Introduction
The Chess Players (1924) is one of Premchand's best-known stories. Elegantly constructed and beautifully written, it was published like most of his work in two versions, his Urdu combining rich tradition with mastery of European form, his Hindi compelling in its sudden literary assurance. Satyajit Ray, a childhood visitor to Lucknow, was so struck by a Bengali translation that he returned years later to make his film classic Śatranj ke Khilāṛī (1977).
The topic is a pivotal moment in history. The East India Company was annexing Avadh (Oudh) in 1856. The ghadar or anti-British explosion of 1857–58 would follow. The Company had coexisted with Avadh for nearly a century, first as buffer for Bengal, then as neighbour, interlinked economy and almost Indian-badged extension of itself. Lucknow became the cultural capital of North India, a marvel of new construction, showcase of the arts, playground of the rich, India's own gateway to Europe. British takeover, in the name of better government, swept away the principle of partnership and its leading exemplar, alienating supporters and devaluing Company troops’ most potent reward, British prestige. Old hands understood the stakes. W.H. Sleeman, Resident at Lucknow from 1849 to 1854, no admirer of Avadh governance, recommended improvements, insisting that annexation would worsen, not cure, problems.Footnote 1 But a newer zeal to remake the world in the image of dynamic contemporary Britain prevailed. The Bengal Army, dispossessed rulers and ordinary people went on to demonstrate―in the plainest possible fashion―that political consensus led by the gorā rāj (white regime) of Kolkata (Calcutta) had collapsed. It was widely canvassed that British rule in India would end one hundred years after the Battle of Plassey (1757) and it nearly did.
The debacle profoundly affected what followed. The British Raj mended fences with the old ruling class and would end up resisting rather than leading change. More importantly, the issues were taken out of politics and there was no normal process of reconciliation. The problem, the British argued, had not been misjudgement but inadequate Indian education and familiarity with civilised European values. The Raj presided over an economic and social transformation, simultaneously retreating into paternalism and privileged knowledge, its own variant on the much-studied Romans, wary of their East but awed admirers of Greek culture. Political renewal, necessarily, rested with Indians themselves. A sophisticated new middle class duly confronted the Raj with the mismatch between European principle and practice, and found support in Britain. Premchand's story thus is part of the long accompanying debate, about politics and culture, strengths and weaknesses, Indian and British, that shaped the political economy of modern South Asia.
Premchand had already had his own run-in with the Raj. Another departing lāṭ ṣāḥib (proconsul), Curzon, had left a new legacy of inflamed passion, this time anti-British and Hindu-Muslim. Bengal's 1905 partition, understood by Kolkata's thriving Hindu middle class as marginalising them, sparked sustained protest culminating in political assassinations. Premchand's first short story The Most Precious Jewel in the World, published in D.N. Nigam's Kanpur Urdu magazine Zamāna in 1907, delivered a patriotic message in fairytale format. A collection of five patriotic stories including Jewel, entitled A Nation's Lament (Soz-e vaṱan), followed. In late 1909 the author “Nawab Rai” was identified as a sub-deputy inspector of schools at Mahoba, Hamirpur District, UP. The Collector, probably J.S. Stevinson, confiscated his unsold stock and drew attention to requirements for government employees to obtain permission before publishing. He contrasted past literary hazards like hand-amputation with the rule of law, suggesting it was in writers’ interest to uphold it. He went on to lay down that Premchand answered for his actions not his beliefs, rejecting calls from a Deputy CollectorFootnote 2 and a Police Superintendent for further pursuit and a counter-offer from Premchand's boss, R.N. Mishra, to test out his opinions. Told of the Collector's nobility (haĩ śarīf ādmī), Premchand acknowledged (svīkār kiyā, as he had authorship): “Very noble indeed”. He warmed to the humanity but knew his own mind.Footnote 3 The compromised “Nawab Rai” now became “Premchand”, possibly inspired by Premchand of Orchha, a sixteenth-century Mahoba ruler who “fought numerous battles” to defend his territory.Footnote 4 The new Premchand would battle with Europeans, Indians and himself, finding a voice and articulating values for a nation.
Jewel already maps the terrain, a Hindu-led vision of Indian heroism framed in an Urdu fable. A lover-tourist from the greater Iran of romance visits India, searching out the ultimate gift with which to win his beloved. He finds an expiring warrior. The enemy may have prevailed but the hero is surrounded by the enemy dead whom he is taking with him. He tells the visitor that he is his mother's son and the darling (lakht-e jigar)Footnote 5 of Bhārat (India). As he dies, he murmurs bhārat-mātā kī jay (“Long live Mother India!”). True patriotism (muḥabbat-e vaṱan) and devotion to country (desh-bhakt) have done a patriot's duty. The quest is over. The man's last drop of blood shed in defence of his country (vaṱan kī ḥifāɀat men) is the most precious thing in the world (duniyā kī sabse besh qīmat shai). The story's title succinctly summarises: “precious jewel” is not Urdu/Persian besh bahā johar but anmol ratan from the Sanskrit register of the Hindi-Urdu continuum.
The Chess Players was first published in October 1924 in the Lucknow Hindi monthly Mādhurī that Premchand was editing at the time. The Urdu version followed in Zamāna in December 1924. Premchand and Nigam, who had printed Soz-e vaṱan and shared the fallout, will have discussed this potentially more controversial project and Nigam is likely to have counselled caution. Company insistence that Avadh takeover and its aftermath were morality plays―Decadence Rewarded followed by Civilisation in Peril―had logically resulted in a Raj charged with imperial mentoring. Premchand had no need, or inclination, to contest claims of decadence, tantamount to confronting Raj legitimacy and credentials. Unlike the warrior-hero of Jewel, King Wajid Ali Shah of Avadh had declined to fight, to all appearances departing meekly into exile. The new generation of patriots looked, rather, to princely champions of 1857–58 like the King's ex-wife Hazrat Mahal, who led fighting at Lucknow, or the Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi, a formidable ancienne élève of the Maratha Peshwa's court in exile. The narrative's natural starting-point was the British and nationalist common ground that 1856 Lucknow had, if for different reasons, been found wanting. Other reflections were incorporated, the Urdu and Hindi versions each striking a balance suited to language and audience.
The result was, first and foremost, a modern short story. Two landholders who might have rallied to the defence of Wajid Ali Shah are instead playing chess. Ejected first from one home, then the other, they take their game to a ruined mosque across the river and end by laying down their lives, not for king and country but in a dispute about a chess vazīr (corresponding to queen) and which square he should move to. The narrative is wry, restrained and irremediably comic.Footnote 6 Premchand's scriptwriting talents, briefly exploited by early Bollywood and celebrated indirectly in Ray's film, are on display in successive dialogues. The narrator sternly deprecates Nawabi frivolity. “All the wealth of the villages was drained away to Lucknow and disappeared on harlots, jesters and other forms of extravagance”, we are told, or “Never before had the king of an independent country been overthrown so peaceably, with such bloodlessness. . .The Nawab of the mighty land of Avadh had been carried off captive and Lucknow was floating in a dream-world of extravagance. It was the ultimate in political collapse”.
Nawabi Lucknow was a centre of conspicuous consumption like Regency Paris or London,Footnote 7 or a later Monte Carlo. The moral that decadence does not pay is intended. Surprise-free for the British, on-message for nationalists, it faithfully reflects the Premchand who demanded seriousness of purpose, dismissing at least one leading Lucknow poet as brilliant but frivolous.Footnote 8 But this was a schoolmaster with a twinkle in the eye and there is more to the story. As it climaxes, Mir Roshan Ali goads Mirza Sajjad Ali with sustained double-entendre (Urdu ẓil’). He is playacting for us the art-form of the narrative. The bejewelled opening description of Lucknow echoes, even parodies, classic British accounts, which in turn drew on models like Tacitus on Caligula or Nero, with his Roman penchant for reflection, in the style of Mir Sahib's “old timer” (purāne zamāne ke log) neighbours, on the corrupting influence of luxury and the exotic. In Urdu, long practised at the technique, the words simultaneously invoke a Persian poetic idyll, declaring Nawabi Lucknow true heir to rich tradition. Rindī (roguishness) is Hafiz's alternative world of drinking-houses and Zoroastrian ruins peopled by riff-raff (rind) and cup-bearers, to which the poet retreats for escapist bucolic understood by Sufis as mystical experience. The drinking-cup (sāghar o jām) that clouds everyone's eyes is also the jām-e jam (Cup of Jamshid), prized royal possession and divinatory device of Persian mythology. The systematic double-meaning of Hafiz's ghazals and Sufi language is integral to the story.
