The father of modern Indian chess

The brother and sister in this picture is instantly recognisable to most chess players everywhere but not the senior gentleman seated between them. But obviously, Praggnanandhaa and Vaishali both hold him in high esteem. I was surprised to see him in this picture and actually more delighted to know that Manuel Aaron is still living in Madras. For a while, after he had played in the Penang leg of the first Asian grandmaster chess circuit in 1978, we had kept in touch for some years before ultimately losing contact.

Manuel Aaron is India’s first International Master, a nine-time national champion and one of the key figures who turned Indian chess from a scattered mix of local variants into the modern game played today. Born on 30 December 1935 in Toungoo, Burma, to Indian parents, Aaron grew up in Tamil Nadu after his family returned during the Second World War. He was largely self-taught as a kid, at a time when coaching barely existed, and later went on to complete a Science degree at Allahabad University.

By the late 1950s he was already the dominant force in Indian chess. He won the Indian National Championship nine times between 1959 and 1981, including a run of five straight titles from 1969 to 1973. He also took the Tamil Nadu State Championship eleven times between 1957 and 1982, and helped to establish the state as a lasting centre of strength in Indian chess.

His big international breakthrough came in 1961 when he won both the West Asian Zonal and the Asian-Australian Zonal. That earned him the International Master title, making him the first Indian to receive a FIDE title. The same year he became the first chess player to win the Arjuna Award which was India’s top sporting honour.

Qualifying for the 1962 Stockholm Interzonal was a huge moment. He finished last, but still pulled off wins against top grandmasters Lajos Portisch and Wolfgang Uhlmann; these were results that are still talked about as some of the biggest upsets in Indian chess. Aaron represented India in three Chess Olympiads (1960, 1962 and 1964), twice as captain. His win over former World Champion Max Euwe at Leipzig 1960 remained a landmark result.

Outside competition, his impact was just as significant. Until the 1960s, many Indians were still playing regional versions of chess with different rules. Aaron pushed for international standards, encouraged serious study of openings and endgames, and helped build the structure the game needed. He founded the Tal Chess Club in Chennai in 1972, which became a focal point for organised chess in the city.

He also worked as a journalist and author. He wrote for The Hindu and launched the magazine Chess Mate in 1982. Teaching was always a big part of his life, and he continued mentoring young players well into his later years. In the end, Aaron’s legacy rests on two things: what he achieved over the board and what he built away from it. He helped give Indian chess a proper foundation that later generations took much further.

The great composers

After an old friend passed away last year, I collected a stack of records from his sister, who was looking to give away his things. Among them were 19 classical LPs from The Great Composers and Their Music series. I was mighty pleased. I thought I had stumbled onto something rather special.

But when I finally got round to playing them, that sense of discovery quickly faded. The records looked fine - no obvious scratches or blemishes - yet the sound was poor. Not the usual pops and crackles, but a kind of distortion that crept in whenever the stylus passed over certain sections. And it wasn’t just one record. It was all 19. It took me a while to realise that the problem wasn’t with my turntable, but with the records themselves.

To squeeze half an hour or more onto a single side of a 12-inch LP is no small trick. Under normal circumstances, you would expect about 20 minutes, and perhaps a little more sometimes. Push it to 30, and something has to give. In fact, quite a few things give way at once.

The first casualty is the bass. Low frequencies take up space - real, physical space in the groove - and if you are trying to pack in as many revolutions as possible, the only option is to thin them out. What you are left with is a sound that feels weightless, almost tinny, as if the orchestra has been drained of its lower register.

Then there is the matter of volume. Narrower grooves mean the signal has to be cut at a lower level, otherwise the stylus would simply plough into the neighbouring groove. So you turn up the amplifier, but in doing so you also bring up everything else, such as the faint hiss of the production tape, the soft shush of the stylus moving across plastic.

And towards the end of each side, the problem tightens further. As the stylus moves closer to the centre, the available space shrinks while the record continues spinning at the same speed. Everything is compressed into a smaller circumference. High frequencies begin to strain; strings lose their sheen, and sibilants take on a brittle edge.

There is also a subtler loss. To keep the needle from misbehaving in these cramped conditions, the music is often compressed. The difference between the quietest and loudest passages is reduced. In classical music, where so much depends on contrast - a solitary flute against a sudden orchestral surge - this flattening dulls the emotional shape of the piece. Everything sits at roughly the same level.

Once I understood all this, the behaviour of those 19 records made sense. They were not faulty in the usual way; they were simply over-ambitious. The series itself, The Great Composers and Their Music, was issued by Marshall Cavendish in the early 1980s. It followed the part-work model of weekly or fortnightly instalments, each accompanied by a magazine and a record or cassette tape, inviting the buyer to build a library over time. It looked respectable, even a little scholarly, and for many it must have served as an entry point into classical music.

But the format carried its own compromises. Classical works are not easily contained. A symphony by Beethoven or Brahms does not naturally fit the neat constraints of a single LP side, let alone one already stretched to its limits. Something had to be trimmed, rearranged or split. And so movements ended where it was convenient to turn the record over, not where the composer intended. A musical argument that ought to unfold in a single arc was interrupted midway, resumed a few minutes later and sometimes followed immediately by something else altogether.

