The Game of Chess

It was the reign of Wajid Ali Shah. Lucknow was steeped in a state of
indulgence. Everybody—young and old, rich and poor—was immersed in
luxury. If there were soirees of music and dance in some places, there were
opium parties in others. In every sphere of life, enjoyment and revelry ruled. In
politics and poetry, arts and crafts, trade and industry—everywhere—indulgence
was becoming pervasive. The courtiers were obsessed with drinking, poets with
the descriptions of love and longing, craftsmen with making gold and silver
embroidery, artisans with earning a livelihood from kohl, itr perfume, cosmetic
paste and oils. In short, the entire realm seemed to be in the thrall of sensual
pleasures. No one knew what was happening in the world. They had no idea
about the new discoveries in the world of knowledge and wisdom and how the
Western powers were establishing their dominance. People wagered on partridge
fights. If somewhere the game of checkers was set up and people raised an
uproar at every move, at some other place a terrible combat of chess was on with
contending armies ranged on both sides. The nawab’s condition was even worse.
Every day new tricks and prescriptions for sensual pleasures were being
devised. So much so that when beggars were given money, instead of buying
food they bought intoxicating stuff like opium and tobacco. The youth from the
nobility visited courtesans to train themselves in wit and repartee.
Chess was regarded as an elixir that sharpened the mind and augmented the
analytical prowess of the players. Even now, there are people who put forward
this argument most forcefully. Therefore, if Mirza Sajjad Ali and Mir Roshan
Ali spent most of their time sharpening their minds then what objection could a
discerning man possibly have, even if fools thought otherwise! Both of them had
inherited ancestral estates and did not have to worry about their livelihood. After
all, what else could they do? Having had their breakfast early in the morning
both the gentlemen would set up a chess board, arrange the chessmen and start
sharpening their minds. They would get so lost in the game that they wouldn’t
realize when morning turned to noon and noon to evening. From inside the
house attendants would come to say that the meal was ready. And they would
respond, ‘Sure, we’re coming. Spread the mat out.’ But what were dishes of
korma and pulao against the delicious game of chess! In fact, the cook was
eventually forced to bring the food right there, and then both the friends
manifested their skill by doing both activities simultaneously. Sometimes the
food lay there, uneaten, as they played on, oblivious of its existence.
Mirza Sajjad Ali did not have any elderly people at his home, so the game was
played in his drawing room. This, however, didn’t mean that the other people in
Mirza’s household were happy with this habit of his. Definitely not. Not only the
members of his family, but neighbours and even servants often made caustic
comments. ‘What an inauspicious game! It ruins households. God forbid, when
someone gets addicted to it, he becomes entirely useless to his family and
friends. Totally worthless! It’s a fatal addiction.’ In fact, Mirza’s wife despised
the game so much that she lay in wait for opportunities to reproach him. But she
rarely found such opportunities. Even before she woke up the chess board was
laid out and when Mirza finally entered the bedroom at night she was fast asleep.
Sure enough, she would vent her anger on the servants, ‘What has mian asked
for, paan? Tell him to come and take it. Does he have fetters on his feet? What?
Did he say he had no time to eat food? Okay, then take the food and dump it on
his head. They can eat if they want or feed the dogs. Who’d keep waiting here
for him?’ But the fact was—she did not complain as much about her husband as
she did about Mir Sahib. She had given him nicknames like ‘Mir, the spoiler’,
‘Mir, the wrecker’ and so on. To save his skin Mirzaji often passed off all the
blame to Mir.
One day, when Begum Sahiba had a headache, she told the maid, ‘Go and call
Mirza Sahib. He must fetch medicine from the hakim for me. Run, hurry up.’
When the maid went to convey the message to Mirza he said, ‘Go, I’m coming.’
Begum Sahiba was not in the mood to wait. She simply couldn’t take it that
while she had a headache her husband continued to play chess. Her face blazed
in anger. She ordered the maid, ‘Go and tell him to come this moment, otherwise
I’ll go to the hakim alone.’ The game had taken a critical turn. Just two steps and
he was going to checkmate Mir. He got annoyed and said, ‘Is she on the verge of
death that she can’t wait a moment? Does the hakim have a magic wand to make
the headache disappear?’
