centre of the world’s greatest city, the spires of its buildings spiking the sky and samosas and sushi on foliaged tables, I spoke to many family people. When I told this story of our shared initial initial to my nephew, he said he had been to Angarai, pulled out his cell phone, and displayed this photo. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘Here is our cousin, welcoming people to the temple.’