The sound itself carried another layer of remove. These were not original recordings but licensed ones drawn from established labels and passed along as production copies. Each step away from the source introduced a small loss such as a touch less clarity or a faint veil over the upper frequencies. On a well-pressed record with generous groove spacing, you might hardly notice. Here, with everything already pared down, it became part of the overall texture.

And then there was the pressing itself. These records were made in large numbers, meant for newsstands and supermarkets rather than specialist shops. One cannot expect too much fussiness under those conditions. Imperfections crept in. A bit of non-fill here, a slight roughness there, the sort of things that might pass unnoticed on a louder, fuller pressing but which became more apparent when the music itself had been cut so quietly.

It also explained something else I had been puzzling over. The sounds I was hearing were not the familiar trio of vinyl artefacts (hiss, pops and crackle) that one learns to accept, even to some extent to enjoy. Those have their own causes: dust caught in the groove, static discharge, the faint imprint of tape hiss from the original recording. What I was hearing was different. It had a pattern to it, a consistency across all the discs, appearing at roughly the same points. It was not dirt, and it was not wear. It was design.

In time, my initial disappointment gave way to something closer to acceptance. These records were never meant to be definitive. They were an introduction, a gateway of sorts, assembled for convenience rather than fidelity. And that, I realised, was a thread that did not end with vinyl.

In the early 1990s, another publisher, Orbis Publishing, brought out The Classical Collection on compact disc. I happen to own the first 45 issues of that series, and in many ways it felt like a continuation of the same idea, only updated for a new format.

By then, of course, the technical battle had been won. The compact disc had none of the physical limitations of the LP. There were no grooves to cram, no inner-edge distortion to contend with, no need to lower the volume just to make everything fit. A full symphony could sit comfortably on a single disc, often with room to spare. The sound was clean, stable and free of the surface noise that had plagued those earlier records. Yet the underlying approach remained familiar.

Like the Marshall Cavendish series, the Orbis collection was built up issue by issue, with each disc accompanied by notes that guided the listener through the repertoire. It, too, drew on licensed recordings rather than producing its own. And while the sound was undeniably better, the programming often reflected the same editorial mindset: a balance between completeness and coverage.

Sometimes there would be a full work. At other times, the disc would move from one piece to another, offering a sampler rather than a sustained listening experience. It was less about presenting a single performance in its full integrity than about giving the listener a workable map of the classical landscape. In that sense, the compromises had shifted rather than disappeared. Where the LPs had been constrained by physics, the CDs were shaped by editorial choice. One strained the medium; the other curated it.

Between the two, I found myself looking at my friend’s records in a slightly different light. They were part of a longer continuum: one that tried, in its own way, to make a vast and sometimes intimidating body of music more accessible to a wider audience. This wasn't perfect, not even especially refined, but purposeful.

I have kept his set. Not because it sounds good but because it tells a story about a time when building a classical collection could be as simple as a weekly visit to the newsagent; about the compromises hidden in the grooves, and later, in the programming; and, perhaps most of all, about the quiet afterlife of things once valued, passed from one pair of hands to another, carrying with them more than just the music they were meant to contain.

ADDENDUM:

Here is the full set of Marshall Cavendish's The Great Composers and Their Music series with the ones I own highlighted in bold:

1 - Beethoven: Symphony No.5 in C minor Opus 67
2 - Brahms: Symphony No.1 in C minor, Opus 68
3 - Chopin: Piano Recital incl. 'Minute' Waltz 'Revolutionary' Study
4 - Tchaikovsky: Piano Concerto No.1 in B flat minor, opus 23 with 'Romeo and Juliet' fantasy overture
5 - Schubert: Symphony No.8 in B minor ('unfinished') D.759 & symphony No.5 in B flat major D.485
6 - Beethoven: Violin Concerto in D, Opus 6
7 - Schumann: Symphony No.1 in B flat major, Opus 38 ('spring') with Piano Concerto in A minor, Opus 54
8 - Brahms: Piano Concerto No.2 in B flat major Opus 83
9 - Tchaikovsky: Ballet Music including 'Swan Lake' 'The Sleeping Beauty' & 'The Nutcracker'
10 - Berlioz: Symphonie Fantastique Opus 14
11 - Mendelssohn: Overtures incl. 'A Midsummer Nights Dream' Opus 21
12 - Liszt: The Piano Concertos
13 - Schubert: Piano Quintet in A major Opus 114 ('The Trout')
14 - Brahms: Violin Concerto in D major Opus 77
15 - Beethoven: Piano Concerto No.5 in E flat, Opus 73 ('Emperor')
16 - Tchaikovsky: Symphony No.6 in B minor, opus 74 ('Pathetique')
17 - Mendelssohn: Violin concerto in E minor, Opus 64 with Symphony No.4 in A major, opus 90 ('Italian')
18 - Beethoven: Piano Sonatas 'Moonlight,' 'Pathetique,' 'Appassionato'
19 - Tchaikovsky: Short orchestral works incl. '1812' festival overture, Opus 49
20 - Mahler: Symphonic Excerpts featuring themes from Visconti's film 'Death in Venice'
21 - Mozart: Piano Concertos Nos.21 and 22
22 - Bach J S: Brandenburg concertos Nos.2, 3 and 5
23 - Handel: Messiah (highlights)
24 - Mozart: Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, K 525, three German Dances, K 605, A Musical Joke, K.522
25 - Vivaldi: The Four Seasons
26 - Bach J S: Selected Organ Works incl. Toccata and Fugue in D minor
27 - Mozart: Symphony No.40 in G minor, K.550 & Symphony No.41 in C, K.551 'Jupiter'
28 - Baroque Festival: Purcell, Albinoni, Telemann, Rameau, Pachelbel, Corelli and Handel
29 - Handel: Music for the Royal Fireworks & Water Music Suites in D and F
30 - Haydn: Symphony No. 94 in G major ('Surprise') & Symphony No.101 in D major ('Clock')
31 - Bach JS: Orchestral Suites No.2 in B minor, BWV 1067 & No.3 in D, BWV 1068
32 - Mozart: Clarinet concerto in A, K.622 & Flute and Harp Concerto in C, K.299
33 - Borodin, Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov: Polovtsian Dances; A Night On The Bare Mountain; Russian Easter Overture, Capriccio Espagnol
34 - Sibelius: Symphony No.2 in D, Opus 43 & Finlandia, Opus 26
35 - Dvorak: Symphony No.9 in E minor, OP.95 'From The New World'
36 - Rimsky-Korsakov: Scheherazade Opus 35
37 - Grieg: 'Peer Gynt' suites No.1 and 2 with Piano Concerto in A minor, OP.16
38 - Dvorak and Smetana: Cello Concerto in B minor, OP.104; The Moldau (Vltava)
39 - Ravel: Orchestral Works
40 - Offenbach and Gounod: arr. Rosenthal Gaiete Parisienne; Faust - Ballet Music
41 - Strauss (Johann): Viennese Waltzes
42 - Debussy: La Mer and Nocturnes
43 - Stravinsky: The Rite of Spring and King of the Stars
44 - Strauss (Richard): Till Eulenspiegel OP.28 also, Sprach Zarathustra OP.30, Don Juan OP.20
45 - Elgar: Enigma Variations OP.36 Pomp and Circumstance OP.39
46 - Bartok: Concerto for Orchestra & Dance Suite
47 - Prokofiev, Shostakovitch: Symphony No.1 in D, Opus 25, 'The love of the Three Oranges' suite, Opus 33A; Symphony No.9 in E flat major, Opus 70
48 - Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No.2 in C minor Opus18, Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini Opus 43
49 - Orff: Carmina Burana
50 - Holst: The Planets
51 - Rodrigo: Concierto De Aranjuez and Fantasia Para Un Gentilhombre
52 - Gershwin: Piano Concerto in F, Rhapsody in Blue, I Got Rhythm
53 - Bizet: Carmen
54 - Mozart: Magic Flute & Cosi Fan Tutte
55 - Verdi: Aida And Rigoletto (operatic highlights)
56 - Rossini & Donizetti: Barber of Seville & Don Pasquale
57 - Puccini: Madam Butterfly & Turandot
58 - Leoncavallo & Mascagni: I Paggliacci & Cavalleria Rusticana
59 - Gounod: Faust
60 - Mozart: Marriage of Figaro & Don Giovanni
61 - Verdi: La Traviata & Il Trovatore
62 - Puccini: La Boheme & Tosca
63 - Strauss (Richard): Der Rosenkavalier
64 - Wagner: The Ring
65 - Strauss (Johann) & Lehar: Die Fledermaus & The Merry Widow
66 - Bonus LP: A Celebration Of Christmas

 

Elevated to Federal Court

Our heartiest congratulations to Justice Ravinthran a/l Paramaguru on his appointment to the Federal Court yesterday. Many people don't realise this but he was born in Bukit Mertajam in 1962 and had his education at the Bukit Mertajam High School. After graduating from Law School, he was posted as a Magistrate to Sabah. In 2009, he was appointed as a Judicial Commissioner and then elevated as a High Court judge in 2013. He was appointed to the Court of Appeal in 2019. His long judicial service to the nation speaks for itself and we hope that Penang, his home state, will give him due recognition soon. 

- Quah Seng Sun & Lee Saw See -

 

Penang's light rail transit

I’ve just realised that I’ve never written anything at all about the forthcoming Light Rail Transit plans in Penang. Construction is already underway for the Mutiara Line that will connect KOMTAR with the new artificial island in the south of Penang Island. And very soon, possibly by the end of this year, construction will commence on the additional LRT link between the Macallum Street station on the island and Penang Sentral on the mainland. Needless to say, I am terribly excited, and happy, about the project. It’s supposed to be completed by 2030, and I hope this timeline will include all the trial runs and testing, so that the public can use the Light Rail Transit as soon as possible. By then, I shall be 76 years old. Will I be healthy enough to enjoy a ride across the Penang Channel? Time will tell.

Still, for once, this is not just wishful thinking or another plan on paper. The thing is actually moving. Piers have begun appearing along parts of the alignment and that makes a difference. One can argue about policies and projections, but once concrete starts going up, the project feels real in a way that press statements never quite manage.

The Mutiara Line will run close to 30 kilometres, with around 20 stations, stretching from the southern end of the island right up to the heart of George Town, and now across the channel to the mainland. That cross-sea section, about six kilometres in length, is the part that really captures the imagination. A train gliding over the water from Macallum to Butterworth in under ten minutes. For anyone who has spent an hour or more crawling across the bridge in peak traffic, that almost sounds too good to be true.

