Checkmate at Azad Tea Shop

Every evening, just as the clock struck 7:30, Uncle Peter and I would make our way to Azad Tea Shop, located near the bustling Node 1 bus stand in Bodhgaya. Uncle Peter, the endlessly amusing Englishman, had been staying in Bodhgaya for months now, and his presence had become as integral to the neighborhood as the chai Shibu brewed.

Peter and I had fallen into a comfortable routine. Despite the age difference—he was in his sixties and I in my late twenties—we shared a bond forged over our mutual love for chess. He would arrive at my room earlier in the evening, carrying his ever-present chessboard, and together we’d stroll through the crowded streets to the tea shop, chatting about everything from gardening (his passion) to the peculiarities of life in Bodhgaya.

Azad Tea Shop wasn’t much to look at—a humble wooden counter with a few tables and benches scattered around—but it was always alive with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of glass cups. Shibu, the owner, was a jovial man with a perpetual grin, and his chai was legendary in the area.

“Evening, Shibu!” Peter called out as we arrived. “I trust you’ve saved our usual spot.”

Shibu grinned, wiping his hands on a rag. “Always, Uncle Peter! Kashaf, you’re lucky you have him as your partner. He brings business to my shop every night.”

I rolled my eyes. “He brings more chaos than business, Shibu. Wait till he starts playing.”

By the time we sat down and Shibu brought over our cups of steaming chai, the regular crowd had started to gather. My cousins, Mehandi and Zaid, were already there, sitting on the bench nearest the table. Mehandi, older and quieter, always wore an expression of wry amusement, while Zaid, the younger and more excitable of the two, never missed a chance to cheer or heckle during our matches.

The chessboard was laid out, and the game began.

Peter’s style of play was maddening. He made moves that seemed reckless, even foolish, but somehow they always ended up working in his favor. His strategies defied logic, but they were effective—infuriatingly so.

“You can’t possibly think that’s a good move,” I said, watching in disbelief as he sacrificed his bishop early in the game.

Peter took a leisurely sip of his chai, his straw hat tilted at a jaunty angle. “Sometimes, my dear Kashaf, a bishop must fall so the kingdom may rise.”

Mehandi snorted. “Here we go with the philosophy again.”

Zaid, leaning forward eagerly, asked, “What kingdom, Uncle Peter? You’ve lost half your pieces already!”

Peter winked at him. “Patience, my boy. The game isn’t over until it’s over.”

And sure enough, within ten moves, he had me cornered. His queen, which I had foolishly overlooked, swept across the board and delivered the inevitable.

“Checkmate,” Peter said softly, leaning back with a triumphant smile.

The crowd erupted in laughter and applause. Mehandi clapped slowly, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “A masterpiece, truly. Poor Kashaf didn’t stand a chance.”

Shibu, standing behind the counter, called out, “Uncle Peter, you should start charging tickets for your matches. You’d make more than I do selling chai!”

Peter laughed, raising his cup in mock toast. “To Kashaf, my worthy opponent. You put up a valiant fight, my friend.”

“Next time,” I muttered, already resetting the board, “you won’t be so lucky.”

After my loss, Mehandi and Zaid took turns challenging Peter. Mehandi was cautious, playing with quiet precision, while Zaid was bold and reckless, his enthusiasm often getting the better of him. Neither managed to beat Peter, but both left the table laughing and shaking their heads.

As the games continued, more locals stopped by to watch or play. It wasn’t about winning or losing—it was about the camaraderie, the laughter, and the stories shared over countless cups of chai.

By the time the shop began to wind down, it was nearly ten. Peter and I rose to leave, bidding goodbye to Shibu and the others. As we walked back through the quiet streets, the soft glow of the streetlights casting long shadows, Peter turned to me.

“You played well tonight, Kashaf,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically sincere.

I glanced at him, surprised. “You think so?”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “You’re improving. And who knows? Maybe tomorrow, you’ll finally beat me.”

I chuckled. “Or maybe I’ll just start playing as unpredictably as you do.”

Peter grinned, tipping his hat. “Now that would be a sight to see.”

As we reached my house and parted ways for the night, I couldn’t help but feel grateful. Azad Tea Shop was more than just a place for chai and chess. It was a sanctuary, a stage for laughter and connection in the heart of Bodhgaya. And Uncle Peter, with his eccentricities and boundless charm, had somehow become a part of all our lives—a reminder that, sometimes, it’s the simplest moments that leave the most lasting memories.