My Chess Master
Chapter 1
I still remember the first time I saw my younger brother, Ishtiyaq, conquer a chessboard. He was only seven, a skinny kid with bright, curious eyes. I was eleven then, more interested in cricket and gully football than any quiet board game. But that evening, under the yellow glow of our living room lamp in Barkatpur, a small town we called home, life took a surprising turn for us.
Our father, whom we lovingly call Abbu, had brought out an old wooden chess set that had belonged to our grandfather. The board’s squares were faded, and the black knight piece had a chip on its ear. It had been ages since anyone in our family touched it. Abbu had a nostalgic smile as he set up the pieces on the low table.
“Come here, Riyaz, Ishtoo,” Abbu beckoned, using the nickname only he used for Ishtiyaq. “Let me teach you something my father taught me.”
I plopped down on the floor, cross-legged, my interest piqued by the unusual seriousness in Abbu’s tone. Ishtiyaq knelt on the other side of the board, his head barely reaching the table. He looked at the carved pieces with fascination.
“This is a game of kings,” Abbu began, gently explaining the rules. I listened intently, but I have to admit, it was a lot to take in. Six different pieces, each moving in a distinct way – the pawn’s cautious step, the bishop’s diagonal glide, the knight’s quirky L-shape. My eleven-year-old brain struggled to keep track.
But Ishtiyaq, young as he was, absorbed every word. He wasn’t fidgeting or looking bored as he usually would during homework. Instead, his eyes followed Abbu’s hands with laser focus. He asked questions – oh, so many questions. “Why can’t the pawns move backwards, Abbu?” “And the queen is the strongest? Stronger than the king?” His voice had that mix of confusion and wonder only a child can manage.
Abbu answered each one patiently. He had always been a gentle teacher with us, whether it was flying kites or reciting Urdu couplets on cool winter nights. That day was no different. By the time we started our first practice game, I was still unsure about half the rules. Honestly, I just moved my pieces randomly, trying not to lose them. In contrast, Ishtiyaq was biting his lower lip, deep in concentration, recalling each rule exactly as told.
Predictably, I lost that first game in under fifteen minutes. My raja, the king, cornered and captured, checkmated mercilessly by Abbu’s queen. I sighed, feeling a bit foolish. But before I could dwell on my defeat, I heard a small voice pipe up.
“Abbu, can I play?” Ishtiyaq asked, barely containing his excitement. His tiny hand was already on his king, eager to start anew.
Abbu’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He glanced at me and then back at my little brother. “Ishtoo, you think you’re ready? It’s not as easy as it looks, beta.”
I expected Ishtiyaq to maybe falter or change his mind. After all, he was so young and had only watched one game. But he nodded with absolute certainty. “I want to try. I’ll be white this time!” He wanted the first move.
I decided to sit back and watch, munching on a piece of gur that Ammi handed me as she came to see what we were up to. Our mother, Ammi, stood by the doorway with a fond smile, her dupatta draped loosely over her head. She always loved seeing us play together, whatever the game.
What unfolded next left all of us astonished. Abbu played slowly, calling out the moves and checking if Ishtiyaq understood. But soon, even before half the pieces were off the board, it became clear that something extraordinary was happening. Ishtiyaq wasn’t just playing; he was strategizing. The seven-year-old kid was concentrating harder than I’d ever concentrated on anything. He moved his knights and bishops with an uncanny purpose, sometimes even surprising Abbu.
At one point, I saw Abbu scratch his head, perplexed by a trap that Ishtiyaq set with two knights and a bishop. It was a simple trick in hindsight – he had silently cornered Abbu’s queen. And then came the moment that still gives me goosebumps when I think of it. With a shy grin, Ishtiyaq moved his knight in that funny L-shape and declared, in his soft voice, “Checkmate, Abbu.”
For a second, I thought maybe he said it wrong. How could he possibly have won? But one look at the board, and my jaw dropped. The king had nowhere to go. Our father, the man who had taught us the game just an hour ago, was defeated by a seven-year-old on his first try.
There was dead silence. I looked at my brother as if seeing him for the first time. Ammi’s hands flew to her face in astonishment. Then Abbu broke into the biggest laugh. Not a mocking laugh, but one of pure delight and pride.
He got up, walked around the table, and hugged Ishtiyaq tightly. “Wah, mera shayar!” he exclaimed affectionately, though shayar means poet – Abbu’s playful nickname for my precocious brother. “It seems I have a little grandmaster in my house!”
I sprang up and ruffled Ishtiyaq’s curly hair until he swatted my hand away, blushing. “Arrey wah, Ishtu! You beat Abbu! You’ll have to teach me now,” I said, half joking, half serious. In that moment, I didn’t feel bad about losing at all. I was too proud. My kid brother, who still struggled with his shoelaces some days, had just done something unbelievable.