The response on the ground has been overwhelmingly positive. When the public inspection opened, thousands turned up. Feedback was strong, even enthusiastic. There is a sense that Penang, after talking about rail for so many years, is finally getting something done. But as always, once the excitement settles, the practical questions begin to surface.

One of the first concerns is surprisingly basic: distance. At Penang Sentral, the LRT station will be about 500 metres from the existing KTM station and ferry terminal. On paper, that doesn’t sound like much. In reality, especially with luggage, in the heat, or for older people, it is not insignificant. Anyone who has made that walk will know there is a slight incline as well. It is manageable, but not exactly effortless. While a covered walkway will help, a travelator would help even more. I would even deem an air-conditioned link as essential. These are small things, but they determine whether a journey feels smooth or cumbersome. Public transport is not just about the train itself; it is about everything that happens before and after you board it.

Then there is the question of capacity. Penang Sentral is meant to be a major interchange for rail, bus, ferry, and now LRT all converging in one place. But how much can it actually handle? The current plans mention around 1,000 parking bays. That sounds reasonable until one considers the number of cars crossing the bridge every morning. Even a small shift in commuter habits could overwhelm those facilities.

It raises a larger issue of the supporting infrastructure such as feeder buses and last-mile connections. If not properly thought through, people may simply continue driving. The success of the system will depend not just on the trains running on time, but on whether it is genuinely convenient to use. And yet, despite these concerns, it is difficult not to feel a sense of anticipation.

The cross-sea link, in particular, has a certain symbolic weight. For decades, Penang Island and the mainland have been connected by ferries and bridges, each with its own limitations. The idea of a rail link cutting cleanly across the channel feels like a step into a different phase altogether. The journey time, said to be as little as eight minutes, will change the way people think about distance between the two sides.

I think back to all the earlier proposals - monorails, trams, buses - and this time, something is actually taking shape. The federal government has stepped in, MRT Corp is now running the project, and there seems to be a stronger sense of direction. And there is also the public support. When nearly everyone is in favour of the project, it creates a kind of momentum of its own. People want this to work. They are prepared to overlook imperfections, at least for now, in the hope that the bigger picture will hold.

As for me, I find myself thinking less about policy and more about that first ride. To sit in a train at Macallum, experiencing it pulling away, gathering speed and then moving out over the water past the ships and under the open sky, heading towards Butterworth. Or vice versa from Butterworth to Macallum. It is a small thing in the larger scheme of infrastructure and development. But it is also something entirely new in the Penang experience.

If all goes well, I will be 76 when it opens. That is not so old, I tell myself. But old enough to have seen how long these things can take. But I hope not too old to enjoy the result. And if I do make that journey from mainland to island in a matter of minutes, I suspect I will remember not just the ride itself, but all the years when it seemed it might never happen at all.

Mountain shadows

I wasn’t planning on revisiting Dave Grusin, but one track led to another, and before long I found myself lingering over Mountain Dance, then moving on to Out of the Shadows. Both albums have that easy feel about them. Listening again, it struck me that music like this doesn’t just appear out of thin air. Grusin had already travelled quite a distance before arriving here.

He didn’t start out as a recording artist. Back in the 1960s, he was working as a pianist and arranger on The Andy Williams Show. From there, he eased into film scoring, and by the mid-70s he was already handling major projects like Three Days of the Condor. His collaborations with Sydney Pollack became a defining part of that period.

So while many people came to him through his albums, he had already made his name in Hollywood, working to tight schedules and shaping music to fit the screen. At the same time, he was building a parallel life in jazz. Albums like One of a Kind showed where his instincts lay, blending jazz, funk and orchestral colours into something that didn’t quite fit any neat label. He was also working alongside musicians like Lee Ritenour and Quincy Jones.

Then came the move that really shifted things: the founding of GRP Records in 1978 with Larry Rosen. It wasn’t just about putting out records. GRP was among the early adopters of digital recording, and by the early 80s that clean, polished sound would become one of its defining traits.

By the time Mountain Dance came out in 1980, everything seemed to come together. It wasn’t the only digital jazz recording around, but it was one of the first to really make an impression. The album has that unmistakable clarity of electronic keyboards and synthesisers sitting comfortably alongside acoustic instruments, all of it balanced without fuss. The title track in particular has an easy flow, the sort that sounds simple until one starts paying it closer attention.

Out of the Shadows followed in 1982 and felt less like a change of direction and more like a continuation, only more assured. The sound is tighter, the arrangements more refined, and there’s a quiet confidence running through it. By then, Grusin had found his space and was working comfortably within it.

Looking back, those two albums feel like the natural result of everything that came before. The film work, the early jazz recordings, and the gradual shift into digital production. Nothing rushed, nothing forced. Just a steady coming together of different strands. And that’s probably why they still sound good today. 

Home of the world champions

I’ve always liked that phrase the Penang State Sports Council uses: Home of the World Champions. It sounds a bit grand at first, maybe there is even a touch of marketing flourish, but when one thinks about it, there’s actually quite a lot of truth behind those words.

After all, this is the same Penang that produced names like Lee Chong Wei and Nicol Ann David. One carried the nation’s hopes in badminton for over a decade, the other dominated the squash world for 108 straight months as World Number One. That’s not just excellence. That’s sustained greatness.