Mir said, ‘Why don’t you go and listen to what she has to say? Women are
delicate creatures.’
‘Of course, you’d surely like me to go. Just two manoeuvres and you’re
checkmated!’
‘Sir, don’t be so confident. I’ve thought of a move that’ll checkmate you even
while your pieces stay where they are. But go, hear her out. Why do you want to
hurt her feelings needlessly?’
‘Then I’ll go only after defeating you.’
‘I won’t play. Just go and hear her out.’
‘Come on, I’ll have to go the hakim. She doesn’t have a headache. It’s just a
trick to trouble me.’
‘Whatever it is, you must do it for her sake.’
‘All right. Let me play one more move.’
‘Certainly not! As long as you don’t go and listen to her I won’t even touch
the pawns.’
Left with no choice, Mirza went in to face Begum Sahiba. She groaned as she
said, ‘You love this cursed chess so much that you don’t care even when
somebody is dying. Is it a game or my rival? God forbid there’s anyone like
you!’
‘What can I do? Mir Sahib wouldn’t let me go. I had to try hard to get rid of
him.’
‘Does he think everyone else is as worthless as him? He also has a family and
children, does he not? Or has he got rid of them?’
‘The fellow is an addict. When he comes over I cannot but play with him.’
‘Why don’t you shoo him away like a dog?’
‘Subhanallah! He’s my equal in society. In fact, he’s two steps ahead of me in
age and status. I have to show respect.’
 ‘Then I’ll shoo him away. If he feels bad, let him. As if he provides us with
our daily bread. I have to protect my husband. Hariya1, go bring the chess board
from outside. Tell Mir Sahib that master won’t play any more. He may leave.’
‘Come on, don’t be so rude. Do you want to defame me? Stop, Hariya, don’t
run like a stupid woman.’
‘Why don’t you let her go? You’ll see me dead if you stop her. Fine, you’ve
stopped her. Stop me if you can.’
She stormed out of the room in a rage. Mirza turned pale. Mist gathered
before his eyes. He began to plead with his wife, ‘In the name of the martyr of
Karbala2, you’ll see my dead face if you go there.’ The begum didn’t pay any
heed to him. She went up to the door of the drawing room but all of a sudden she
stopped in her tracks, feeling embarrassed to go in front of a stranger, a na-
mehram. She peered into the room, which was empty now.
Mir had shifted the positions of one or two pawns, as he was wont to do, and
had gone out and was pacing the courtyard. Begum Sahiba had her wish
fulfilled. She went inside and upturned the chessboard, threw some of the pieces
under the settee and some outside. Then she bolted the door from inside. Mir
was at the door. He saw the pieces being flung out and also heard the jingle of
bangles. When the door was banged shut he realized that Begum Sahiba was in a
temper. He slunk away from the scene and made for his home.
Mirza said, ‘What a disgrace!’
Begum Sahiba was unfazed. ‘Now if the fellow comes here again, I’ll have
him turned out. Does he think it’s a guesthouse? If he had shown such devotion
to God he’d have become a saint by now. You go on playing chess and expect
me to wear myself out grinding and cooking? You think I’m a slave? Are you
going to the hakim right now or not?’
Mirza left the house. However, instead of going to the hakim he went to Mir’s
home and told him the whole story.
Mir said, ‘I could guess when I saw the chess pieces being flung out. I fled!
She seems to fly off the handle. You have really given her a long rope, this is not
proper. How does it concern her what you do outside? It’s her duty to keep the
house in order.’
‘Anyway, where shall we meet now?’ Mirza asked.
 ‘That’s no problem!’ Mir reassured his friend. ‘My house is big enough. We
can have our sessions here.’
‘But how shall I convince Begum Sahiba? She flew into a rage when I played
at home; if I start coming here she’ll surely kill me.’
‘Let her babble. She’ll come around in a couple of days. But you should show
some backbone.’

For some unknown reason Mir’s begum had always preferred him to stay away
from home. Therefore, she never showed any displeasure towards his means of
entertainment. On the contrary, if he ever got late for chess or was in two minds,
she made sure to remind him about it and would in fact encourage him to go.