Reality and illusion chase one another's tails. Mirza Sajjad Ali and Mir Roshan Ali, effete scions of a once warlike class, redefine themselves in insult as the arrivistes of a flourishing service economy, familiar to the urbanising world of Premchand's day. Mir Roshan Ali, the Mirza claims, was King Ghazi ud-Din Haidar's cook, his culinary skills since turned to perfecting their chef d’oeuvre, gentlemanly status. Similar questions of origin, in the animal feed or other business, surround Sajjad Ali. In parallel with their chess games, the story conducts the two on a spiritual quest. Mirza nearly dies when his Begam bursts into the drawing-room to up-end the chess game. Mir is already given to mystical disappearing tricks and meditation when his Begam takes helpfully to reminding him to set off for chess. Both nearly die again at the prospect of call-up to the army. Mir now embarks on a fast, alternating with visits to a baker's stall, as they annihilate themselves in chess. By the end, Mir's heightened state reveals hidden treasure. This is all mystical terminology, marking progress towards illumination for which “death” is conventional metaphor. As the chess players die at one another's hands, the two chess kings flail themselves (mātam), in ritual commemorating the martyrs of the Battle of Karbala whose death marks the founding moment and ultimate triumph of Shia Islam. The kings radiate on their thrones in harmony with Mir Roshan (Luminous) Ali and the ruined mosque's minarets touch their heads to the ground (ba-sujūd) in tribute to Mirza Sajjad (Adorer) Ali. The finale is indeterminate between comédie noire parodying the manly virtues that might have defended Lucknow and a transcendental moment which will ultimately turn defeat into victory.Footnote 9
King Wajid Ali Shah (1822–87) opens the story, dominating it with his presence. Urdu name-puns sketch a royal report: could do better at science and current affairs but is outstanding in the performance arts. An accomplished poet, songwriter and impresario, he staged spectacular mass-audience song and dance extravaganzas at his Qaisarbagh Palace, projected as dwarfing Versailles, and enjoyed a popular following that pre-figured twentieth-century Bollywood. His parī-khāna (or Fairy House) trained and accommodated young artists and he appeared in many productions himself, memorably as Krishna chasing the gopīs (milkmaids) at Holi. Celebrated under the informal title Jān-e ‘ālam (Lifebreath of the World) and by his literary aliases Qaisar (Emperor) and Akhtarpiyā (Beloved/drunken star),Footnote 10 he was teetotal, a trained Sufi and punctilious at daily prayer. British Residents were less drawn to fairyland than Tom Moore (Paradise and the Peri, 1817), Spontini (Nurmahal, 1822) or Schumann (Das Paradies und die Peri, 1843). Satyajit Ray shared misgivings about Wajid Ali's fondness for the fairer sex, declining during research for the film to consult the monarch's personal diary, Maḥāl Khāna Shāhī. Premchand too was torn. In the Urdu version, the King's afternoon siestas are devoted to the “wine-cup” (conviviality and illumination). In the Hindi Mir settles for a jibe: “His Majesty the Nawab will be in his pleasure-house”.
The mid-point climax of the story is Wajid Ali's departure for Kolkata. In the Urdu he leaves “like a weeping, breast-beating girl departing for her father-in-law's house” (jaise laṛkī rotī pīṭatī susrāl jātī hai). This is not random simile.Footnote 11 The breast-beating is Shia victory in defeat. The bridal adieu is Wajid Ali's best-known hit-song Bābul morā, naihār chhūto hī jāe. . . (“My father, I’m leaving home. . .”). Premchand breaks the narrative for a Bollywood-style musical interlude celebrating the moment. No desperado “risking his life” (jānbāz) defends Jān-e Ālam and he needs none. He himself enhances life and he has made his calculation. In the film, Ray preferred the King's more explicitly topical jab chhoṛ chele Lakhnau nagarī. . . (“When we departed the city of Lucknow. . .”).
Wajid Ali was equally at home on the political stage. He rejected the Company's proposal, a treaty under which he would surrender Avadh revenues and continue as figurehead like the Nawabs of Bengal at Murshidabad. Negotiation with the British had been a cornerstone of Avadh public life for decades, some of his family's earliest dealings resulting in the impeachment of Warren Hastings. He challenged the Company to depose him, famously offering up his crown.Footnote 12 Outram, charged with annexation, knew well enough to sidestep this. He took over the administration, keeping the King installed at the Qaisarbagh Palace. But Wajid Ali insisted on leaving for London to hold Queen Victoria, Parliament and the Company to their treaty obligations. He arranged his own transport to Kolkata, where it was agreed that a deputation led by his mother and brother would proceed.Footnote 13 They were supported by Major R.W. Bird, formerly of the Lucknow Residency. The Company lobbied intensively to limit their effectiveness. The Queen received the Begam but the House of Lords declined to accept a petition. Bird addressed public meetings and might have harnessed radical opinion but for lurid coverage of Lucknow in circulation, notably William Knighton's Private Life of an Eastern King (1855). Bird and the Quaker journalist Samuel Lucas, editor of the Morning Star, went on to issue their account, Dacoitee in Excelsis [Glorified Banditry] or the Spoliation of Oude by the East India Company. . . (1857). Wajid Ali had not carried the day. But he had positioned himself unmistakably as wronged party and victim. The iconic image of dethroned monarch humiliatingly marched off into exile would sweep all before it.
Premchand, alive to the King's magic, traces a spiritual process unfolding alongside the narrative. As Wajid Ali disappears from view with his British escort he becomes Ḥuẓūr ‘Ālī (Exalted Majesty), almost Ḥaẓrat ‘Alī (the revered Imam). Lucknow's light may have gone out but Wajid Ali himself is purnūr, in full illumination. Mir and Mirza toy with accompanying rituals, mātam (flagellation) and chanting a marṧiya (elegy for martyrs). Verbal jousting, already close to an alternating couplet contest (bait bāzī), now verges on Lucknow's celebrated annual marṧiya competition. Their ultimate self-sacrifice is greeted by a world (‘ālam) of unquiet silence (sannāṭā). This is the “spirit of the world” (Jān-e ‘ālam) watching and waiting. Premchand reflects reality: Wajid Ali had changed the course of events. He also flags synergy between the victim motif in Shia Islam and the passive resistance which Gandhi forged into satyāgraha (truth-force), a theme explored in the play Karbala (November 1924) featuring legendary Hindu allies of the Imam Husayn. Jewel's warrior-hero, like counterparts elsewhere, had moved on from anarchist spectacularFootnote 14 to broader political engagement but not to the extent of welcoming comparison with a pleasure-loving, deposed King. Premchand duly registers a disclaimer: “this was not the ahimsā (Gandhian non-violence) in which the angels rejoice”.
The Urdu and the Hindi versions are set out in translation below. Judged textual variation, highlighted in bold type, achieves a marked difference in style and feel. It is clear from content and adjustment that the Urdu is the prototype,Footnote 15 and that the Hindi developed from it.Footnote 16 The Urdu flows, working its effects and exploring harmony with European form. The Hindi is tight, innovative, lapidary, and reminiscent of contemporary European art. Mir comes close to capturing their distinctiveness, fondly imagining himself to be blessed with the ideal wife. In Urdu she is khalīq (urbane). In Hindi, she is gambhīr, serious-minded and dependable.