And they weren’t alone. There were earlier badminton greats. Eddy Choong, Teh Kew San, Tan Aik Huang. Names that my generation still speak of with a certain pride. In snooker, players like Lim Kok Leong went on to win world amateur titles. Even in more recent years, Penang athletes popped up in different sports, from bowling to silambam, even chess. So yes, maybe that tagline isn’t so exaggerated after all.

But when we talk about champions, we tend to remember only the medals, the titles and the big moments. What we don’t see are the sacrifices and all the unseen struggles that come before that, such as the training, the injuries, the financial strain, the balancing act between sport and studies, and sometimes the simple question of whether they can afford to keep going. That part rarely makes the headlines.

I came across an invitation recently from the Penang State Sports Council for their inaugural gala dinner and art auction, to be held on 09 May 2026 at the Eastern & Oriental Hotel.  It’s meant to be a fund-raising effort, but more than that, it is an attempt to address those less visible gaps I raised above.

Reading through it, I begin to realise that supporting athletes isn’t about only sending them to competitions. There are all sorts of needs. Education, for one. Not every athlete makes it big, and even for those who do, a sporting career doesn’t last forever. Then there are the medical issues of injuries and rehabilitation, and sometimes there are even life-changing setbacks. 

Beyond that, there are the ancillary things which are no longer optional in modern sport. Physiotherapy, sports psychology, proper nutrition and decent equipment are the things that separate those who merely participate from those who can actually compete at the highest level. It’s easy to assume all this is taken care of but in reality, it often isn’t.

What struck me as well is how the event is trying to bring different parts of the community together. Not just sports people, but also the arts crowd, corporate sponsors and ordinary supporters. There will be paintings for auction, some donated by artists, others from private collections. Even Nicol David has contributed a couple of signed pieces. And so, this gala dinner will be an interesting mix of sport and art under one roof.

Then there’s the more practical side of the dinner. The tables don’t come cheap and are priced at RM10,000, RM30,000 and RM50,000 depending on how deep the pockets are. But that’s the reality of fund-raising at this level. To be fair, contributions are tax-exempt, and the funds are meant to go directly into supporting athletes. 

Still, not everyone can buy a table or bid for a painting. But I'm certain that this will be fine with the organisers. At the very least, an awareness is created. Because if we really believe in this idea of Penang as a “home of champions,” then it can’t just be about celebrating success after it happens. It has to include some willingness to support the journey before that success arrives. And even many journeys don’t quite end in glory.

I think back to the last Sukma Games. Penang did reasonably well by achieving fourth place overall, with a decent haul of medals. But there shouldn't be any resting on our laurels. There is still room to grow, especially if the aim is to produce the next Lee Chong Wei or Nicol David, and that doesn’t happen by accident. It happens when enough people care not just when someone wins, but while they are still training, still struggling, still wondering whether it is all worth it.

So yes, this dinner on the ninth of May is just one single event of speeches, food, polite applause, but behind it is something a little more important. An acknowledgement that if we want champions, we have to build the environment that allows them to emerge. Otherwise, that nice tagline remains just a tagline. And it would be a shame if that were the case.

#badminton #squash #snooker

No respite

Aiyah....just when I was not expecting it, the Tacoma tree outside the house has decided to flower profusely again. It will be another seven to 10 days of sweeping the porch and the road outside to clear off the fallen flowers....

Cataract landmark

Another landmark reached today in my cataract journey. It’s been a calendar month since the operation. I’m only due to see my surgeon for the final follow-up next Wednesday, and I expect he’ll take me off the eye drops then. I’ve been on a steady routine of Nevanac, Maxidex and Vigamox, each with its own timing and purpose, so the day has been punctuated by little reminders on my mobile phone to tilt the head back and squeeze in a drop or two. Not a moment too soon, as one of them contains a steroid, which isn’t meant for long-term use.

I suppose the one lesson I’ve taken away from all this is how important it is to diligently follow the doctor’s instructions on the eye drops. They’re prescribed for a reason. In the past, keeping to such a schedule might have been a bit of a challenge, but with the timer function on the mobile phone, it has been quite straightforward. I’ve had no real difficulty keeping to the schedule once the alarms go off.

Sindarov the challenger

For the past 18 days or so, my eyes have been glued to either the television or the computer monitor, following each round of the FIDE Candidates Tournament 2026 in Cyprus whenever I can. In a way, it was a welcome distraction: a chance to detach, however briefly, from the madness elsewhere in the world, not least the ongoing conflict in the Middle East.

On paper, the tournament looked like a very balanced field. Hikaru Nakamura, Fabiano Caruana and Anish Giri were all seasoned campaigners, mixed in with the younger lot like Rameshbabu Praggnanandhaa, Javokhir Sindarov and Andrey Esipenko. I thought it might go right down to the wire, but it didn’t quite happen that way. 

I must admit that Sindarov had first come to my attention four years ago when the Uzbekistan team won the Chess Olympiad 2022 in Chennai. He was still very young then, only 16 years old, but already one could see something about him. I followed his progress more closely after that, and even more so after he won the Chess World Cup 2025 in Goa last year. That victory felt like a turning point. He was no longer just a rising prodigy, but someone who had to be taken seriously at the very top level. In many ways, what we saw in Cyprus felt like a continuation of that.

