The short story (rather a play in Urdu/Hindi) originally by a great author of his times, Munshi Premchand translated and explained by Derek Davis was published in the Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, Third Series, Volume 25, Part 2, April 2015, Cambridge University Press. (The Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain & Ireland was established on 15th march 1823 by the famous Sanskrit scientist, Henry Thomas Colebrooke. The society was given its royal charter on 11 August 1824 by King George IV. The charter stated that the society was to investigate matters relating to Asia and to promote science, literature, and the arts. Some of the famous members of the society were: Sir Richard Burton (from 1821-1890), the explorer, writer, and translator of ‘One Thousand and One Nines’ and the ‘Kama Sutra’. Sir Aurel Stein, the famous archaeologist, explorer, and explorer of the Silk Road. Rajendra Nath Tagore, the famous Bengal writer and poet, was a member of the society.)

About Munshi Premchand : Premchand was an Indian novelist, short story writer, and playwright. He is considered to be one of the greatest writers of modern Hindi literature. He is known for his novels, short stories, essays, and translations of foreign literature into Hindi. Premchand was born Dhanpat Rai on 31 July 1880. His pen name was Nawab Rai, but he changed it to Premchand. He is known as the “Emperor among Novelists” among Hindi writers. He wrote over a dozen novels and several short stories in the late 1800s and early 1900s. He is well-known for his modern Hindi literature. He was a pioneer in the field of social fiction in India and wrote several collections of short stories in the early 20th century. Some of his best-known works are: Godaan (1907), Karmabhoomi (1908), Gaban (1909), Mansarovar (1910), Idgah (1911), and Soz-E-Watan, (1912).

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 Shatranj ke Khiladi (1977)

THE CHESS MATCH (URDU)

It was Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s time. Lucknow was sunk in a riot of luxury. Everyone, small and great, pursued pleasure. If dance spectaculars were staged in one place, the next man was relishing a haze of opium. In every walk of life revelry prevailed. In government, literature, social style, craftsmanship, commerce, everyone busied themselves with gratification. Pillars of the realm were slaves to wine-bibbing, poets were intoxicated with dalliance, craftsmen with turning out precious thread and fine embroidery, soldiers with partridge-fights, trades people 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 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 was in play; the cry pau barah 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. 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. 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. Layout the spread.” But the delights of qorma and pulao” 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 their consummate dexterity. Sometimes the food was left untouched. It had been forgotten. Mirza Sajjad Ali’s establishment had no senior resident, so relaxed battles took place in his drawing-room. But that did not mean that the rest of Mirza’s household was 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 washer man’s dog all over again: no place at home or work. “Dreadful disease”. The real bugbear was that the Begum 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. 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?! Says he has no time now for food? Go and tip the food over his head, for him or the dogs. Who is here 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 Begum Sahiba bad a headache, so she told the maid, “Go and call the Mirza. He needs to fetch medicine from the doctor’s.” “Run, be quick. My head’s splitting.” The maid went, the Mirza said: “Right, I’m just coming”. The Begum Sahiba was livid that she should have a headache and her husband is 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 doctors herself. There was something untoward 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? 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.”

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.”

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 humor 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 Begum 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 like you.”

Mirza: *What could I do, Mir Sahib wouldn’t let me go. I’ve only just torn myself away with great difficulties.”

Begum: “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; I’m forced to play him.”

Begum: “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.”

Begum: 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. (To the maid) Abbasi, go and fetch the chessboard. 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 to, wretch?”

Begum: “Why won’t you let her go? Stop her, drink my blood! You’ve stopped her, stop me, shall we see? So saying, the Begum started with a shriek for the drawing room. The Mirza’s face paled. It became a picture. He began imploring his wife: “For God’s sake. As you revere the Martyr of Karbala! See my corpse, if you set foot inside!” But the Begum Sahiba heeded not a word. She approached the drawing-room door, yet all of a sudden at the prospect of facing a strange man 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. At that, the Begum 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 realized that the Begum Sahiba had run riot. He quietly went off home.

Mirza said to the Begum Sahiba: “You’ve committed an outrage.”

Begum: “If that dumbo” comes here again, I’ll throw him out on the spot. It hardly bears saying this is not a bawdy house.” 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. 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, and he recounted the whole story. Mir Sahib laughed and said: “I realized 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 house to hand. Settled, our venue’s here.”

Mirza: “But how am I to win the Begum Sahiba round? She was angry enough when I was at home. If l’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 Begum Sahiba for some reason approved of Mir Sahib’s invisibility 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.”      For these reasons Mir Sahib was under the impression that his Begum Sahiba was extremely civil, patient by temperament and faithful but when his chess-mat was laid out in their drawing room and the Begum 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. Coming 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, and sometimes replenishing tobacco. The hookah glowed perpetually like some lover with a burning heart. They all approached the Begum Sahiba: “Ma’am, the master’s chess has become the bane of our lives. 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 neighbors constantly turn on us. We’re ashamed to go out of the house.” The Begum Sahiba said: “1 don’t approve of the game myself at all. But what can I do?” “What influence do I have?”

The neighborhood’s few old timers began spreading all sorts of suspicions: “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. 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. Jesters, mimes, kathak dancers and entertainment stars did brisk business. Gold coins rained down in serving-wenches parlors. 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. No one lent an ear.

Well, several months went by playing chess in Mir Sahib’s drawing-room. Ever new tricks were solved, ever new defences thrown up and laid low. Sometimes as they played a private fight would develop. Recourse would be had to name-calling.” But these sweet griefs were very soon healed. Sometimes even, an offended Mirza would depart home. Mir Sahib would take up the chess-mat, go and sit inside his house and swear oaths 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: “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!”

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. 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: “lt’s quite simply the judgment of Heaven. When soldiers are called up, one might as well be dead.” In my case, the mere sound of the word war brings on a fever.”

Mir: “In my case, reckon food and water off-limits as from today.”

Mirza: “Right, here’s a plan for avoiding him. Both of us will disappear. He can scour the whole city. 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 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 Begum 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”. With the exception of these terms, not a word escaped their lips. Even a fasting ascetic 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’s stall and, after smoking a hookah-bowl, once again, obliterated in chess, savor defeat. 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. Leaving home they kept to the Lanes, so that no eye might fall on them. Even the neighbors 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 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. 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 case. His Majesty Jan-e Alam will also have declared a rest. Or the wine-cup may be passing round.”

This time when the two friends sat down to play it was three o’ cock. 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 shed a drop of blood. The Nawab took leave of his home like a weeping breast-beating girl going off to her father-in-law’s house. The Begums 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 Majesty prisoner.”

Mir: “May be so. You’ll be the judge. Take that, check!”

Mirza: “Do pause a moment, my good Sir. Just now my mind is not on the game. His Exalted Majesty will be weeping tear of blood. The light has gone out in Lucknow.

Mir: “He should weep. Where’s such luxury to be had in European clink.” That’s check!”

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 catastrophe like this and feel no shock. Alas for His Majesty Jan-e-Alam! Now there’s no one left to appreciate talent. Lucknow too is now a desert.

Mir: “First save your own king’s life, and then flail yourself for His Luminous 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 on the Nawab Sahib’s pitiful plight But the Mirza’s loyalty and poetic devotion had faded 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. At this point Mir Sahib recited ghazals, sang thumris, threw out jibes and innuendos, and predicted doom in double-entendre and puns. He was as pleased as if hidden treasure 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 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, 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 queen was in peril. He said: “When did I move?”

Mirza: “Your move? You took it. The best thing 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 Judgment 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: “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.”

Matters escalated. Both held to their tune. Neither would yield. In dispute, inappropriate, 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? Status is different. It doesn’t come with the grant of an estate.

Mir: “It must have been your forebears who cut grass. In my family we’ve passed generation after generation playing chess.”

Mirza: “Come of it. Sir. You passed your time working for Nawab Ghazi ud-Din Haidar as a cook. That’s how you got your estate. Now you toy 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.”

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, carried daggers, knives, guns. Both were captive to luxury but they had their honor. Public spirit was their rara avis but personal courage welled within them. Their political feelings were non-existent. 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 two martyrs.

On four sides there was a world of ominous silence. The ruins’ crumbling walls, broken crenellations and minarets, bowing their heads in prayer, looked on at corpses and lamented the impermanence of human life, lacking even the substance of stone and brick.