The Urdu conducts us elegantly through double-entendre and ambiguous denouement. Lucknow's problem was, we are told, debt-servicing. We nod sagely at reflections on international monetary arrangements, governments, bankers and their iniquities. The Hindi is identically constructed, with Hindu sannyāsa (renunciation, asceticism), a major current in satyāgraha, partly displacing Sufi illumination. Hints at the Mahābhārata almost cast Wajid Ali as Yudhishṭhira, the wronged Pandava king avenged in epic confrontation that became a nation's story, like the Trojan War of Homer's Iliad or the Independence struggle itself. But language and audience lend themselves less to elaborating Wajid Ali’s, Mir's and Mirza's spiritual travels, and the finished result bears a stronger morality tale imprint. The minarets at the end adore Sajjad Ali but now major on tearing their hair in mourning and scratching their heads in puzzlement. Gambhīrtā (measure, gravitas) recurrently jogs the elbow. Lucknow's excesses, various and nuanced in Urdu, are vilāsitā (luxury, extravagance). Social mingling challenges not just style but dietary rules (āhār-vyavahār). Holy men squander their pence but not on the costliest opium. Mir's servants must make clear, if they complain, that they are not being disloyal. Recreational games are allowed half-an-hour maximum with no extension. Mir and Mirza are rentier shirkers and will learn salutary lessons at the front. Avadh's crisis is not urban but rural: breakdown of law and order in the countryside has visited intolerable hardship on the villages, which is the priority issue. This perspective on pre-annexation Avadh is close to that of Sleeman, and marks an important continuity. Premchand, well-read in English, might in a different world have become an acclaimed English author. One of his early favourites, G.W.M. Reynolds (1814–79), who outsold Dickens with titles like The Mysteries of the Court of London (1848–56), was the founder-editor of Reynold's News. Public responsibility, welfare and radical ideals are integral to Premchand's work and were part of the birthright of modern India.
European-style Indian writing began in Bengal. In Europe of the time Rabindranath Tagore enjoyed a dedicated following similar to that of Tolstoy. Premchand, who admired Tagore but had reservations, will have been aware of his novel Chaturanga (1916) in which four characters work out their destinies. The Chess Players unfolds a higher game. Bhārat-mātā herself reviews British India at mid-term and contemplates her destiny. The story itself is in four parts, matching the four-part armies of the original Indian game of chess (chaturanga). A running pun (ghar = home/square) correlates the narrative with chess. In the first three parts Mirza, Mir and Wajid Ali are ejected from their “homes” by a queen, a knight and pawns respectively. In the fourth, dispute about a vazīr (queen) generates the anarchic outcome, mutual checkmate. All four sides take a bow and the “world of silence” waits.
Above all, the tale celebrates the magic that was Lucknow, sumptuously revived in Ray's later film. Mir and Mirza are authentic exponents. When we first meet them, they have reduced Mirza's cook to serving to them, as they play, the special meal that he has prepared for the guest who may or may not have been Wajid Ali's great-uncle's cook. They juggle mouthfuls and chess pieces in tandem, with the dexterity of street performers conjuring entertainment out of thin air. They are demonstrating (ṧubūt denā) their advanced skills. Illusion and reality dance. By the end the ruined mosque is lamenting the impermanence (be-ṧabātī) of human life lacking even the substance (ṧabāt) of stone and brick. Mir and Mirza are gone, the mosque will soon join them but the fleeting world of Wajid Ali's Lucknow and the power of an idea live on.
Premchand was trained in Persian and Urdu and became a master. In a changing world, his virtuoso skills transformed Hindi. By the time he died in 1936, the patriotic hero glimpsed thirty years earlier in Urdu had found his literary language and India had acquired its leadership-in-waiting. Premchand argued to the end for a shared Hindi-Urdu culture, avoiding marked Persian and Sanskrit separatism. But by then the battle for language unity was all but lost, as the political battle for a united India would also be ten years later. The story had held out larger hopes. In the Urdu, Mir's and Mirza's lack of public spirit (qaumī dilerī) is ingeniously linked to the ‘anqā (phoenix). This is renaissance of the civic virtues in the Urdu heartland.
Lucknow's inclusive Hindu-Muslim creativity powers on unstoppably today in folklore, entertainment and the arts. The genius, the informing spirit (rūḥ/ātmā), of Munshi Premchand and Jān-e ‘Ālam,Footnote 17 who may have shaped more than most high-table illuminates,Footnote 18 reminds us that an even brighter star once shone.
THE CHESS MATCH (URDU)Footnote 1
It was Nawab Footnote 2 Wajid Ali Shah's time.Footnote 3 Lucknow was sunk in a riot of luxury.Footnote 4 Everyone, small and great, pursued pleasure. If dance spectaculars Footnote 5 were staged in one place,Footnote 6 the next man was relishing a haze of opium. In every walk of life revelryFootnote 7 prevailed. In government, literature, social style, craftsmanship, commerce, everyone busied themselves with gratification. Pillars of the realm were slaves to wine-bibbing,Footnote 8 poets were intoxicated with dalliance,Footnote 9 craftsmen with turning out precious thread and fine embroidery,Footnote 10 soldiers with partridge-fights, tradespeople with buying and selling eye-shadow and mouth-dye, perfume and oil, in a word the whole nation was caught in the shackles of self-indulgence. The daze of the drinking-cup clouded everyone's eyes. No one knew what scholarly and scientific innovations Footnote 11 were in train, where the peoples of the west were advancing by land and sea. Quail fought. Bets were being placed on partridge. Somewhere chausar Footnote 12 was in play; the cry pau barah Footnote 13 went up. Elsewhere battles had broken out at chess. Armies were being up-ended. The Nawab's case was worse still. There was innovation at court in song and dance. New tricks, ever new routines were thought up to delight the spirit. So much so that when holy men obtained charity, instead of buying bread they treated themselves to opium-blend or pure opium.Footnote 14 Magnates’ sons studied under entertainment stars to gain proficiency in ready wit and repartee. Chess was an accepted nostrum for quickening powers of reason, acquiring presence of mind and sharpening the intellect. Even today one finds everywhere a class of persons who press the case vigorously. So, if Mirza Sajjad Ali and Mir Roshan Ali spent the better part of their life sharpening their minds, no discerning person had occasion to object. As to ignoramuses, let them think what they wanted. Both gentlemen held hereditary land.Footnote 15 They were free of concern about earning a living. What else were they to do? At daybreak the two gentlemen breakfasted and sat down at their chess-mat. They laid out the pieces and set about sharpening their minds. They were then beyond knowing when it was midday, mid-afternoon or evening. Time and again someone would come from inside the house to say food was ready. The answer was, “Right, we’re coming. Lay out the spread.” But the delights of qorma and pulao Footnote 16 paled beside chess. Eventually, the cook was reduced to serving the food in the room and the two friends juggled the two activities in tandem, demonstrating Footnote 17 their consummate dexterity. Sometimes the food was left untouched. It had been forgotten. Mirza Sajjad Ali's establishment had no senior resident, so relaxed Footnote 18 battles took place in his drawing-room. But that did not mean that the rest of Mirza's household were happy with his pursuit. On the contrary. In the quarter, among the servants, women, maids alike a carping critique was kept up: “Very ill-fated game. Leaves a house ruined. Heaven forbid anyone form the habit, he's no use to God, no use to man. It's the washerman's dog all over again: no place at home or work.Footnote 19 Dreadful disease”. The real bugbear was that the Begam Sahiba too increasingly raised her voice in protest at the pursuit. Her opportunities, though, were hard come by. She was still asleep when the game got underway. At night she had gone to sleep by the time the Mirza re-entered the house. She certainly vented a mindless, abusive anger.Footnote 20 She snapped at the servants: “Master ordered betel, has he? Tell him to come and get it himself. Lost the use of his feet, has he? Footnote 21 Says he has no time now for food? Go and tip the food over his head, for him or the dogs. Who here is going to wait for him?” But the pièce de résistance was that she complained not so much about her husband as Mir Sahib. She awarded Mir Sahib names like Loafer, Calamity or Scrounger. Possibly, in his protestations of innocence the Mirza had heaped all blame on Mir Sahib's head.