From the very beginning, a more mature Sindarov, now 20, came out looking like a man in a hurry. No messing about, no tentative starts. He just went straight into his games with real intent. Sharp openings, confident decisions and a willingness to take on complications that the others were a little more cautious about.  After the first few rounds, especially with wins coming early, I already had the feeling that this might be his tournament to lose.

What impressed me was not just that he was winning, but who he was winning against. When he beat Nakamura, that really caught my attention. That was not a cheap point. It was a proper fight, and when Nakamura slipped up, Sindarov was right there to punish him. He followed that up with more strong results, and by then the rest of the field were already playing catch-up.

Photo: Chessbase

Against players like Giri and Caruana, he didn’t overpress. He was quite happy to take a solid result and move on. To me, that showed a certain maturity. In these events, it’s not just about brilliance but also about knowing when to hold back. In this regard, his support team had done an exemplary job in guiding him. He also handled the rest of the field well by picking up wins where it mattered and holding steady in the return games. There were no slip-ups and no unnecessary drama. Just a steady accumulation of points.

By the time we got into the later rounds, the situation was quite clear. He had a lead and more importantly, he looked comfortable with it. There was no sign of nerves, no sense that he was about to collapse under pressure. If anything, it was the others who seemed to be forcing matters a little too much. In the end, he had effectively clinched the tournament with a round to spare. That, more or less, told the whole story. When a Candidates is decided before the last round, it usually means one player has been in control for quite some time. The final round was almost beside the point.

What I liked about his play was the balance. He was aggressive when the position allowed it, but not reckless. He defended well when he had to. And most importantly, he seemed completely unfazed by the occasion. For a tournament of this level, that counted for a lot.

Rd 1: Sindarov - Andrey Esipenko 1-0 
Rd 2: Sindarov - Matthias Bluebaum 1/2 
Rd 3: Praggnananda Rameshbabu - Sindarov 0-1 
Rd 4: Sindarov - Fabiano Caruana 1-0 
Rd 5: Hikaru Nakamura - Sindarov 0-1 
Rd 6: Wei Yi - Sindarov 0-1 
Rd 7: Sindarov - Anish Giri 1/2 
Rd 8: Andrey Esipenko - Sindarov 1/2 
Rd 9: Matthias Bluebaum - Sindarov 1/2 
Rd 10: Sindarov - Praggnanandhaa Rameshbabu 1-0 
Rd 11: Fabiano Caruana - Sindarov 1/2 
Rd 12: Sindarov - Hikaru Nakamura 1/2 
Rd 13: Anish Giri - Sindarov 1/2 
Rd 14: Sindarov - Wei Yi 1/2

So now there is a new challenger in Sindarov, and he will be up against the defending world champion, Dommaraju Gukesh, for the world title later this year. That should be quite a match. There’s Sindarov who seems quite at home in sharp, tactical positions, and then there’s Gukesh who strikes me as a more controlled, positional player. Two different styles by two young players, and both with a point to prove. I don’t know how the match will turn out as matches are quite different from tournaments. But watching this Candidates, I couldn’t help feel that we are seeing a bit of a shift. The older guard is still there, still very strong, but the younger players are no longer just knocking on the door. They are already inside. And this time, one of them has walked away with the prize.

Pursuit of jade

I didn’t plan this at all, but somehow I ended up spending the past few weeks glued to a 40-episode Chinese series on Netflix. Watching Pursuit of Jade wasn’t preplanned. I was just scrolling, saw the artwork, clicked play… and about 15 minutes later, that was it, hooked already.

The story started simply enough: a butcher girl saved an injured stranger. Turned out he’s a marquis hiding in plain sight in the middle of a war. They married out of convenience, she thought him as just some drifter, and he keeping quiet about who he really was. Naturally, that didn’t last long. He got dragged back to his army, she went after him and before long she was right in the thick of battles and palace scheming. Along the way she even took down a couple of major villains, which I didn’t quite expect at the start. Eventually the truth came out about her husband, and after some lovers' quarrels and make-ups, the two of them ended up fighting side by side to clear their families’ names. The ending tied things up a bit too neatly, but getting there was anything but tidy.

I’ll admit that there were stretches where I hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on. Too many twists, too many court politics, too many side characters popping in and out. But I stuck with it partly because it was a period costume drama and partly because there was enough wuxia-style action to keep things moving. The visuals helped a lot....lush costumes, sweeping scenery, nicely choreographed sword fights and a male lead who looked prettier than his female counterpart. Even when the plot started to wander, the overall mood carried it through.

After finishing, I had a look at what others were saying and it more or less lined up. People liked the early episodes, especially when the romance was still front and centre. The cinematography got plenty of praise. The snowy backdrops and elaborate sets were all very polished. The female lead was a big plus point too, not the usual helpless type but someone who can hold her own. The main gripe was the pacing. Once the palace intrigue took over, things slow down and got a bit confusing. The villains looked impressive enough, but some of them didn’t quite land as characters. So overall, mixed feelings. Some loved it for the romance and performances, others felt the story got tangled and rushed in parts.

For me, it wasn’t about keeping track of every little subplot. More about the feel of it. The look, the action, the emotional pull between two people caught up in something bigger than themselves. It was one of those shows that worked better if I don’t overthink it.