That night, after dinner, I found Ishtiyaq sitting cross-legged on his bed, the chessboard in front of him. The pieces were still set up in the checkmate position from his winning game. He was staring at them, replaying the moves in his mind perhaps. I sat beside him.
He looked up at me with those intense eyes. “Bhai,” he said quietly. He always called me Bhai, a simple Hindi word for brother that held all the love in the world for me. “Will you play with me? One game?”
It was late and we were supposed to be asleep, but how could I refuse? So under the dim light of our bedside lamp, we played. And played. I lost track of time after I lost the first two games to him within minutes. On the third game, I tried a new tactic I had just thought up on the spot, moving my rook out early to surprise him. We were both so engrossed that we didn’t notice Ammi standing at the door.
“Bas, ab so jao dono” (Enough, now sleep, both of you), she scolded gently, walking in to take the chessboard away. We protested in unison but one stern look from her and we knew the championship of Barkatpur would have to continue tomorrow.
As I crawled into bed, I saw Ishtiyaq still smiling to himself in the dark. I realized then that chess was not just a new game for him – it was a new world. A world where he could create his own rules and find endless possibilities. All I knew in that moment was that I was happy for my brother. And maybe a tiny bit jealous of how quickly he learned something that left me stumped. But that jealousy was nothing compared to the pride swelling in my chest.
Before drifting off, I whispered into the darkness, “Goodnight, champ.” I heard a soft reply from the other side of the bed, “Goodnight, Bhai.”
That was the night my little brother became my chess master. And neither of our lives would ever be the same after.
Chapter 2
The years that followed were like watching a legend being born in slow motion. After that first astonishing game, chess became a regular part of our lives. Every evening, once homework was done, the chessboard would emerge. Sometimes I played with Ishtiyaq (and lost nine times out of ten), and other times Abbu took a turn, challenging my little brother with complex strategies. It rarely mattered – Ishtiyaq’s mind danced around ours in ways we couldn’t comprehend.
Word spread in our neighborhood about the chess prodigy in the Khan family. Neighbors would drop by just to see the miracle boy play. One uncle even brought a friend who was a retired school headmaster, just to test Ishtiyaq’s skills. That poor headmaster uncle ended up shaking his head in disbelief after a swift defeat. I remember him telling Abbu, “Your son has been blessed by Allah. Nurture this talent.”
By the time Ishtiyaq was nine, he was representing our local Barkatpur Primary School in district-level chess competitions. I would tag along as the proud older brother, carrying his bag, making sure he drank water and didn’t lose his belongings in the excitement. Honestly, I sometimes felt like his manager or maybe his bodyguard. Not that I minded; I loved every minute of it.
One event stands out clearly in my memory from those days. It was the District Under-10 Chess Championship held at a big convent school in the nearest city, Moradabad. For us, going to Moradabad was a big deal – it meant an hour-long bus ride and a chance to eat the spicy chaat from the street vendors near the bus stand (a treat we always looked forward to).
I remember walking into the school’s auditorium with Ishtiyaq. Rows of tables were lined up, each with a chessboard and clock. The air hummed with murmurs and the occasional clack of chess pieces. Despite the crowd, my brother looked completely calm, eyes shining with excitement. I, on the other hand, had sweaty palms just from the anticipation.
Among the competitors was a boy about my age – perhaps 11 or 12 – named Rohan from a fancy private school. Rohan was tall, confident, and had a reputation; I overheard his coach boasting that Rohan had never lost to anyone from a government school like ours. When he saw little Ishtiyaq sitting opposite him in the final round (after both had won all prior matches), he smirked. “I guess they’re letting kindergarteners play now,” he said loudly, enough for those nearby to hear. A few chuckles arose from his friends.
I felt my fists clench, anger bubbling up. But before I could retort, I caught sight of Ishtiyaq’s face. He wasn’t upset. In fact, he gave a tiny smile – not to Rohan, but to me. As if to say, Watch this, Bhai.
The match began. I stood a few feet away, heart thumping in my chest. Rohan played aggressively, perhaps underestimating his pint-sized opponent. But I could tell – that was exactly what Ishtiyaq was counting on. Move after move, my brother countered every attack effortlessly. His fingers moved the pieces with precision, and he pressed the chess clock without any hesitation, as if he had all the time in the world.
At one point, Rohan’s knight took one of Ishtiyaq’s rooks with a dramatic flourish. Rohan leaned back, arms crossed, shooting a triumphant glance at the gathering crowd. A teacher from our school looked at me with concern, but I just shrugged, trying to appear confident. Inside, though, I worried: was this the end of our fairytale streak?