One day the Begam Sahiba had a headache, so she told the maid, “Go and call the Mirza. He needs to fetch medicine from the doctor’s.Footnote 22 Run, be quick. My head's splitting”. The maid went, the Mirza said: “Right, I’m just coming”. The Begam Sahiba was livid that she should have a headache and her husband be busy playing chess. Her face flushed and she told the maid to go and tell him to come at once, or she would go to the doctor's herself. There was something untoward Footnote 23 about her eyes. The Mirza was playing a gripping game. Two moves more and Mir Sahib would be checkmate. He said: “Is it that dying gasp?Footnote 24 Can't she show a little forbearance? Is the doctor going to dispense a magic spell to cure her headache?”
Mir Sahib ruled: “Go on, go and listen to her for a bit. Women are delicate creatures.” Footnote 25
Mirza: “Sure, why not go? You’re mate in two moves.”
Mir: “Don't you count on it, my dear Sir. The move I’ve come up with will set your pieces reeling, and mate you, but go and listen. Why, pray, upset her unnecessarily over such a trifle?”
Mirza: “That's just it. I mean to mate you.”Footnote 26
Mir: “I shan't play. You go and listen first.”
Mirza: “Come on, old man. It’ll mean going to the doctor’s. There's no headache at all. It's a dodge to harass me.”
Mir: “Even so, you’ll have to humour her.”
Mirza: “Alright, one move and I’ll go.”
Mir: “Absolutely not, until you go and listen I shan't touch the pieces.”
Mirza Sahib was forced to go inside, where a groaning Begam Sahiba said: “You’re so in love with your poxy chess that you wouldn't bestir yourself if one was dying. Chess has become the other woman. Save us from initiates Footnote 27 like you.”
Mirza: “What could I do, Mir Sahib wouldn't let me go. I’ve only just torn myself away with great difficulties.”
Begam: “Just because he's a loafer, does he think others are? He has a family himself, or has he disposed of them all?”
Mirza: “He's a thoroughly bad lot. When he comes, he rides roughshod over me,( Footnote 28 ) so I’m forced to play him.”
Begam: “Why don't you chase him off, like a dog?”
Mirza: “Good God. He's my equal in age, a notch or two ahead of me in rank. I have to show him consideration.”
Begam: “Then I’ll chase him off. If he takes offence, so be it. Who's keeping me in bread? Queen takes amiss, forget about bliss.Footnote 29 (To the maid) Abbasi, go and fetch the chess-board. Tell Mir Sahib the master won't be playing, he should kindly leave and not show his face again.”
Mirza: “Just the outrage we need! Why disgrace me? Stop, Abbasi. Where are you running Footnote 30 to, wretch?”
Begam: “Why won't you let her go? Stop her, drink my blood! You’ve stopped her, stop me, shall we see?” So saying, the Begam started with a shriek Footnote 31 for the drawing-room. The Mirza's face paled. It became a picture.Footnote 32 He began imploring his wife: “For God's sake, as you revere the Martyr of Karbala!Footnote 33 See my corpse, if you set foot inside!”Footnote 34 But the Begam Sahiba heeded not a word. She approached the drawing-room door, yet all of a sudden, at the prospect of facing a strange manFootnote 35 with no niqab , her feet failed her. She peered inside. Happily the room was empty. Mir Sahib, counsel of necessity, had rearranged a few pieces and to establish his innocence was out on the terrace at the time taking forty paces.Footnote 36 At that, the Begam Sahiba obtained her sought-after wish. Entering, she up-ended the game, sent some pieces flying under the sofa, others outside, then pulling the door shut threw the bolt. Mir Sahib was at the door, saw the pieces come flying out, then hearing the clink of bangles realised that the Begam Sahiba had run riot.Footnote 37 He quietly went off home.
Mirza said to the Begam Sahiba: “You’ve committed an outrage.”
Begam: “If that dumbo Footnote 38 comes here again, I’ll throw him out on the spot. It hardly bears saying this is not a bawdy house.Footnote 39 If you showed as much devotion to God, you’d be a saint.Footnote 40 While you people are playing chess, I’m bothering my head minding hearth and household grind. Do you take me for a servant? Are you off to the doctor's or still making up your mind?”
The Mirza left the house, going not to the doctor's but to Mir Sahib's house where in apologetic tones, heart brimming with anguish, he recounted the whole story. Mir Sahib laughed and said: “I realised as much when the maid brought news of a headache, that today's signs were not good. She seems very intemperate. I mean to say, what high-handedness! You’ve over-indulged her, it's not right. What business is it of hers what you do elsewhere? Her job is managing the home. What right has she to interfere in men's affairs? Take my house, no one ever objects.”
Mirza: “Fair enough. But tell me, where are we going to meet?”
Mir: “What's the problem now? There's an ample houseFootnote 41 to hand. Settled, our venue's here.”
Mirza: “But how am I to win the Begam Sahiba round? She was angry enough when I was at home. If I’m away, she might not leave me alive.”
Mir: “My dear Sir, let her rail. She’ll come round of her own accord in a few days. And do be a little firmer yourself.
(2)
Mir Sahib's Begam Sahiba for some reason approved of Mir Sahib's invisibility Footnote 42 about the house. She made no complaint, therefore, at all over his leisure pursuit. Rather, if he was sometimes late setting off or a little dozy, she would prove to him that “When the master meditates, a reminder is in order”.Footnote 43 For these reasons Mir Sahib was under the impression that his Begam Sahiba was extremely civil, patient by temperament and faithful. But when the chess-mat was laid out in their drawing-room and the Begam Sahiba's freedom from Mir Sahib's continuing presence was first curtailed, great anguish took hold of her. Daily she longed to peer out of the door. She began deliberating how to rid herself of the affliction!
Then the mutterings started among the servants. Until now they had spent all day in idleness snoring. Comings and goings at the house were none of their business or concern. At most they had to make a few visits to the bazaar. Now it was oppression round the clock. Sometimes the order was for betel, sometimes water, sometimes ice, sometimes replenishing tobacco. The hookah glowed perpetually like some loverFootnote 44 with a burning heart. They all approached the Begam Sahiba: “Ma’am, the master's chess has become the bane of our lives.Footnote 45 We‘re getting blisters on our feet from running about all day. This is a game that goes on from morning to night. A game takes half-an-hour or an hour. Over and done with, and then you know, ma’am, what an ill-fated game it is. Anyone who forms the habit never recovers. Some disaster or other is bound to fall on the house. Whole quarters are known to have been destroyed by it, one after the other. The neighbours constantly turn on us. We’re ashamed to go out of the house.” The Begam Sahiba said: “I don't approve of the game myself at all. But what can I do? What influence do I have?”
The neighbourhood's few old timers began spreading all sorts of suspicions: “Now there can be no prosperity.Footnote 46 If this is the plight of our notables, then God preserve the realm.Footnote 47 Chess will be the ruin of this kingdom. The omens are dire.”
In the kingdom weeping and wailing broke out. Farmers were robbed in broad daylight. But there was no one to hear their claims for redress. All the wealth of the villages was drained away to Lucknow and spent there on procuring trappings of extravagance.Footnote 48 Jesters, mimes, kathak Footnote 49 dancers and entertainment stars did brisk business. Gold coins Footnote 50 rained down in serving-wenches’ Footnote 51 parlours. Grandees’ sons would toss a gold coin with each puff of the hookah. At this rate of expenditure indebtedness to the English Company grew by the day. No one was concerned to repay it, to the point where not even the annual service charge could be paid. Time and again the Resident wrote pressing letters, issued threats. But the headiness of indulgence had the local population in harness.Footnote 52 No one lent an ear.