Because of this Mir was under the delusion that his wife was gentle, forbearing
and faithful. But when the sessions started happening in the drawing room of
their house and Mir spent the entire day at home, she felt that her freedom had
been severely curtailed and so was deeply worried. She yearned all day long to
have a look outside, and began thinking about how to overcome the hindrance.
Meanwhile, even the servants began to spin yarns. So far, they had been
accustomed to idling around and doing nothing. They were not bothered about
who came into the house or who left it. They were simply required to go to the
market a couple of times. Now they had to constantly be on their toes. They
were ordered to serve paan, water or ice at frequent intervals. And the hookah
burned at all hours like a lover’s heart. They went to their Begum Sahiba and
voiced their complaints: ‘The master’s love for chess has become a great
problem for us. Our feet have developed blisters from running errands. What
kind of a game goes on from morning till evening? A diversion for an hour or
two—that’s enough for any game. Of course, we aren’t complaining. We are the
master’s slaves. We will carry out whatever orders are given to us, but this is an
inauspicious game. Whoever plays this game never prospers. Some disaster will
befall this household. Neighbourhood after neighbourhood has gone to ruin
because of this game. The people of the mohalla taunt us about it and we feel
embarrassed.’
 Begum Sahiba replied, ‘I detest the wretched game myself. But what can I do?
What power do I have?’
There were a few old and wise people in the locality who began to have all
kinds of misgivings. ‘Now, we’re done for! When our nobles are like this then
God help the land! This kingdom will be ruined by this addiction of chess. The
signs are bad.’
The entire kingdom was in disarray. People were getting robbed in broad
daylight. There was no one to hear their grievances. All the wealth of the
countryside was drawn into Lucknow to be squandered on prostitutes, clowns
and pimps. Courtesans were reigning supreme. Gold coins rained down in wine
shops. The princes would fling around gold coins with abandon. While the
nobility went about spending recklessly, the debts owed to the East India
Company were mounting with every passing day. No one was bothered about
paying it back. It came to such a pass that even the annual taxes were no longer
collected. The resident sent repeated reminders and warnings, but nobody paid
these any heed because people were lost in their indulgences.
Nevertheless, the chess game continued in Mir’s drawing room for several
months. New plans were thought out, defences erected and demolished.
Sometimes they had squabbles which were aggravated for a time but were then
brought under control. Sometimes Mirza was so incensed that he left the game in
a huff and returned home, while Mir folded the chess cloth, retired to his own
chamber and resolved on oath not to go near the game again. But come morning
the friends were seen together again. A good night’s sleep removed all
bitterness.
One day both the friends were in the thick of a chess battle when an officer of
the king’s army came riding on a horse, asking for Mir. Mir lost his wits. What
calamity was this? He shut the doors of the house, and instructed the servants,
‘Tell them I’m not home.’
The rider demanded, ‘Where is he if not at home?’
The servant replied, ‘I don’t know. What do you want?’
‘Why should I tell you? He has been summoned by the king. Perhaps soldiers
are being conscripted for the army. It’s not a joke being a master of a rent-free
estate.’
‘Very well, you may go. We’ll convey the message.’
 ‘Simply conveying the message isn’t enough. I’ll come tomorrow and take
him along.’
When the rider left, Mir was still in a panic. He was shaking with terror. He
said to Mirza, ‘What’s going to happen now?’
‘What a bolt from the blue! What if I’m summoned too?’ Mirza panicked.
‘The bastard said he’d come again tomorrow.’
‘It’s such a misfortune! If we have to join the army we’ll die before our time. I
get a temperature at the very name of battle.’
‘I won’t be able to eat or drink from today.’
‘Listen, there’s just one way out. Let’s disappear, he won’t find us even if he
combs the entire city. Starting tomorrow, let’s have our session at some deserted
place on the banks of the Gomti. Who can find us there? When that fellow
comes for me, he’ll have to go back empty-handed.’
‘That’s right, what a splendid idea! From tomorrow, we’ll meet on the banks
of the Gomti.’
In the meantime, Mir’s begum was saying to the horseman, ‘You disguised
yourself perfectly!’
He answered, ‘I’m accustomed to making such jackasses dance to my tune.