But then I noticed something – a hint of a grin on my brother’s face. It was the same look he had when he beat Abbu that very first time. Suddenly, Ishtiyaq advanced a pawn that had quietly made its way to the far end of the board. In all the commotion, Rohan had ignored it. My brother announced calmly, “Queen.” He was exchanging that pawn for a queen, a rule that often gets novices by surprise.
Rohan’s grin faltered as a fresh queen appeared on the board for Ishtiyaq. And in just three more moves, it was checkmate. The auditorium erupted in whispers and gasps. Rohan stared at the board in disbelief, face reddening. He had lost – to a nine-year-old.
I couldn’t contain myself. I whooped loudly, earning a disapproving glare from one of the nuns overseeing the tournament, but I didn’t care. I rushed to the table and lifted a bewildered but ecstatic Ishtiyaq into a big bear hug. “You did it, champ!” I cried, spinning him around while he laughed.
As they handed him the small trophy – a shiny gold-colored knight on a pedestal – I saw tears glistening in Abbu’s eyes in the audience. Yes, Abbu and Ammi had managed to come too, sitting in the back and praying quietly throughout the final match. They came up and embraced us. “Mubarak ho,” Abbu whispered, kissing the top of Ishtiyaq’s head. “Congratulations.” Ammi wiped her tears with the edge of her sari, beaming with pride.
But not everyone was happy. As we gathered our things, I noticed Rohan lurking near the doorway with two of his friends. The look in his eyes was something I hadn’t seen directed at my brother before: pure spite. When I passed by with the trophy in hand and Ishtiyaq at my side, Rohan muttered under his breath, “Fluke. That little rat just got lucky.”
I stopped in my tracks. “What did you say?” I asked, my voice low and angry.
He stepped forward, puffing his chest. “You heard me. Don’t think he’s a real champ. He’s just a chhotu who got a fluke win. Next time, he won’t be so lucky.”
Before I knew it, I had shoved Rohan hard. Perhaps I shouldn’t have – he was a couple of inches taller than me, but my rage made me bold. “Take that back,” I hissed. Behind me, I could sense Ishtiyaq tugging on my shirt, whispering, “Bhai, leave it. Let’s go home.”
Rohan shoved me back, and for a second I thought a full-blown fight would break out right there in the school corridor. His friends looked ready to jump in too. My jaw tightened; I wasn’t going to let anyone insult my brother. But then, suddenly, I felt a strong hand clamp down on my shoulder.
It was our father. “Riyaz, bas (enough),” Abbu said firmly. He looked at Rohan and his friends, who immediately backed off at the sight of an adult. Abbu didn’t raise his voice, but there was steel in it. “Congratulations on a game well played,” he said pointedly to Rohan, before guiding us away.
On the bus ride back to Barkatpur, I was still fuming. But Ishtiyaq sat close to me, the trophy clutched to his chest, and said softly, “It’s okay, Bhai. You didn’t have to do that for me.”
I looked at him – my little brother who rarely showed any anger or hurt. He was smiling gently, as if he was the one comforting me. It struck me that maybe the reason he didn’t react to bullies like Rohan was because he saw the world differently. To him, winning on the board was enough; he didn’t care about proving anything to those who didn’t believe in him otherwise.
“You’re my brother. Of course I did,” I replied, putting an arm around him. “If I don’t look out for you, who will?”
He rested his head against my shoulder as the sun set outside the bus window, painting the sky orange. “You know, one day I’ll be strong like you, outside of chess too,” he said quietly.
I chuckled. “Strong like me? Arrey, you’re stronger, Ishtu. Maybe not in muscle,” I teased, flexing my thin arm and making him giggle, “but in here.” I tapped his temple lightly. “And in here too.” I placed my hand gently over his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
He looked up at me, eyes earnest. “I’ll always have you, right?”
“Always,” I promised. In that moment, watching the fields and huts blur past outside as our bus rumbled along, I felt a deep certainty. Whatever came, I would protect this brilliant kid beside me. That was my job as the older brother, and nothing mattered to me more.
When we got home that night, the whole family celebrated. Ammi made sheer khurma, a special sweet vermicelli pudding, even though it wasn’t Eid or any festival. Neighbors came to congratulate and to marvel once again at our chess whiz. Amid the laughter and praise, I noticed Abbu speaking quietly to my mother in the corner of the living room. His voice was proud but also had a hint of concern. Later, I caught snippets of a late-night conversation between them: something about “future”, “coaching”, and “money”.
I realized then that with great pride often comes great worry. Our parents now knew for certain that Ishtiyaq had a rare gift. But nurturing that gift – taking it beyond local tournaments – would not be easy for a middle-class family like ours. Still, as I drifted to sleep that night, trophy gleaming on the shelf across the room, I believed we would find a way. After all, we had each other, and we had dreams stronger than any doubt.