The Ivory Chessman

My mother’s `Choto Kaka’ (youngest uncle) Brojendra Kishore Sen, was the quintessential Bengali bhadralok bachelor. Rich, slightly eccentric with a glad eye for maids, but otherwise a perfect gent in his dealings with all, except those whom he wished to snub, for slights which they had done to him, real or imagined.  

My mother’s family in those days, lived in a sprawling house in Khagra Bazar in Berhampore, a small sleepy town on the broad river Bhagirathi as it meanders its way down from the Farakka barrage in North Bengal to become the muddy Hooghly, near Calcutta. The Sen family’s lifestyle was as easy going and indolent as the river itself.

Food was not something needed to merely keep body and soul together, but was often the raison d’etre for which many in the town and certainly Brojo babu existed. The rich aroma of the Mughal court of nearby Murshidabad had combined with the subtler cooking of Middle Bengal to produce its own intoxicating pakhwan, a very unique style to be found in the kitchens of but a few connoisseurs in Berhampore. Mangoes from the Sen orchards, rice from outlying rich farms, fish from family ponds and the Ganges itself were all to be marvelled at, in both the raw form, before they entered the kitchen and in cooked varieties, once it all came out in myriad dishes.

Bathing, sometimes twice a day in the holy river was of course a must. As much as an exercise as for the pure pleasure of battling a turbulent river, whose waves and whirlpools could often capsize huge country sailing boats. 

Music was another passion which took up much time and talent within the family. Brojo babu, himself was a talented Esraj (Indian stringed instrument) player and had dozens of shagirds (disciples) in towns and villages all around. They say, some of them still get together to play through the night at a memorial baithak  (musical soiree) in far away Calcutta.

Dalliances with favourite maids were a way of life for many in the town and Brojo babu too believed in playing by the `rules'. One favourite was ensconced in a lonely house by the river, to be visited late in the afternoons or even better after a Matinee show at Kalpana Talkies. Townsmen gossiped of this as they did about hundreds of other things but without malice, and Brojendra Kishore saw no sin in having his share of fun with saucy local lasses.

But if anything, truly could be called Brojendra’s real passion - it was chess (Daba). Reclining on a cushion with a Hookah pipe  in his hand, Brojo babu would hold court every evening with fellow townsmen as he had seen his ancestors – Radhika Charan and Jogesh Charan – and his eldest brother, the late Gaur Kishore, do years before.   

But while they used their evening chess parties to socialise and keep abreast of the affairs of the town, Brojo, used it with single minded determination to win glorious battles for his family, which claimed descent through a cadet branch from the ancient Kings of Gaud, ousted from their kingdom by Afghan ‘mountebanks’, a 1,000-year-old incident which still rankled the family.

Loud calls of `Ei Morlo (Slaughtered)’, `Gelo, gelo apnaar Oont kata gelo (Gone, gone your knight is being cut down)’, `kella fateh (castle breached)’ rent through the evening air daily at his mansion. Passing pedestrians and rickshaw pullers would grin and look at each other knowingly as they heard the din of this battle being enacted every night.

His two widowed boudis (elder sisters-in-laws) who lived in different wings of the sprawling house, separated by huge courtyards, often chided him for what they considered a sheer waste of time. His friends would advise him to invest in business to bring back the family’s lost wealth and pomp, others would advise him to get into public life like his eldest brother Gaur had, before he died an untimely death.

Yet others would advise him to take his music more seriously (`You can become Big like Pandit Ravi Shankar if you really get going,’ one slightly inebriated fan told him one night). His nephews and nieces, of whom he had many, would often woo him away to their houses in Calcutta (`Don’t you get bored of playing chess all the time, come and stay with us awhile’). Trips to Calcutta were welcome – it brought much feasting and feting as relatives competed with each other for the favours of the rich old bachelor.

However, an outing is an outing and can’t be the real thing. The `Real Thing’ in Brojo babu’s life remained chess. His baithak-khana (salon) had many chessboards, but the one which he played with had all ivory pieces, a rare, intricately carved set, bought from the Nabobs of Murshidabad for many pieces of silver by his grandfather Radhika Charan.

Every night, he would toy with chess pieces from this set. Feeling each piece with a practised hand, as he contemplated his opponent’s moves. His rival for the night, chosen from among those who turned up at his `club’, would be made to feel the honour of being up against him and his ivory pieces.