Chess has robbed them of all their common sense and courage. Now you’ll see
they won’t stay at home even by mistake. They’ll leave early morning and return
by midnight.’

From the next day both friends would leave home at the crack of dawn. They
carried with them a small mat and a paan box. Crossing the Gomti they reached
an old, deserted mosque which was perhaps a relic of the Mughal period. On the
way they picked up tobacco, pipe and wine. After reaching the mosque they
spread the mat, filled their pipe and sat down to play their game. Then they were
without a care in the world. Apart from a few words like ‘move’, ‘check’ and
‘checkmate’ no other word came out of their mouth. No mystic could have been
more deeply rapt in his meditation. In the afternoon when they felt hungry they
went through narrow streets to a baker’s shop, ate something, smoked tobacco
and then got absorbed in the game again. At times, they forgot about eating
altogether.
Meanwhile, the political condition of the country was getting more
complicated. The forces of the East India Company were moving rapidly
towards Lucknow. There was commotion in the city and people were fleeing to
the countryside with their families. But our two chess players carried on
unperturbed. They would step out of their homes through the bylanes, escaping
the gaze of bystanders. Even their neighbours couldn’t get a glimpse of them. By
then, the British army had reached close to Lucknow.
One day both friends were playing chess. Mirza had the upper hand and Mir
was being checked again and again. Suddenly, the soldiers of the East India
Company were seen approaching. The Company had decided to mount a raid on
Lucknow. It wanted to gobble up the kingdom on the pretext of the unpaid loan.
It was the same capitalist ploy that had put fetters on all weak nations.
Mir said, ‘Here comes the British army!’
Mirza retorted, ‘Let them come! Save your pawns. Checkmate.’
‘We must take a peek, hiding behind a wall. Just see how youthful and mighty
they look! The mere sight makes one tremble in fear.’
‘You can see them later. What’s the rush! Check again!’
‘They have artillery too. There must be around five thousand soldiers! Red
faces just like monkeys!’
‘Don’t make excuses, sir. Here’s check!’
‘We’ll think about it when the time comes. Here, you’re checkmated.’
The army went past them. The friends got ready for a second round of the
game. Mirza said, ‘What’re we going to do about our meal today?’
Mir replied, ‘Today is a day of fasting. Are you feeling hungrier than usual?’
‘I wonder what’s happening in the city!’
‘People must be taking a nap after having their meals. His Highness the
Nawab Sahib also must be taking rest. Or there might be a round of drinking
going on.’
By the time the two friends set down to play, it was three. This time Mirza
was losing. At that moment the army of returning soldiers was heard. Nawab
Wajid Ali had been dethroned and the army was taking him away as a prisoner.
There was no turmoil in the city. No brave soldier of his spilled even a single
drop of blood. The nawab bade a tearful goodbye to his people, just like a bride
does at the moment of parting from her parents. The begums wept, the nawab
wept, the maids wept, and that was all! A kingdom came to an end. In human
history, no independent ruler of a country could have been overthrown so
peacefully and quietly. It was not the kind of non-violence which delights
angels. It was the kind of cowardice and impotence at which gods shed tears.
The nawab of the vast state of Awadh had been imprisoned and Lucknow was
lost in a sensual slumber. This was the last stage of political decadence.
Mirza said, ‘Those tyrants have captured His Excellency the Nawab Sahib!’
Mir parried, ‘Quite right. You aren’t a judge! Look here, check!’
‘Just a moment, sir. I can’t concentrate on the game right now. His Highness
must be shedding tears of blood! The lamp that had lit up Lucknow has gone out.
The nawab must be crying his heart out.’
‘Cry he must! Where will he find this luxury in the white man’s prison? Again
check!’
‘Time doesn’t stay the same for anyone. What a great catastrophe!’ Mirza
sounded philosophical.
‘Yes, that’s true. Here again, check! That’s it, you’ll be checkmated in the
second move. No one can save you!’
‘Wallah! You’re so heartless! Don’t you feel any grief at such a catastrophe!
The chief patron of arts, His Excellency, is no more. Lucknow has become
desolate!’
‘First save your king and then you can mourn for Nawab Sahib. Here’s check
and mate! Now, play your move!’