Well, several months went by playing chess in Mir Sahib's drawing-room. Ever new tricksFootnote 53 were solved, ever new defences thrown up and laid low. Sometimes as they played a private fight Footnote 54 would develop. Recourse would be had to name-calling.Footnote 55 But these sweet griefs Footnote 56 were very soon healed. Sometimes even, an offendedFootnote 57 Mirza would depart home. Mir Sahib would take up the chess-mat, go and sit inside his house and swear oaths Footnote 58 never to touch chess again. But come morning, the two friends were back together at their places. Sleep had banished all ill-feeling.
One day, as the two friends sat negotiating the quagmire of chess, a royal cavalryman called, complete with uniform and arms, asking for Mir Sahib by name. Mir Sahib froze, his self-possession deserted him. Heaven knew what woe had befallen him. He had the house doors secured and told the servants: “Say I’m not at home.”
The cavalryman asked: “If he's not at home, where is he? He must be hiding somewhere!”
Servant:Footnote 59 “I don't know. That's your answer from the house. What's your business?”
Cavalryman: “Why should I tell you my business? He's been summoned to His Majesty. Maybe some soldiers are wanted for the army. He's a landholder, what a lark!”Footnote 60
Servant: “Right, kindly go. He’ll be told.”
Cavalryman: “This isn't pass-the-parcel. I’ll be back early tomorrow and, after I’ve searched him out, I’ll take him with me. My orders are to present him.”
The cavalryman departed. Mir Sahib's spirit expired.Footnote 61 Quailing, he said to the Mirza: “What happens now?”
Mirza: “It's a great misfortune. I trust there's no summons for me.”
Mir: “The wretch has said he’ll be back tomorrow.”
Mirza: “It's quite simply the judgement of Heaven. When soldiers are called up, one might as well be dead.Footnote 62 In my case, the mere sound of the word war brings on a fever.”
Mir: “In my case, reckon food and water off-limits Footnote 63 as from today.”
Mirza: “Right, here's a plan for avoiding him. Both of us will disappear.Footnote 64 He can scour the whole city. Starting tomorrow we’ll cross the Gomti and the game can play outFootnote 65 in some ruin. There, who's to know? The great manFootnote 66 will turn up and go back with his tail between his legs.”
Mir: “Right you are! Brilliant idea! By God, we’ll cross the Gomti tomorrow and install ourselves there.”
Elsewhere, the Begam Sahiba was telling the cavalryman: “You took the part magnificently!” He answered: “I make fools like that dance with a click of the fingers. Chess has consumed all his brains and bravado. Watch him hang about the house now. He’ll be off in the morning and not back till dark.”
(3)
From that day on the two friends were out of the house before dawn and, a little rug underarm, a box stuffed with betel, crossed the Gomti and settled in an old ruined mosque, perhaps a relic of Mughal times. On the way they obtained bowl, tobacco and pipe and proceeded to the mosque. They spread the rug, filled the hookah and sat at the chess-mat. They were then lost to this world and the next. “Check”, “King en prise ”.Footnote 67 With the exception of these terms, not a word escaped their lips. Even a fasting asceticFootnote 68 would not be seated in such a state of immersion. At midday when hunger gnawed the two great men, keeping to the lanes, would eat at a baker’sFootnote 69 stall and, after smoking a hookah-bowl, once again, obliterated in chess, savour defeat.Footnote 70 Sometimes, the thought of food never occurred to them.
The country's political tangles were now becoming daily more tangled. The Company's forces were massing on Lucknow. Commotion broke out in the town. People, each taking their children, were fleeing off to the villages. But our two chess-playing friends were untouched by cares of office or loss of property.Footnote 71 Leaving home they kept to the lanes, so that no eye might fall on them. Even the neighbours caught no glimpse of them. Finally, the English troops reached the outskirts of Lucknow.
One day the two friends were sitting playing. Mir Sahib's game was faltering. Mirza Sahib had him continually in check, when suddenly the Company's army appeared advancing up the road ahead. The Company had decreed the occupation of Lucknow. On pretext of debt, it wanted to devour the kingdom. This was a moneylender’s Footnote 72 move which today has all weak nations hobbled by the foot.
Mir Sahib: “The English troops are coming.”
Mirza: “Let them. Get out of check. Check!”
Mir: “I want to watch a moment. Let's look from the ridge. What towering young men. My chest trembles at the sight.”
Mirza: “You have all the time in the world.Footnote 73 What's the hurry? Check again!”
Mir: “There's artillery too. There must be five thousand of them. Red faces like monkeys.”
Mirza: “My dear sir, don't beat about the bush. That's check!”
Mir: “You’re pretty amazing yourself. Do figure out, now the town's surrounded, how we’re going to get home.”
Mirza: “When the moment comes, we’ll see. That's check and mate.”
The army had passed. The friends laid out another game. The Mirza said: “What do we do about food today?”
Mir: “I’m fasting today. Do you fancy a bite?”
Mirza: “Not me. I’m not sure what's happening in the city.”
Mir: “Nothing will be happening in the city. People will have finished their food and be taking their ease. His Majesty Jan-e Alam will also have declared a rest. Or the wine-cup Footnote 74 may be passing round.”
This time when the two friends sat down to play it was three o’ clock. This time the Mirza's game was faltering. Meanwhile, sounds of the returning army were heard. Nawab Wajid Ali Shah had been deposed and the army was taking him off captive. In the city there was no uproar, no massacre, not even one desperado Footnote 75 shed a drop of blood. The Nawab took leave Footnote 76 of his home Footnote 77 like a weeping, breast-beating Footnote 78 girl going off to her father-in-law's house.Footnote 79 The Begams cried, the Nawab cried, the matrons and the maids cried and that was that. The kingdom was at an end. Never in all time had the king of any country been deposed so peaceably, so un-forcibly. At least history held no precedent. This was not the non-violence in which the angels rejoice. It was abject. It left a name at which goddesses wept. The ruler of Lucknow had been carried off captive and Lucknow was floating in a dream-world of extravagance. It was the ultimate in political collapse.
Mirza: “The tyrants have taken His Exalted MajestyFootnote 80 prisoner.”
Mir: “May be so. You’ll be the judge. Take that, check!”
Mirza: “Do pause a moment, my good Sir.Footnote 81 Just now my mind is not on the game. His Exalted Majesty will be weeping tears of blood. The light has gone out in Lucknow.”
Mir: “He should weep. Where’s such luxury to be had in European clink.Footnote 82 That's check!”Footnote 83
Mirza: “Nobody's luck lasts forever. What grievous misfortune. It's a trial from heaven.”
Mir: “Yes it is. Check again. That's it, next check is mate. You can't escape.”
Mirza: “You’re very hard-hearted, by God. You can witness a life-diminishing catastropheFootnote 84 like this and feel no shock. Alas for His Majesty Jan-e Alam! Now there's no one left to appreciate talent.Footnote 85 Lucknow too is now a desert.Footnote 86
Mir: “First save your own king's life,Footnote 87 then flailFootnote 88 yourself for His Luminous Footnote 89 Majesty. That's check and mate! Your hand on it!”
The army with the captured Nawab passed from view. As they went, the Mirza laid out a new game. The hurt of defeat rankles. Mir Sahib said: “Come, let's chant a marsiya Footnote 90 on the Nawab Sahib's pitiful plight. But the Mirza's loyalty and poetic devotion had faded Footnote 91 with his defeat. He was impatient to avenge the loss.
