Every life has a moment that quietly changes its direction. Mine began on an ordinary evening during my tenth standard. Like most boys my age, I spent my evenings playing cricket with friends. One day, while waiting for my turn to bat, I noticed two boys sitting nearby with a small chessboard between them. They played in complete silence, absorbed in a world that seemed untouched by the noise of the cricket ground. I stood beside them and watched.

The next day, they returned at the same time, and so did I. Day after day, I found myself standing quietly beside them, observing every move they made. They did not teach me, nor did they explain the game. I simply watched, trying to understand what made those sixty-four squares so captivating. Without realizing it, my curiosity was turning into fascination.

Unable to resist it any longer, I asked my father to buy me a chessboard. A few days later, he brought home a simple ₹20 plastic chess set. To most people, it would have seemed insignificant, but to me, it became the doorway to an entirely new world. Inside the box was a folded instruction sheet explaining how each piece moved. I spent hours reading those rules, setting up the board repeatedly, replaying positions, and slowly teaching myself the fundamentals of the game.

Not long afterwards, I learned that my school was conducting a chess tournament. Determined to participate, I joined the selection camp. That was where I met a fellow student who played far better than anyone else I had encountered. Seeing my eagerness to learn, he stayed back with me after school every day. For nearly an hour, he patiently taught me the game—correcting my mistakes, explaining ideas, and helping me see the board in a completely different way. Within just two months, I had improved enough to earn a place on my school's five-member chess team.

Soon came my very first tournament. I walked into the event with little experience and no expectations. Many of the participants were already rated players, while I had only recently discovered the game. Yet move by move, round after round, everything seemed to fall into place. When I lifted the first-prize trophy, I felt something I had never experienced before. It was more than the joy of winning—it was the unmistakable feeling that I had found something that truly belonged to me. Standing there that day, I made a promise to myself that has never faded with time: I would never leave this game. Whatever life had in store for me, chess would always remain a part of it.