The army went by taking the nawab with them. Mirza set up the chess pieces
again. The sting of defeat is bitter. Mir said, ‘Come now, let’s write an elegy for
Nawab Sahib’s tragic destiny.’ But Mirza’s loyalty and etiquette had vanished
with his defeat. He was baying for vengeance.

Evening took over. Bats began to screech in the ruins. Swallows returned to their
nests and were taking rest. But both players continued their game like two
bloodthirsty warriors locked in a combat. Mirza had lost three games in a row
and the fourth one, too, didn’t look promising. He played each move with great
caution with the firm resolve to win, but one move turned out to be so ill-advised
that it spoiled the entire game for him. On the other side, Mir was singing
ghazals and thumris in ecstasy, occasionally teasing his friend and cracking
jokes. He seemed very pleased with himself, as if he had come upon some
hidden treasure. This annoyed Mirza no end. He frowned again and again and
said in exasperation, ‘Sir, don’t change your moves. What is this— you make a
move and then immediately alter it! Think carefully before you make a move.
Why is your hand on that piece? Leave it alone! Until you’ve decided the next
move in your mind, don’t touch your piece. Sir, you take half an hour for every
manoeuvre. This is against the rules! Whoever takes more than five minutes for
a move will be declared checkmated. You’ve changed your move again! Why
don’t you quietly place it back!’
Mir’s queen was about to be taken. He said, ‘When did I even make my
move?’
Mirza replied, ‘You’ve already made the move. Just put the piece right there
in the same square.’
‘Why should I put it back in that square? When did I take my hand off the
piece?’
‘If you wait till doomsday to make your move, will the game stop? The
moment you saw your queen in danger, you started cheating.’
‘You’re the one who cheats! Victory and defeat is decided by fate. Nobody
wins by cheating.’
‘Then it’s settled. You’ve lost the game,’ Mirza said in a tone of finality.
‘How have I lost it?’
‘Then you keep the piece back where it was.’
‘Why should I keep it there? I won’t!’
‘You’ll have to!’
‘Never!’
‘I’ll make you do it. What’s your worth, after all?’
The argument worsened. Each stuck to his position, neither one gave an inch.
When an argument heats up, irrelevant issues are inevitably brought in to
disgrace and humiliate the other party.
 Mirza said, ‘If anybody in your family had ever played chess then you’d have
been familiar with the rules. But they were just grass cutters. So how can you be
expected to play? Real aristocracy is something else! Nobody can become a
noble just by having a jagir.’
Mir was aghast, and said, ‘Your father must have been a grass cutter! My
people have been playing chess for generations!’
‘Oh, come off it! Your ancestors served as cooks in Nawab Ghaziuddin
Haider’s house, and in return got a jagir. And you call yourself a noble! It’s no
joke to be a noble.’
‘Why are you defaming your own ancestors? They must’ve worked as cooks.
My forebears always dined and wined at the nawab’s own table!’
‘Some people are just shameless!’
‘Hold your tongue or you’ll regret it. I’m not accustomed to hearing such
words. I pull out the eyes of those who dare frown at me.’
‘Do you want to see how brave I am? Come on, let’s slug it out then.’
‘Come, if you dare! You think I’ll cower before you?’
Out came the swords from their sheaths. In those times, everyone, high or
low, went around carrying daggers, swords, poniards and the like. Both were
lovers of pleasures but not cowards. The sentiments of patriotism had died in
them but they did not lack valour. Political sentiments had died in them—why
should they die for the emperor, the kingdom and the nation? Why should they
lose sleep over them? But when it came to defending their own honour, they
were fearless. Both took their positions. Sword clashed with sword, making a
loud clang. Both fell to the ground wounded, writhing in pain and gave their
lives. They didn’t shed a tear for the emperor but gave up their lives protecting
the queen of the chessboard.
Darkness was setting in. The game of chess was still set. Both the kings, each
on his throne, sat wistfully as if lamenting the death of these heroes.
It was desolate all around. The crumbling walls of the ruin, dilapidated
archways and dusty minarets looked down upon the corpses and lamented the
impermanence of human life, which was more fragile than stone and mortar.

Translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin