“Hey, you up for a game of chess?” a friend of mine asked.
I took a moment. “Um, not really” I replied. “But thanks for the offer!”
“Oh, come on!” she said, trying her best to convince me. “I’ll go easy on you, too.”
Ok, I did not see that coming. But, I confess, I suck at chess. So, she discovered my Achilles’ heel. “You know,” I said, in my usual philosophical repartee, “I don’t subscribe to the whole concept of playing within 64 blocks. It’s too…”
She left by the time I could complete my reasoning. Anyway, she had a lot of better opponents out there. Who, I know for sure, are definitely better than I am.
So, as I stood there, rejected and a bit confused, I tried turning to philosophical logic to look for a sane explanation for my unnatural aversion towards the intelligent man’s game. I have been bad at chess since as long as I can remember. In fact, the last time I played chess, I lost to my 12 year old cousin, and that too despite of me having cheated. So, I guess chess is one of those things I am simply not made for. And as usual, I am not satisfied with this answer.
I never did quite understand the concept of chess. It’s a cool game, no doubt; with the knights, and rooks, and kings and queens. It stimulates my imagination and it’s almost as though you can see a miniature battle field on your own dining table (this is before Harry Potter, mind you). However, I failed to understand why each piece moved in a particular way. Some explained it as general rules, as you have with any other game; others offered more elaborate reasons, which of course, I do not remember. For me, the knight always moved two-and-a-half steps because his horse had a limp (which, if I might argue could’ve been the case).
Putting aside my general ignorance, and not to mention poor aptitude, for chess, I move ahead to examine the game. Unlike many other board games, in which victory is attributed to luck or often chance, chess involves the use of grey cells to a larger degree. No wonder that it’s called the intelligent man’s game. Anyway, there’s a lot more I deduced by just observing the game. And the most profound observation was that, the game of chess is too rigid. There are only 16 pieces, and 64 blocks, black and white (or any contrasting colour for that matter) and you have two people who fight it out, non-violently of course. People have often claimed that the great generals were chess masters, who orchestrated their battle plans on the chess board. And the outcome always ended in check mate. Somehow, I find this hard to believe.
While this may have been true in traditional battles of old, this theory doesn’t hold ground today, on account of the simple fact that it’s too simple, too straightforward. They often say that, in chess you have to think two steps ahead of the enemy. This notion, though a brilliant strategy, is greatly flawed. Human nature is unpredictable. At the time you’re sizing up your enemy, he’s doing the same with you. In your effort to understand his pattern, you’re revealing your own. Conflicts, I think, are the most unpredictable of events. The very moment you make a move, predicting your opponent or forcing him to think in a particular way, you’re drastically limiting your options. We cannot think beyond the 64 black and white boxes. Tradition then becomes the greatest hindrance to spontaneity. Classical moves, by their very nature, are predictable and obsolete (though, sometimes playing by the book helps).
As an artist (yes, I know…), we unconsciously create patterns, and at the same time, break away from these by the illusion of randomness. But, the game of chess is too hard bound to allow any form of creative thinking whatsoever.
In a battle, the king rides ahead of his army while charging at the enemy (the great kings, that is, or the foolish ones perhaps). The very concept of chess seeks to create an artificial world, enclosed and secure, where one action can be performed in just one way. And, as history’s proven it time and again, it’s always thinking outside the box that makes the larger difference.
As I grappled with these thoughts, feeling a whole lot better (after being rejected), there entered a new argument in my mind (can’t help it, you know…). The concept of black and white is too rigid. True, you have to choose a side sometimes, but a lot of the human mind is in the grey area between these two ends. Many people play chess by themselves, and I am most intrigued by this. Is it actually possible to be dispassionate; to refrain from choosing a side? When I tried doing it, I failed. But it doesn’t necessarily mean that I proved my point.
As an artist (ok, I get the point...), my mind cannot reside in any fixed area; it has to remain constantly in motion. From white to black, from happy to sad. Emotions change faster than thoughts. Impulsiveness is replaced by logic and reasoning, and vice-versa. Amidst such contradictions and patterns, I realized, there are no two ways to it. The possibilities are infinite. And by limiting our choices we shackle our own creativity.
I would contradict myself here on one point. I’ve seen players who play chess with superb reflexes, reacting and countering almost instinctively. I have nothing but respect for these players, for the sole reason that, even within the constraints chess offers, these guys manage to artistically play with panache and precision. Then again, their reactions are a result of conditioning. There are only so many combinations they can try, though at staggering speeds. 16 pieces, 64 blocks, 2 colours…limited combinations. Do the math, because, I’m bad at it anyway…!
