That said, I remain attracted to the poetics of chess, its colours and structure. Chess by Stefan Zweig (1941) translated by Anthea Bell (2006, Penguin) Fully aware that his daughters would end up drawing actual swords if they attempted his beloved game, my dad did not insist we learn it. In chess, you need to contain your aggression, channel every ounce of your competitive spirit onto the board. Reason? My elder sister and I were a very physically violent duo, we fought everyday over nothing and everything. Naturally, I grew up in a house that buzzed with lengthy lessons and discussions on strategy and tactics, that was filled with encyclopedia, periodicals and manuals containing names like Kasparov, Anand, Kramnik, Topalov, Fischer, Lasker, Spassky, Bronstein, Karpov, Polgár, Capablanca, Ruy López…The great tragedy is that I am unequipped to understand these luminaries, I myself know almost nothing about the magnificent game they play/have played.
That’s a student of my dad’s, Leon Luke Mendonca with Garry Kasparov in Hong Kong. Now he coaches kids (mostly over Skype) who regularly compete at tournaments and championships in Europe and Asia. He then taught himself the game, learning some German and Russian in the process to be able to read the best literature available on the subject. In his prime, at his peak-in the 70s and 80s-when the sport was not as commercialised as it is today, he was India No. My dad discovered the old pieces, heard the stories as a little boy. He got the passion from his grandfather, who had passed away before his birth. My father is a chess player with an international ( “FIDE”) rating.
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