Would I recommend it? If one likes period dramas with a fair bit of wuxia thrown in, then yes, why not. Just don’t expect everything to make perfect sense. Better to sit back, go with the flow, and let it play out.

More heavy sounds

Several years ago at a garage sale, I came across a CBS compilation that seemed to sit naturally beside a record album I once wrote about, Heavy Sounds. This companion record was titled More Heavy Sounds, issued in 1970. Like its predecessor, it gathered together a selection of powerful tracks from the Columbia/CBS catalogue, and listening to it today feels rather like opening a time capsule of late 1960s rock.

The album followed the success of the earlier Heavy Sounds compilation and leaned heavily toward the louder, more adventurous side of the label’s roster. Psychedelic rock, gritty blues and the first stirrings of jazz-rock fusion all appear here. In those days, compilation albums like this were a convenient way for listeners to sample artists they might not otherwise have encountered, and the selections on More Heavy Sounds were clearly chosen to showcase the energy and diversity of the Columbia stable around 1969 and 1970.

As with the earlier compilation, the interest of the record lies in the music itself. Each track was drawn from albums that had appeared on the Columbia/CBS label during the previous year or so, and the result is an engaging cross-section of what was happening in rock music at the turn of the decade.

The album opened with Save The Country by Laura Nyro, taken from her 1969 album New York Tendaberry. Nyro’s music always had a unique blend of gospel, pop and soul, and this song captured that mixture beautifully. Her piano drove the arrangement forward while her powerful voice delivered a passionate call for unity and compassion. The song would later be covered by other artists, but Nyro’s original remained the most emotionally compelling.

Next came It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue, performed by The Byrds from their Ballad of Easy Rider album. Originally written by Bob Dylan, the song received a distinctly Byrds-like treatment here. Roger McGuinn’s nasal vocal and the band’s chiming guitars transform Dylan’s stark folk composition into a reflective piece of country-rock. The result felt wistful rather than bitter, almost as if the band were looking back on the turbulent 1960s themselves.

Taj Mahal contributed Six Days On The Road, drawn from the double album Giant Step / De Old Folks at Home. The song had long been known as a classic truck-driving country number, but Taj Mahal gave it a very different flavour. Instead of a straight-forward country approach, he injected a deep blues groove, turning it into a performance that highlighted his ability to move effortlessly between musical traditions.

The next track, Mama Get Down Those Rock And Roll Shoes by NRBQ, comes from the band’s self-titled debut album. NRBQ had a reputation for being unpredictable, blending rockabilly, rhythm and blues, and even hints of jazz into their music. This track captured that energetic spirit, slightly rough around the edges and full of the enthusiasm that characterised many late 1960s rock recordings.

From there the album moved into heavier territory with Pacific Gas & Electric and their track My Woman. Taken from their 1969 album, the song was built around thick guitar riffs and the gritty vocals of Charlie Allen. The band would later become known for more gospel-influenced material, but here they sounded firmly rooted in the hard blues-rock style that flourished in San Francisco during that period.

One of the centre pieces of the compilation is Chicago’s expansive version of I’m A Man. This performance originally appeared on the band’s debut double album Chicago Transit Authority. The group stretches the Spencer Davis Group hit into an extended jam filled with brass riffs, Latin-tinged percussion and a spectacular drum break. Guitarist Terry Kath also delivers some searing passages that remind listeners how formidable Chicago were as a live band in their early days.

Al Kooper followed with Too Busy Thinking About My Baby, from his album You Never Know Who Your Friends Are. Kooper had already established himself as a musician, songwriter and producer, and his interpretation of this Motown number carried his trademark organ sound. The arrangement was lush and polished, blending soul influences with the sophisticated pop-rock production that Kooper excelled at.

No compilation representing the Columbia roster of that era would be complete without Janis Joplin, and she appeared here with Maybe. Taken from her album I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama!, the song shows a more vulnerable side of Joplin. Backed by a strong horn section, she sang with a mixture of pain and longing that made her such a compelling performer. Even among many powerful tracks on the album, this one stood out for its emotional intensity.

The energy ross again with Johnny Winter’s take on Highway 61 Revisited. Winter transformed Dylan’s already surreal song into a blazing blues-rock workout. His slide guitar flashed across the track with astonishing speed and precision, and turned the performance into a showcase for his technical brilliance.

The compilation closed with Treat, an instrumental by Santana from their debut album. Beginning with a jazzy piano introduction, the piece gradually built into a fiery Latin-rock groove. Carlos Santana’s melodic guitar lines wove through the rhythm section’s driving percussion, illustrating the fusion of rock, jazz and Latin influences that would soon make the band internationally famous.

Listening to More Heavy Sounds today, I am reminded of how adventurous the Columbia/CBS catalogue was at the time. The album moved easily from gospel-tinged pop to country-rock, from Chicago’s brass-driven experimentation to Santana’s Latin rhythms. As a compilation, it captured a moment when rock music was expanding in many directions at once.

For collectors and listeners alike, the record remained an enjoyable snapshot of that period: a sampler of artists who, in their different ways, helped define the sound of the late 1960s and the beginning of the 1970s.

Grab, why?