(4)
It was dusk. In the mosque’s ruins bats started sounding the call. Swallows, each stuck to its nest, began the evening prayers. But the two players were locked in the game like two bloodthirsty champions jousting with death. The Mirza had managed to lose three games running and this fourth game was not looking good. Each time, vowing to win, rallying finely, he gave of his very best but move after move turned out wrong until the whole game miscarried.Footnote 92 At this point Mir Sahib recited ghazals, sang thumris,Footnote 93 threw out jibesFootnote 94 and innuendoes, predicted doom in double-entendre and puns.Footnote 95 He was as pleased as if hidden treasureFootnote 96 had come his way. Mirza Sahib listening to these fine flourishes grew irritated and frowning repeatedly said: “Do not change your move, Sir. How can you move and immediately alter it? Think through carefully what you need to do and do it once. Why, Sir, have you been keeping your finger on my Footnote 97 piece? Kindly let go of the piece. Until you’ve made your mind up about your move, kindly don't handle a piece. Why, my good Sir,Footnote 98 are you taking half-an-hour over each move? It's not allowed. Anyone taking more than five minutes over one move counts as mate. You’ve changed your move again? Put the piece back”.
Mir Sahib's queenFootnote 99 was in peril.Footnote 100 He said: “When did I move?”
Mirza: “Your move? You took it. The best thing Footnote 101 is to put the piece back on that square.”
Mir: “Why should I? When did I take my hand off the piece?”
Mirza: “If you don't let go of a piece till Judgement Day, how can it avoid being a move? You saw your queen was lost100 and started cheating.”
Mir: “You’re the cheat. Winning or losing is fate. No one wins by cheating.”
Mirza: “You’re mate in this game.”
Mir: “How can I be mate?”
Mirza: “Then put the piece back on that square, where it was before.”
Mir: “Why should I put it back? I’m not going to.”
Mirza: “You'll have to.”
Mir: “Definitely not.”
Mirza: “Then your angels will. It's your moment of truth.” Footnote 102
Matters escalated. Both held to their tune. Neither would yield. In dispute, inappropriate,Footnote 103 unrelated matters were introduced, the burden of which was to insult and belittle. “The” Mirza declared: “If any of your ancestry had played chess, you would be conversant with the rules. They always cut grass. How, pray, were you to pick up chess? StatusFootnote 104 is different. It doesn't come with the grant of an estate.”Footnote 105
Mir: “It must have been your forebears who cut grass. In my family we’ve passed generation after generation playing chess.”
Mirza: “Come off it, Sir. You passed your time working for Nawab Ghazi ud-Din HaidarFootnote 106 as a cook. That's how you got your estate. Now you toy Footnote 107 with concocting a gentleman. The making of a gentleman is no laughing-matter.”
Mir: “Why are you blackening your ancestors? They must have been the cooks. Our ancestors sat at the Nawab's table. We were his boon-companions.”Footnote 108
Mirza: “The impudent know no shame.”
Mir: “Hold your tongue, or you’ll regret it. We don't brook such talk. Anyone glowers at me, my hand draws. His belly gets slit.”
“Mirza: “You want to see my courage, get ready. We’ll put it to the test, one way or the other.”
Mir: “Right you are! Come at it! Who's afraid of you?”
The two friends drew sabres from their sashes. Everyone, high and low, carriedFootnote 109 spikes, daggers, knives, guns.Footnote 110 Both were captive to luxury but they had their honour. Public spirit Footnote 111 was their rara avis Footnote 112 but personal courage welled within them. Their political feelings were non-existent.Footnote 113 Why die for King, for country, for their people? Why should they interrupt their sweet sleep? But in matters of individual feeling they were utterly fearless. They were, indeed, in their element. They squared up to one another, lunged and parried. Sabres flashed, there was an audible swish, and both fell wounded. Both, writhing on the ground, gave up their lives. Two men who had shed not a teardrop for their King parted with their necks for a chess queen.
Darkness had fallen. The game was laid out. The two kings were resplendent, each on his throne. Grief overcast them, as if flailing themselves for the death of the two martyrs.Footnote 114
On four sidesFootnote 115 there was a world of ominous silence.Footnote 116 The ruins’ crumbling walls, broken crenellations and minarets, bowing their heads in prayer,Footnote 117 looked on at the corpses and lamented the impermanence of human life, lacking even the substance of stone and brick.Footnote 118
THE CHESS PLAYERS (HINDI)Footnote 119
It was Wajid Ali Shah's time. Lucknow was sunk in a riot of extravagance.Footnote 120 Everyone, small and great, poor and rich, was sunk in Footnote 121 extravagance. If one man was staging a song and dance show, the next was relishing a haze of opium. In every walk of life revelryFootnote 122 prevailed. In government, literature, social matters, craftsmanship, business, at table ,Footnote 123 extravagance was all-pervasive. Officers of state were deep Footnote 124 in dilettante devilling,Footnote 125 poets in depicting love and separation , craftsmen in turning out precious thread and fine embroidery, tradespeople in merchandising eye-shadow, perfume, mouth-dye and skin-cleanser.Footnote 126
The daze of extravagance clouded everyone's eyes. No one knew what was happening in the world. Quail fought. Bets were being laid for a partridge- fight . Somewhere a chausar- cloth had been spread; the cry pau-bārah went up. Elsewhere, grim combat Footnote 127 had broken out at chess. From king to beggar, they were giddy with the fervour. So much so that holy men in receipt of coins did not buy bread, they chewed opium or smoked opium-blend.Footnote 128 Playing chess, cards and ganjifa Footnote 129 sharpens the mind, develops reasoning-power and affords exercise in complex problem-solving. These arguments were forcefully adduced. (The world is not yet free of Footnote 130 persons of this persuasion.) So, if Mirza Sajjad Ali andFootnote 131 Mir Roshan Ali spent the better part of their time sharpening their minds, how could any reasonable man object? Both held hereditary land; had no concerns about wherewithal; Footnote 132 sat at home enjoying fine fare . What else were they to do?
At daybreak the two friends breakfasted, spread their chess-mat, sat down, laid out the pieces and the war-games began .Footnote 133 They were then beyond knowing when it was midday, mid-afternoon or evening! Time and again the call would come from inside the house that food was ready. The answer was: “Right, we’re coming. Lay out the spread”. Eventually, the cook was reduced to serving the food in the room and the two friends juggled the two activities in tandem.
Mirza Sajjad Ali's house had no senior resident, so the games took place in his drawing room. But that did not mean that the rest of Mirza's household were happy with his pursuit. His own house apart , the quarter and its domestic servants kept up a constant hostile commentary: “Very ill-fated game. Brings ruin on a house. Heaven forbid anyone form the habit, he's no use to God or man, no place at home or on the waterfront.Footnote 134 Dreadful disease”. Eventually, Mirza’s Begam Sahiba so took against it that she sought out every opportunity to scold him. But her opportunities were hard come by. She was still asleep when the game was laid out. And at night she had already gone to sleep when the Mirza re-entered the house. She certainly vented her anger at the servants – “Ordered betel, has he? Tell him to come and get it himself. No time for food? Go and tip the food over his head, for him or the dogs as he cares”. But face to face she could not get out a word. She was not as vexed with her husband as Mir Sahib. She reserved Calamity Mir as her name for him . Possibly, to clear himself the Mirza had slapped all blame on Mir Sahib's head.
One day the Begam Sahiba had a headache. She told the maid, “Go and call Mirza Sahib. He needs to fetch medicine from the doctor’s. Run, be quick”. The maid went, the Mirza said: “Right, I’m just coming”.
The Begam Sahiba had a fiery temper. She was livid that she should have a headache and her husband still be playing chess. Her face flushed. She told the maid, “Go and tell him to come at once, or I’ll go to the doctor's myself.”
The Mirza was playing a gripping game, two moves more and Mir Sahib would be checkmate. Peevishly , he said: “Is it that dying gasp?Footnote 135 Can't she show a little forbearance?”
Mir: “Go on, go and listen to her. Women are delicateFootnote 136 creatures.”
Mirza: “Sure, why not go? You’re mate in two moves.”
Mir: “Don't you count on it, my dear Sir.Footnote 137 The move I’ve come up with will set your pieces reeling and mate you. But go and listen. Why, pray, upset her unnecessarily?”
