Humans, in general, tend to make for highly interesting subjects for the patient observer and law students even more so. Armed with a chessboard and a hangover, The Diarist marches to the nearby local dhabha and slips into the role of the patient observer.

I clutched my head for possibly the hundredth time that afternoon and winced. I couldn’t open my eyes completely, they were sticky. I couldn’t focus on a damn thing, everything was too bright. I was miserable, angry and blind. I was hungover.

I was hungover because I had had the dubious privilege of attending the quarterly cornucopia of godlessness, that we call a ‘college party’, the previous evening and it had been a good party. Nary a few, happy hours back, I had been nursing a cheap whiskey and viewing with great interest the fallibilities of my compatriots, who had not the sense to keep their alcohol down or their clothes on. But that had been yesterday. Alcohol, as they say, is the great leveller, and this afternoon we all moved as the various limbs of one, miserably hungover man, towards our only hope – the local dhaba.

The fine men who run the dhaba local to our college offer salvation in the form of the greasiest parathas this side of the Golden Temple. Grease calls to hungover men as the Sirens to Odysseus, and like Odysseus, we give in directly.

So, this dhaba.

One normally goes to the dhaba to play cards, watch traffic, gossip or determine the distribution of fault within a moot team that has lost; several parties are here today fulfilling their respective roles as expected. Over at the largest table, a burly crowd of fifth years is harrumphing over a game of cards.

One may perhaps go to the dhaba to sit opposite one’s boyfriend the day after a party and earnestly trade insecurities; two such parties are here right now, attempting to decide whether drunken cheating is, like, I mean, real cheating.

One could also go to the dhaba to think uncharitable thoughts about harlots and adulterers and share them with a gaggle of one’s like minded friends; a group of such sit together at a table, alternating between talking in delighted whispers and making the Judgey Eyes at everyone else.

Me, I go to watch people be people and play chess with myself. I figure there’s nothing like some old-fashioned schadenfreude with greasy food on the side to soothe both body and soul.

It’s as good an occupation as any.

I am here today armed with my chessboard, nursing my headache and listening absently to the discordant music of everyday life.

As I prepare to make my opening moves, disjointed conversations around me crash, tyres squealing, into each other.

Listen, those girls mean nothing to me…

What do you mean, I cost you all those memo penalties? Did you see…

It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that ...

Everything is proceeding just as usual; moving white pawn to c4 -

Haven’t you noticed some of us don’t have chairs, says one bearded fifth year to a fresher boy sitting alone. His voice is soft and it is not phrased as a question.

Everyone’s eyes are on addressee; black’s move lies suspended as I watch with them. The young boy gets up and leaves without question.

I move dxc5; the black pawn swallows my white. The first kill of the day.

The boy’s tea lies abandoned on the table; it continues to give off smoke, like a gun that has just gone off.

I walk over, pick it up and empty it outside the window.

Meanwhile proceedings are picking up at the troubled young couple’s table; our man is insistent on the point that he is in true love with her -

Moving white e3..-

- and one night of mere lust on his part could never defeat such a noble union as theirs..-

Moving black e6..-

She wavers for a long moment, she is not fully convinced – I watch her unhappy face as her fears battle her desire for a fairytale ending – (I’m thinking, this could go either way) – then she sighs, she says yes, of course, you were drunk, so, well, I mean, if you were drunk I guess it must be okay.. –

He triumphantly reaches forward and grabs hold of her hand: Baby, you are the only one!

- and I move; the white bishop lops the black pawn’s head cleanly off. Bxc4, c5 - A result that was obvious right from the beginning, and would come as a surprise to absolutely no one.

And yet I feel deflated, as though, just this one time, I had hoped it would have turned out differently.

The pieces move like tired marionettes in an ancient play, speaking lines that have been spoken for ever, and will continue to be spoken until our voices die with us. And these lines, there are so many –

OMG did you see what she was wearing last night? She looked like a –

Ya man, have you seen who he’s hanging with these days, so pseudo –

- these lines are beginning to sound very worn, very old. I feel old and bitter, and make my moves quickly. I am not thinking very much anymore. Other people have made these moves before me, I am just rehearsing well worn paths so I can finish the game and leave.

The table of fifth years is getting up to leave. They approach Uncle, the owner of the dhaba – Ek Milds dena. He complies. Aur aapka account… he says, trailing away delicately; Do mahina hua hai... His phrasing is unimpeachable. The perfect balance of ‘inoffensive’ and other, more unpleasant things.

Arre take it next week, uncle, they say smilingly. What will you do in one week anyway, uncle, they say smilingly.

Uncle does not smile.

After all we are your only customers na, uncle. Take it later, they say. Take it later.

Uncle does not respond. They wait with the patience of those who already know they have won.

On my chessboard, both queens, a castle and a bishop are staring each other down in a beautiful twist on the classic Mexican standoff, with the two Kings lurking in fear behind them. It is black’s chance to move but there will be likely no win, while blood and loss are certain all round. Still, one would imagine, it would be noblest for black to at least try to stand up for itself -

Uncle finally looks up at the crowd of smilers and smiles back. Aapka hi ghar hai, he says, pay me whenever you want, eh?

- but no; sometimes it is wiser to just quit with dignity and hope that tomorrow’s game will be better. In chess, this is called resignation.

The crowd slaps uncle jovially on the back and exits the dhaba in a cloud of cigarette smoke and friendly profanity.

Black resigns. The game is over.

I pack up my game and walk back to college in the dying sunlight. My hangover is gone.

Tomorrow, everyone gets to play again.

* * *

[All the credit for the chess component of this post belongs to Grandmasters Leitao and Baburin whose moves these originally were; Leitao v. Baburin, 1998.]