Fifty years ago, Marottichal was rife with alcoholism and illicit gambling, but everything changed after one man taught the town to play an ancient game of strategy.

The green paint on the dividers of Marottichal's town teashop had begun to drop, similar to coin scrapings on a scratch card, uncovering a light blue tone of a past time. Maybe this was at one time an unruly bar or brew shop. In any case, not any longer.

Mr Unnikrishnan, the teashop's proprietor, sat inverse me at one of the wooden tables, his dull eyes focused with a scary force on the checkered board that lay between us.

An insensitive hand rose and richly grasped the white priest, sliding it tenderly into the dark knight and toppling it over.

"He has you now," said the spectating Baby John, slurping his chai to smother a smile.

I overviewed the sombre scene unfurling before me. My few remaining pieces were gotten into a tight spot, anxious to surrender.

Around the teashop's four different tables extraordinary comparative clashes of minds were being battled, while a tidy covered Videocon TV grieved on a rack at the back of the room, unplugged and overlooked.

Falling back on diversion, I jabbed a petrified pawn one square forward and asked Unnikrishnan for what reason this amusement resounds such a significant amount with the general population of Marottichal, a remote timberland town in northern Kerala.

"Chess causes us conquer troubles and sufferings," said Unnikrishnan, taking my ruler. "On a chess board, you are battling, as we are additionally battling the hardships of our day to day life."

With a pretended bluster I took one of Unnikrishnan's disconnected pawns.

"What's more, is it extremely that well known?" I inquired.

Unnikrishnan gave me a wry grin. "Come, you can see with your own eyes," he stated, ascending from the table.

I looked down to discover my ruler grovelling, encompassed by a lethal swarm of white plastic pieces.

I speculated that was checkmate.

It was mid-morning and Marottichal's tree-lined primary road was occupied, yet strangely calm. The timberland breeze didn't convey the vexatious ear-splitting of movement horns – the stunning ensemble of most Indian towns – yet rather noiselessly blended the portions of brilliant hitting crisscrossing overhead.

The transport stop inverse Unnikrishnan's teashop was loaded with individuals, yet nobody appeared to go anyplace. Rather, the assembled swarm were hunched down on their backside, viewing an extreme chess coordinate play out between two turning gray men of their word. The men sat leg over leg and shoeless, their lungis (sarongs) rigid over their thighs.

I soon recognized the transport a short separation away, however it conveyed no travelers; the motor was off, and the driver had abandoned the wheel to challenge a speedy chess coordinate with the director before the beginning of their next move.

Companions on asphalts, life partners on seats, associates over shop ledges; the highly contrasting board punctured each scene. Around the bend from the teashop on the veranda of Unnikrishnan's own home, apparently one of the town's most famous gaming recognizes, no less than three matches were occurring.

"In other Indian towns maybe the most extreme number of individuals that know chess is under 50," said Baby John, leader of the Chess Association of Marottichal. "Here 4,000 of the 6,000 populace are playing chess, day by day."

"Also, it is all on account of this awesome man," he included, motioning to Unnikrishnan.

Fifty years back, Marottichal was an altogether different place. In the same way as other towns in northern Kerala, liquor addiction and unlawful betting were overflowing among its little populace. Having built up an energy for chess while living in the close-by town of Kallur, Unnikrishnan moved back to his distressed main residence and opened his teashop, where he started instructing clients to play chess as a more beneficial approach to take a break.

Marvelously, the diversion's prevalence thrived while drinking and betting declined. The town's eagerness for the old side interest, which is accepted to have started in India in the sixth Century, has now turned out to be great to the point that Unnikrishnan gauges one individual in each Marottichal family knows how to play.

"Fortunately for us chess is more addictive than liquor," Baby John said.

Not exclusively did the bygone diversion scupper liquor abuse and supersede furtive card recreations, yet it has engrained itself into Marottichal's personality, and, as indicated by Baby John, it keeps on shielding the town's inhabitants from present day traps.

"Chess enhances focus, constructs character and makes group," he said. "We don't stare at the TV here; we play chess and converse with each other."

"Indeed, even the children?" I inquired.

Unnikrishnan shot me another wry grin.

It was noon when we landed at Marottichal Primary School, a group of blue dividers and orange-tiled rooftops, to locate the dusty patio inundated with excited youngsters, similar to a startled run of pigeons in an open square.

Be that as it may, through the shred of bodies, I could see a column of kids situated calmly at a line of tables.

We drew closer the closest combine, who were roosted at a stained seat with a chess board between them. Vithun and Eldho, both 12 years of age, brandished coordinating tufts of dark hair and shared a substantial energy for chess – with a fervid appreciation for one piece specifically.

"The knight is the best," Vithun said.

"Certainly," Eldho answered.

"It's the most effective."

"You can move it toward any path!"

In a nation experiencing quick digitalisation, fanning far reaching fears about Indian youth getting to be disengaged from their nation and culture, it was abnormal to hear two youngsters speak so energetically around a 1,000-year-old table game that is intertwined into India's history. Clearly they would like to sit in front of the TV, I pondered so anyone can hear.

"Chess is ideal!" yelled Eldho as he sprung from his seat, nearly toppling the board. Vithum frowned at him.

"A year ago we went to the school with 15 chess sheets and welcomed the youngsters to learn chess," Baby John clarified as we battled our way back through the yard. "The next week we backpedaled and every one of the youngsters in the classroom had purchased chess sheets of their own."

The positive reaction from the understudies, matched with their confidence in the sanative characteristics of the amusement, has driven the Chess Association of Marottichal to ask for that the experts incorporate chess as a component of the official school syllabus. This, they accept, will help their vision of living in a town where everybody plays chess.

"At exactly that point would we be able to really call ourselves a chess town," Baby John finished up, clarifying that he trusts the title will bond Marottichal's relationship to the much-adored game and its enlightening standards.

The healthy way of life advanced by the town is apparently appealing to Keralites, shown by the remote territory's developing populace in spite of generally high land costs. The town has likewise attracted guests from as far away as Germany and the US quick to take in the amusement or sharpen their abilities.

In any case, regardless of this, as we walked back to the teashop a waiting uncertainty troubled me: would a group focused on an old prepackaged game have the capacity to withstand the quick influx of modernisation clearing over the Indian subcontinent?

My feelings of trepidation were increased when we neared a gathering of youngsters tapping without end on their cell phones, a sight that incited me to voice these worries to Unnikrishnan and Baby John.

Be that as it may, as we moved closer, the three of us could perceive what was summoning the gathering's full focus: they were all playing chess on the web.

Unnikrishnan gave me one final grin.

I speculated that was checkmate.