Mirza: “That's just it. I’ll mate you and then go.”
Mir: “I shan't play. You go and listen.”
Mirza: “Come on, old man. It’ll mean going to the doctor. There's no headache at all. It's a pretext to distract me.”
Mir: “Even so, you’ll have to humour her.”
Mirza: “Alright, one move and I’ll go.”
Mir: “Absolutely not, until you go and listen I shan't touch a piece.”
Mirza Sahib was forced to go inside, where a black-looking but groaning Begam Sahiba said: “You’re so in love with your poxyFootnote 138 chess. You wouldn't bestir yourselfFootnote 139 if one was dying! Save us from the likes of you!”
Mirza: “What can I say, Mir Sahib wouldn't let me go. I’ve only just torn myself awayFootnote 140 with great difficulty.”
Begam: “Just because he's a loafer, does he think everyone is? He has a family himself, or has he disposed of them all?”Footnote 141
Mirza: “He's a thoroughly bad lot. When he comes, I’m forced to play him.”
Begam: “Why don't you chase him off?”
Mirza: “He's my equal in age, a notch or two ahead of meFootnote 142 in seniority. I have to show him consideration.”
Begam: “Then I’ll chase him off. If he takes offence, so be it. Who's keeping anyone in bread? Queen takes amiss, forget about bliss. Hiriya,Footnote 143 go and bring the chess-board in. Tell Mir Sahib the master won't be playing, he should kindly leave.”
Mirza: “Just the outrage we need! Why do you want to disgrace me? Stop, Hiriya, where are you going?”
Begam: “Why won't you let her go? Stop her, drink my blood. You’ve stopped her, stop me, shall we see?”
So saying, the Begam Sahiba started in a fury for the drawing room. Mirza turned a wan colour. He began imploring his wife: “For God's sake, as you revere the Imam Husayn. See my corpse, if you go in.” But the Begam heeded not a word. She approached the drawing room door, yet all of a sudden at the prospect of a strange man her feet failed her. She peered inside, happily the room was empty. Mir Sahib had rearranged a few pieces and to establish his innocence was sauntering outside. At that, the Begam entering up-ended the game, sent some pieces flying under the sofa, others outside; and pulling the door-panel shut threw the bolt. Mir Sahib was at the door, saw the pieces come flying out and caught the clink of bangles. When the door shut, he realised that the Begam Sahiba had run riot. He quietly went off home.
Mirza said: “You’ve committed an outrage.”
Begam: “If Mir Sahib comes here again, I’ll have him thrown out on the spot. If you showed as much devotion to God, you’d be a saint. While you people are playing chess, I’m bothering my head minding hearth and household grind. Are you off to the doctor’sFootnote 144 or still making up your mind?”
Mirza left the house, going not to the doctor's but to Mir Sahib's house, and told him the whole story. Mir Sahib said: “Once I saw the pieces come flying out, I realised. I immediately withdrew. She seems very intemperate. But you’ve simply indulged her, it's not right. What business is it of hers what you do elsewhere? Her job is managing the home; what concern of hers is anything else?”
Mirza: “Fair enough. But tell me, where are we going to meet?”
Mir: “What’s the problem in that! There's an ample house to hand. Settled, we’ll meet here.”
Mirza: “But how am I to win the Begam Sahiba round? She was enough of a handful Footnote 145 when I was at home; if I spend my time here, she might not leave me alive.”
Mir: “My dear Sir,Footnote 146 just let her rail, she’ll be fine unprompted in a few days. And do try to be a little firmer yourself.”
(2)
Mir Sahib's Begam for some unknown reason regarded Mir Sahib's scarceness Footnote 147 about the house as fit and proper. She made no complaint, therefore, at all over his love of chess. Rather if Mir Sahib was sometimes late setting off, she would remind him.Footnote 148 For these reasons Mir Sahib was under the impression that his wife was extremely well-behaved and serious-minded.Footnote 149 But when the chess-mat was laid out in the drawing-room and Mir Sahib started spending all day at home, the Begam Sahiba became greatly anguished.Footnote 150 Her independence had been curtailed. She longed all day to peer out of the door.
Then the mutterings started among the servants. Until now they had spent all day in idleness swatting flies; comings and goings at the house were no business of theirs.Footnote 151 Now it was oppression round the clock. Sometimes the order was for betel, sometimes sweets. And the hookah burned perpetuallyFootnote 152 like some lover’s heart. They approached the Begam Sahiba: “Ma’am, the master's chess has become the bane of our lives. We’ve blisters on our feet from running about all day. This is a game that goes on from morning till night. A game for amusement should take half or quarter of an hour.Footnote 153 We’re not complaining, you understand; we’re the master's servants. What he orders, we do; but this Footnote 154 game is ill-fated. Players never recover; some disaster or other is bound to fall on the house. Whole quarters are known to have been destroyed by it, one after another. It's the talk of the entire neighbourhood. We have eaten his salt, it grieves us to hear ill spoken of our master. But what can we do?” To this Footnote 155 the Begam said: “I don't approve of it myself. But he won't listen to anyone, what can one do?”Footnote 156
The neighbourhood's few old timers began dreaming up all sorts of disasters together: “Now there can be no prosperity. If this is the plight of our notables, then God preserve the realm. Chess will be the ruin of this kingdom. The omens are dire.”
In the kingdom weeping and wailing broke out. Subjects were robbed in broad daylight. There was no one to hear claims for redress. All the wealth of the villages was drained away to Lucknow and disappeared on harlots, jesters and other forms of extravagance. Indebtedness to the English Company grew by the day. Sodden blankets felt heavier by the day. In the absence of public order annual revenue went uncollected.Footnote 157 Time and again the Resident issued warnings, but the local population was in the grip of the headiness of extravagance; no one lent an ear.
Well, several months went by playing chess in Mir Sahib's drawing room.Footnote 158 Ever new tricks were solved; ever new defences established ;Footnote 159 there were constant new dispositions ; sometimes as they played dispute would develop; recourse was had to name-calling; but harmony between the two friends was soon restored. Sometimes even, the game would be abandoned; an offended Mirza would depart home. Mir Sahib would go and sit inside his house. But with a whole night's sleep all animosity was laid to rest .Footnote 160 Come morning, the two friends were back in the drawing room.
One day while the two friends sat negotiating the quagmire of chess, a mounted royal army officer called, asking for Mir Sahib by name. Mir Sahib froze. What woe had befallen him? Why this summons?Footnote 161 He told the servants: “Say, I’m not at home.”
Cavalryman: “If he's not at home, where is he?”
Servant: “I don't know. What's your business?”
Cavalryman: “Why should I tell you my business? He's been summoned to His Majesty. Maybe some soldiers are wanted for the army. He's a landholder – what a lark! He’ll find out at the front, learn the price of grub .”
Servant: “Right, off you go. He’ll be told.”
Cavalryman: “This isn't pass-the-word.Footnote 162 I’ll be back in person tomorrow, my orders are to take him with me.”Footnote 163
The cavalryman departed. Mir Sahib's spirit began to quail.Footnote 164 He said to the Mirza:Footnote 165 “ Tell me, my dear Sir , what happens now?”
Mirza: “It's a great misfortune. I trust there's no summons for me.”
Mir: “The wretch has said he’ll be back tomorrow.”
Mirza: “It's quite simply a disaster.Footnote 166 Posted to the front, one might as well be dead.Footnote 167
Mir:Footnote 168 “Right, here's one plan for avoiding him at home.Footnote 169 Starting tomorrow we’ll cross the Gomti and the game can play out in some ruin. There, who's to know? The great man will turn up and go back all alone.
Mirza: “By God, a brilliant idea! A plan without equal .”
Elsewhere, Mir Sahib’s Begam was telling the cavalryman: “You’ve seen them off Footnote 170 magnificently.”
He answered: “I make fools like that dance with a click of the fingers. Chess has consumed all their brains and bravado. Now they won’t hang about the house.”