How I would drive to get home

Had to take Grab yesterday from an Icon City food court to get home. Car came fast, like 5 minutes, no issue there. Fare was RM11, time was around 1.30pm. Now normally if I drive myself, I’d just go straight into Chian Heng Kai Road, turn right into Song Ban Kheng, then keluar to Kulim Road. Simple, direct, done. But yesterday, it was a completely different story.

Driver went some weird, roundabout way. Even getting onto Kebun Nenas Road also not direct. He looped around inside Icon City first, which honestly I’d never do. Then from Kebun Nenas, instead of keeping it simple, he turned onto the old north-south trunk road, only then into Kota Permai.

How Grab drove me home

I thought okay, maybe that’s it. Nope, there was more nonsense after that. Grab map suddenly send him into Alma instead of just going straight like a normal person would. Then instead of turning into Taman Desa Palma, he masuk one small narrow kampung-style road where two cars also need to slow down and squeeze past each other, and came into my area from the back. Ended up travelling extra like 2km for nothing.

So now I’m thinking… why did Grab route like that? Why not just take the obvious, shorter way? Feels a bit suspicious. Like purposely make the trip longer so can justify the RM11 fare when it could’ve been cheaper if just went direct?

#Grab

A time of remembrance

Cheng Beng (清明) is over for us this year. We finished it last week, spread over two visits. The first was on Monday at Sungai Lembu on the mainland, the second on Friday on the island. The mainland trip was for my father-in-law, who died four years ago. That Nirvana site, I must say, is very well kept. Clean, orderly, almost too neat in a way. There were attendants arranging tables, making sure everything was in place. Very convenient.

A few days later we went to the older graves, my two sets of grandparents at Batu Lanchang and Wat Pimbang On. These are out in the open, exposed to sun and rain, so timing mattered a lot. There was a time we used to leave at six in the morning, reaching Batu Lanchang around 6.45am, the cemetery cloaked in darkness but other people were already out and about to perform their own Cheng Beng obligations. In the past decade we eased that a bit, leaving at 6.30am and arriving around 7.15am, just as the sun nudged above the trees. This year we went even later. Left the house at seven, got there about 7.45am. The morning helped us out: a bit overcast, so the heat didn’t come down too hard.

From Batu Lanchang we crossed over to Wat Pimbang On, a Siamese cemetery that looked more chaotic and less organised. Somehow, I felt that many people have already abandoned the place. Untidy and unkempt with overgrown grass, vegetation all around. Even under the canopy of trees, we could feel the day catching up with us. The sun's rays were cutting through the humidity. After that, our final stop was the Triple Wisdom Temple, where we paid respects to the memorial tablets of my parents and aunt. A quieter ending, it was indoors but no less meaningful.

I remember as a child in the late 1950s or early 1960s, when we were still living at Seang Tek Road, Cheng Beng meant booking a trishaw pedlar from down the road to take my grandmother, my mother and me to the Batu Gantong cemetery. At six o’clock sharp, the trishaw would arrive and wait for us. Then came the slow, unhurried ride through York Road and Batu Gantong Road. Along the way we passed huge angsana trees, their small yellow flowers falling constantly around us and carpeting the road. After all these years, I can still remember the cool morning breeze and that feeling of calm and serenity.

Every year going through this Cheng Beng process, I find myself thinking about the alternate name people like to use, Tomb-Sweeping Day. It’s not wrong, but it never quite right either. Yes, we clear the lallang, clean the headstones and tidy up the place. That part is visible and easy to describe. But there's more to Cheng Beng because the sweeping is only incidental. It’s just something that needs to be done before anything else can happen. To call the whole day by that one act feels like missing the point. It turns something that has taken shape over centuries into a simple task, almost like a chore to be checked off.

Cheng Beng itself means “clear and bright”. It began as a marker in the yearly Chinese lunisolar cycle. As far back as the Zhōu Dynasty 周朝 (1046–256 BC), people were already observing the seasons through solar terms, paying attention to the small changes in light, air, growth and renewal. Cheng Beng marked the time when the sky cleared, the air sharpened and the earth began to stir again after the stillness of winter. It wasn’t a festival in the beginning, just a moment in nature.

But alongside that, there was always this deep-rooted practice of remembering those who came before. In the Zhōu world, burial grounds were under official care. Remembering wasn’t optional, it was part of maintaining continuity. By the Warring States period 戰國時代 (475–221 BC), these practices had been adopted by ordinary families. People began visiting graves, bringing offerings, acknowledging that their lives were part of something longer, something that didn’t begin or end with them. By the time of the Táng Dynasty 唐朝 (618–907 AD), with Confucian values firmly in place, filial piety became something the state actively encouraged. Cheng Beng became the natural time for these acts of remembrance.

So when we reduce it to “tomb sweeping”, something feels out of place. The clearing of grass and the washing of stone are just preparations. What's more important are the quieter moments that come after. The offer of food and fruits, the lighting of the joss sticks, calling the names of the forefathers, standing there for a while without saying much but having a quiet conversation with them in the mind, then the burning of paper offerings before leaving. Every time, it feels like we are continuing a process that has always been there.

There’s no festivity in it, and I don’t think there is meant to be. Just a kind of stillness, even when the sun is already up and the day is getting warm. Families gathering, not out of obligation alone but because something in the rhythm of the year brings them back. And in that space, between the living and the remembered, the connection doesn’t feel distant at all.