The Train We Almost Never Boarded

Remembering Maa, eight years after the decision that changed everything.

As I write these words from Belgrade, Serbia, where Ethan continues his chess journey after qualifying to become a Grandmaster in Sarajevo, I cannot help but think back to the journey we almost never began. Eight years ago, as we bid farewell to Maa, none of us could have imagined where a single decision would eventually lead us.

On the afternoon of 13th July 2018, we lost our beloved Maa, Luiza Vaz. Like all her grandchildren, Ethan lovingly called her “Maa”, our family’s affectionate way of saying Grandma. Loving, kind and generous, she was the heart of our family. Ethan adored her, and she absolutely doted on him. He was just six years old then, too young to truly understand the permanence of loss, but maybe old enough to know that someone he loved was no longer with us.

What made those difficult moments even harder was that the very next day Ethan and I were scheduled to leave for what was arguably his most important tournament so far, his very first chess tournament outside Goa, the 32nd National Under-7 Chess Championship at Mandya, Karnataka. The train tickets had been booked. The plans had been made. For months, we had looked forward to Ethan representing Goa at the National Championship. In a matter of moments, none of it seemed to matter anymore. It was naturally understood that we would forego the Nationals. In fact, it was not even a thought, but just a quiet, unequivocal assumption that barely even made it to the conscious mind.

The funeral was held the following afternoon. After the final rites and the customary prayers at home, we settled quietly in the living room with close family members, trying to come to terms with our loss. Ethan was somewhere around, probably unaware of the gravity of the situation. For the most part, it was just quiet, until he walked up to me and broke the silence with a question that our family has since relived countless times over the years:

“Dada, are we going for the Nationals?”

The room fell silent. I looked at Ethan. There was no impatience on his face. No insistence. Just the innocent expectation of a six-year-old who had been eagerly waiting for an opportunity to play his first National Championship.

Before I could gather the words to tell him that we probably wouldn’t be going, my father looked at me and, in Konkani, said something we will never forget.

“Why should we deprive him of the opportunity? Maa would have wanted him to go”

It was a simple sentence, yet it carried profound wisdom. Until that moment, I don’t think anyone had seriously considered that we should still travel. The decision to stay back had almost made itself. From the perspective of societal expectations, that was a given. But my father’s words made us look at the situation differently. He wasn’t thinking about how that would reflect in society, and he certainly wasn’t thinking about chess titles or medals. In those moments of grief, he was simply thinking about what his beloved wife herself would have wanted.

A reassuring nod from Ethan’s mother was all the additional encouragement I needed.

“We need to pack our bags.”

Just four-and-a-half hours later, we were on a train from Madgaon to Karnataka.

There was no excitement as the train pulled out of Madgaon. No celebration, and certainly no dreams of Grandmaster titles or international medals. We were simply taking our little boy to what we believed would be a valuable experience. Having been introduced to chess barely eight months earlier, Ethan had never played a tournament outside Goa and had never faced players from other states. We hoped he would enjoy the experience, learn something, and return home a better player in a game that he had come to be so passionate about.

None of us could possibly have imagined that we had just boarded a train that would mark the beginning of an extraordinary journey.

What happened over the next nine days in Mandya is a story for another day.

Competing against the best young players from across the country, many of whom were already champions of their respective states and had years of experience competing at national and international levels, Ethan exceeded every expectation. In what was meant to be nothing more than a learning experience, he finished with an impressive 8 points from 11 rounds, secured 13th place among 214 participants, and returned home with a trophy after finishing in the Top 20 prize list at his very first Nationals.

More importantly, he returned home with something far more valuable than a trophy. He returned home believing that he belonged.

Looking back today, that first National Championship feels like the moment Ethan’s chess journey truly found its direction. From that day onwards, there was no looking back.

Over the years, Ethan would go on to represent India across the world, win 30 international medals for the country and 10 national medals for Goa, become the world’s youngest International Master in January 2024, and, just about a fortnight before Maa’s eighth death anniversary, fulfil his dream of becoming a Chess Grandmaster.

Every journey has defining moments. Some happen over a chessboard. Others happen quietly, in the living room of a grieving family.

Today, on her eighth death anniversary, we remember Maa with immense love and gratitude. She would have been incredibly proud of the young man Ethan has become at 14, not just for the titles and achievements, but for the humility, discipline and values he carries with him every single day.

Looking back today, I realise that this was never just the story of the train we almost never boarded. It was the story of a grandmother’s love, and of a family trying to honour what they believed she would have wanted.

“Maa would have wanted him to go.”

Eight years later, that little boy is India’s youngest Grandmaster and the world’s second-youngest Grandmaster. We like to believe that, in heaven, Maa is smiling. Not because of the titles or the accolades, but because she would have been happiest seeing her grandson doing what he loved most.

For that, and for the immeasurable love she showered upon all of us, we will always remain grateful.