(3)
From next day on the two friends were out of the house before dawn. A little rug underarm, a box stuffed with betel, they crossed the Gomti and headed for an old mosque built perhaps by Nawab Asaf ud-Dowla.Footnote 171 On the way they obtained tobacco, bowl and pipe and proceeding to the mosque, spread the rug, filled the hookah and sat down to play chess. They were then lost to this world and the next. With the exception of a few terms, “Check”, “King” etc, not a word escaped their lips. Even a meditating ascetic would not attain such concentration.Footnote 172 At midday, when hunger gnawed, the two friends would go to a baker's stall, eat and, after smoking a hookah-bowl, once again meet their check on the field of conflict.Footnote 173 Sometimes the thoughtFootnote 174 of food never occurred to them.
The country's political situation was now becoming horrendous. The Company's forces were massing on Lucknow. CommotionFootnote 175 broke out in the town. People, taking their children, were fleeing to the villages. But our two players were not in the least concerned. Leaving home, they kept to the lanes. Their fear was that some royal flunky’s eye might fall on them and that he might press them into service. They wanted the free engorgement of thousands of rupees’ annual land-rent .Footnote 176
One day the two friends were sitting in the ruins of the mosque playing chess . Mir Sahib’sFootnote 177 game was faltering. Mirza177 had him continually in check. Just then the Company's advancing army appeared. These were white troops on their way to occupy Lucknow.Footnote 178
Mir Sahib said: “The English army’s coming. God save us .”
Mirza: “Let it. Get out of check. Check!”
Mir: “I want to watch a moment. Let's stand here on Footnote 179 the ridge.”
Mirza: “You have all the time in the world. What's the hurry? Check, again!”
Mir: “There's artillery too! There must be five thousand of them.Footnote 180 What fine young men. Faces like red monkeys! The show of force makes me tremble.”Footnote 181
Mirza: “My dear Sir, don't beat about the bush. Save the tricks for someone else . That's check!”
Mir: “You’re pretty amazing yourself. Disaster has just engulfed the city and you’re on about check . Maybe you also know , now the town's surrounded, how we’re going to get home?”
Mirza: “When the moment comes, we’ll see. That's check! It's over, this time your king’s mate.”
The army had passed. It was ten o’clock. A game was laid out again.
Mirza said: “What do we do about food today?”
Mir: “ Well, er , I’m fasting today. Do you fancy a bite?”
Mirza: “Not me. I’m not sure what's happening in the city.”
Mir: “Nothing will be happening in the city. People will have had their food and be sleeping at ease. His Majesty the Nawab will be in his pleasure-house.”Footnote 182
When the two dignitaries sat down to play again, it was three o’ clock.Footnote 183 This time the Mirza's game was faltering. Four was chiming when sounds of the returning army were heard. Nawab Wajid Ali Shah had been captured and the army was taking him off to some unknown destination. In the city there was no commotion, no massacre. Not one drop of blood was spilt. Never before had the king of an independent country been overthrown so peacably,Footnote 184 with such bloodlessness. This was not the non-violence in which the gods delight. It was cowardice of a sort to make even the greatest cowards Footnote 185 weep. The Nawab of the mighty land of Avadh had been carried offFootnote 186 captive and Lucknow was floating in a dreamworld of extravagance. It was the ultimate in political collapse.
Mirza said: “The tyrants have taken His Majesty the Nawab prisoner.”
Mir: “May be so. Take that, check!”
Mirza: “Do pause a moment, my good Sir. Just now I’ve no mind for it. The poor Nawab just now will be weeping tears of blood.”
Mir: “He should weep. Is such luxury to be had over there? That's check!”
Mirza: “Nobody's luck lasts. What a distressing plight.”
Mir: “Yes, indeed it is – take that, check again! That's it, this time check is mate, you can't escape.”
Mirza: “ Good God ,Footnote 187 you’re very hard-hearted. You can witness such a great catastropheFootnote 188 and feel no grief. Alas, poor Wajid Ali Shah!
Mir: “First save your own king, then flail yourself for the Nawab Sahib. That's check and that’s mate! Your hand on it!”
The army with the captured King Footnote 189 passed from view. As they went, Mirza laid the game out again. The hurt of defeat rankles. Mir said: “Come, let's chant a marsiya in mourning Footnote 190 for the Nawab Sahib.” But Mirza's patriotism had vanished with his defeat. He was impatient to level the score.
(4)
It was dusk. In the ruins bats started squealing. Homing swallows each stuck to its nest. But the two players were locked like two bloodthirsty champions in single combat. The Mirza had managed to lose three games running;Footnote 191 this fourth game was not looking good. Each time vowing to win he rallied, but move after move turned out maladroit until the game came apart.Footnote 192 With each defeat, the urge for revenge fiercened. At this point Mir Sahib exuberantly sang Footnote 193 ghazals, threw out jibes, as if he had found some hidden treasure.Footnote 194 The Mirza listening grew irritated and, to wipe out the shame of defeat, answered back. But the more his game faltered, the more his composure slipped. Eventually, everything irritated him – “Do not change your move, Sir. How can you make a move and then alter it? Move as you need to and move once; why have you kept your hand on the piece? Leave the piece alone. Until you’ve settled your move, don't touch a piece. You’re taking half-an-hour over each move. It's not allowed.Footnote 195 Anyone taking more than five minutes over one move counts as mate. You’ve changed your move again! Just quietly put the piece back.”
Mir Sahib's queen was in peril. He said: “When did I move?”
Mirza: “You did move . Put the piece back – on that square.”
Mir: “Why should I? When did I take my hand off the piece?”
Mirza: “If you don't let a piece go till Judgement Day, how can it avoid being a move? You saw your queen was lost and started cheating.”
Mir: “You’re the cheat. Winning or losing is fate. No one wins by cheating.”
Mirza: “Well then, you’re mate in this game.”
Mir: “How can I be mate?”
Mirza: “Then put the piece back on that square, where it was before.”
Mir: “Why should I put it back? I’m not going to.”
Mirza: “ Pray, why not? You’ll have to.”
The dispute escalated. Both stuck to their tune. Neither would yield. Non-pertinent matters were introduced. Mirza said: “Had any of your ancestry played chess, you would know the rules. But they always cut grass, how, pray, were you to play chess?Footnote 196 Status is different. It doesn't come with the grant of an estate.”
Mir: “ What! It must have been your forebears who cut grass. In my family we descend from generations of chess-players.”Footnote 197
Mirza: “Come off it, Sir, you passed your time working for Ghazi ud-din Haider as a cook, now you’re concocting a gentleman. The making of a gentleman is no laughing matter.”
Mir: “Why blacken your ancestors? They must have worked as cooks.Footnote 198 We descend from people who always ate at the King's table.”Footnote 199
Mirza: “Get along, you poor forager,Footnote 200 don't embellish so much .”
Mir: “Hold your tongue or you’ll regret it. I don't brook such talk. Anyone glowers at me, his eyes get put out. Got the courage?”
Mirza: “You want to see my courage, come at it. We’ll fight it out now ,Footnote 201 one way or the other.”
Mir: “So, who here's afraid of you?”
The two friends drew sabres from their sashes. It was the Nawabi era; everyone carried sabres, knives, spikes etc . Both were dilettantes Footnote 202 but not cowards. They were short on political sentiment – why die for king and country; but did not lack personal courage. They squared up to one another, sabres flashed, there were audible swishes. Both fell wounded and both, writhing on the ground, gave up their lives. Two beings who had shed not a teardrop for their king surrendered their being Footnote 203 in defence of a chess queen.
Darkness had fallen. The game was laid out. The two kings sat, each on their thrones, as if mourning Footnote 204 the death of these two heroes.
On four sides, an ominous silence descended. The ruins’ cracked alcoves, fallen walls and dust-spattered minarets looked on at these corpses and lamented.Footnote 205