The set itself was unique. Made to order, it had two kings and queens seated on elephant howdahs, camelmen instead of bishops, boats instead of rooks and horsemen instead of knights, besides the usual army of pawns. One side had figurines who looked like Indians, the other side looked like they were Europeans. They said it was made after the battle of Plassey and hence the unique representation of  `White’ pieces with Europeans and `Blacks’ by Indians.  Brojo babu always chose Indian `black’ to play with, perhaps to avenge Plassey, perhaps to avenge the Afghans who had ridden roughshod over his legacy.

Family history, the tale of how the chess set made its way from the Nabob’s Hazarduari Palace to the Sen home, the yarn of how his grandfather had taught him to carefully wrap each individual piece at the end of every evening game with pieces of a special muslin cloth, would all be related in between the games, steaming cups of tea, pakorahs and Hookah to newcomers. I too was ushered into the mysteries of chess and the special chess set by the big man himself. Fascinating story. Fascinating works of art, done painstakingly by mastercraftsmen on elephant tusks brought all the way from Assam and Burma, sometime in the late 18th century.  “You come back from your studies in Delhi, these will be here for you to play with and take away, when the time is ripe,” I can still hear his parting words to me on a winter 1970s evening, on the last of my till then regular annual visits to Berhampore. My grandmother and Brojo babu’s bara boudi (eldest sister in law) died of cancer soon afterwards and this severed my only real connection with that lovely little town.

Years later, Brojo babu too died in his bed, to be discovered by servants. Some say they looted his house before letting the world know of his passing away. Others say it was all a conspiracy by nephews who had an eye on his property. Nobody will ever know the truth as no one really bothered to investigate his death. Relatives who lived in the town and in Calcutta, quickly started an infamous spat over his possessions. Those who could lay their hands on the family jewellery hoarded in his trunks, took it away. Those who could find silver knick knacks tucked away in all kinds of nooks and crannies of the house, carted it out. Those who could find the silver tipped Hookahs and the ivory sets, or even his muslin coats, packed it away in their car boots.

Yet, there was more at stake – orchards, houses and farms. Nephews and townsmen came up with competing wills of the rich old man. One 50 year-old trader claimed he had been adopted by Brojo babu, days before his death, and produced papers with illegible squiggles on them, which were supposed to be the signature of the man, whose family had helped set up the town’s famous Krishnanath College.

Another nephew came up with a will which had his fingerprints on them and a ready explanation written into the will of how the old man’s hand used to shake towards the end, forcing him to sign away his wealth with his thumb! Yet others, impatient with India’s ever slow legal system simply took over his fields and sold them off, without batting an eyelid about legal niceties. My mother stayed away from the ugly family drama. I did think of the chessmen, and sometimes felt a tinge of regret at being unable to access what I saw as a gift promised to me.
…
Many more years later, I visited the South Calcutta home of one of my uncles. There, sure enough in his lovely Belgian glass showcase, was a quartet of horsemen and a solitary camelman, surrounded by forlorn Indian featured pawns. No Kings or Queens on elephant howdahs, nor European soldiery ready to do battle with the Indians. Just those few dusty pieces from the fabled set.

I started to ask him about the rest of the chess pieces. “No, no , its not what you think … I am the only one trying to save the family legacy. The others have carved up his collections and sold it off piecemeal in the antique market,” the man stammered out. The words tripping each other up. I looked aghast. Brojo babu’s Nabobi pieces sold piecemeal to some unknown junk hunter! Sacrilege!!

I heard myself lecturing him on the family history, the history of the chess pieces, of how the Nabobs had sold it to “us” … It was then that I realised. … I sounded too much like Brojo babu. Even the words which came gushing out were really his, repeated to me on many a foggy evening. Looks travel genetically. Memories too. Sometimes even traits follow. Maybe, I should start thanking God, I never got those ivory chessmen. I had no desire to become another Brojo babu, however much I liked this maverick Grand Uncle.

(All characters in this story are true to the best of my knowledge, though all incidents are purely fictional and any resemblance to true events, merely an illusion)

Copyright © Jayanta Roy Chowdhury

Footnotes:

Bhadralok: Gentleman of leisure.
Babu: A Bengali honorific, equivalent of Esquire; Also used to describe clerks in India. (In this case, the term has been used as an honorific).
Khagra Bazar: Marketplace in Berhampore, famed for its brass utensils, silks and crafts.  
Mughal court of Murshidabad : The court of the Mughal Governors of Bengal.
Battle of Plassey : The battle fought in 1757, between Lord Robert Clive and Nabob Siraj ud Dowlah of Bengal set in a mango grove not far from Berhampore, which saw the English East India Company winning after several of the Nabob’s Generals and noblemen changed sides.