In chess, it's common for the white player to start by moving the pawn in front of their king. This opening move, called 1.e4, is a classic strategy that combines attack and defense. It helps control the center of the board, predicts how the opponent might move, and speeds up the activity of other pieces.It also clears the way for powerful pieces like the queen and bishop to move freely and join the Igame.
This smart opening move isn't just theory — it's proven in battle. In the 1995 World Championship match between Viswanathan Anand and Garry Kasparov, Anand scored a major win using this very strategy. It was a moment that highlighted how preparation and bold beginnings can shift the game’s tide. Years later, prodigy Praggnanandhaa used a variation called the Sicilian Najdorf to defeat Magnus Carlsen in one of their classical-format games. The move once again showed how the right opening can set the stage for greatness.
Chess is not just a game — it's a powerful duel between two minds. Players choose each move with great care, trying to anticipate what their opponent might do and prepare for future challenges.
Sometimes, a single move isn't just about shifting a piece; it's a psychological tactic meant to confuse or unsettle the opponent. Every move becomes a way to understand the other player’s thinking — to figure out what’s coming next, when to attack, and when to wait. It's a plan in motion, unfolding step by step
In the movie Ponniyin Selvan, each character moves and speaks like a piece in a chess game. Their actions and dialogues are carefully planned, just like strategic chess moves that guide the story’s twists and turns.
The first part of Ponniyin Selvan is like the beginning of a chess match. Every character is introduced as a symbolic chess piece: Aditha Karikalan is the impetuous knight — bold and unpredictable; Vandhiyathevan is also an energetic and playful knight; Arulmozhi Varman is like a moving fortress — calm but strong, like the elephant piece. Azhwarkkadiyan, the Prime Minister’s spy, resembles a bishop — watching keenly and acting wisely. Nandini plays the role of the black queen, with her deceptive and cunning tactics. Kundhavai and the mute queen represent the white queens, full of intelligence and restraint.
This first installment feels like the opening strategy of a game — where each piece finds its place, shows its purpose, and sets the tone. It’s a well-planned start, like the first few moves in chess, offering a glimpse of the grand game yet to unfold in the sequel
The second part unfolds like a fiery chess battle — no longer are the pieces just moving; now they leap into action. Some act with hesitation, some with deception, some with forceful strikes, and others put their very lives on the line.
Each move leads to a powerful outcome, and the pieces fall without mercy. Nandini’s fading but alluring moves, Madurantaka Devar’s hidden schemes, Arulmozhi’s sea-bound journey, and Vandhiyathevan’s tangled trials — all echo the intensity of a mid-game chess struggle.
This chapter brings the story to its emotional peak: victory and defeat, trust and betrayal, love and deceit. These are not just turns in the game, but decisive steps leading us straight toward a checkmate — the climax of a carefully constructed saga.
On the riverbank, young Aditya Karikalan stands by his horse, love-struck, as Nandini walks toward him with the poise of a queen, holding a lamp. The light in the moment dims gently, revealing not just the mood but also the deeper nature of the characters and the course of the story.
As the Rashtrakuta warriors step aside one by one to let the queen pass, it evokes the final phase of a chess match — checkmate. It signals the peak of a carefully plotted attack targeting King Madurantaka.
In Baahubali, women are mostly portrayed as symbols of love, sacrifice, and courage, but their psychological depth is less explored. In contrast, Ponniyin Selvan presents its women — Mandakini, Nandini, Kundhavai, Vanathi, and Samudra Kumari — as complex characters woven with intelligence, beauty, strategy, and political insight. They drive the story forward as central forces, not just supporting figures.
While Baahubali showcases exaggerated war scenes designed to highlight heroic strength, Ponniyin Selvan stages its final battles as calculated endgames. Direct strikes mix with subtle tactics, creating a detailed and layered war plan that mirrors a strategic chessboard in motion.
In Baahubali, elements like rebellion, betrayal, and revenge are portrayed in a bold and direct manner. The characters act with clear intent, and their conflicts unfold openly on the screen.
In contrast, Ponniyin Selvan crafts its characters like chess players. Figures such as Madurantaka Devar, Nandini, the Pazhuvettaraiyars, Aditya Karikalan, and Sivapadha Sekaran don’t make impulsive moves — they calculate, provoke, and plan. Every action feels deliberate, layered with hidden meaning and foresight, reflecting the art of subtle strategy over open confrontation.
I often play chess with Hrishi, and every match carries a sense of struggle and spirit. There’s playful teasing, laughter, and clever banter as we each try to throw off the other's focus. At the end of each game, we always discuss where we made mistakes and what chances we missed.
Sometimes, when I win too many games in a row, I choose to lose a match or two on purpose — not as a strategy, but as a father who doesn’t want his child to feel discouraged. In those moments, the joy on Hrishi’s face becomes a reward far greater than victory.
Later, as he grew more skilled through friendly games and competitions, he began to win consistently. At times, when I showed frustration at losing, he would surprise me with quiet generosity — letting me win a match just to lift my spirits. In those moments, chess no longer felt like a game or even a battle of minds, but a subtle art that expressed feelings unspoken — a quiet language of empathy and love.
As a child, I often played chess with a close relative. He always played with steady control and quiet intensity, while I charged forward with impulsive speed. Every match against him felt like a new puzzle — and I always walked away with a loss and a lesson. But the more I challenged him, the more my game evolved — slowly but steadily.
He never saw me as just a child, but as a competitor. Even when I felt crushed by defeat, he never softened his approach. Not once did he let me win — not even when I struggled.
Much later, I visited him as a guest and happened to see him playing with his grown-up son. During that match, he allowed a few moves to slide, offering his son a gentle victory. Watching that moment filled me with a quiet sadness. A thought crept in — “Why wasn’t I offered that kind of kindness?”
Everyone approaches relationships differently. Some treat us as rivals they want to push forward. Others shield us with affection. And sometimes, what feels like a lack of tenderness is actually a deep belief in our strength.
Unlike Baahubali, which centers around a story of revenge with characters drawn in stark black-and-white — one purely good, the other distinctly bad — Ponniyin Selvan moves like a subtle political chess game. Baahubali offers viewers a clear resolution and a triumphant ending, but it doesn't delve deeply into emotional complexity or the intricacies of human relationships.
In contrast, Ponniyin Selvan thrives on moral concessions, patience, psychological shifts, and emotional nuance. Characters like Madurantaka Devar aren’t simply villains committing betrayal; they are individuals shaped by their circumstances. Their actions are caught between ethics, politics, and the demands of time. The story favors complexity over clarity — making each move a reflection of inner conflict, societal expectations, and personal struggle.
In this story, victory is not defined by another's defeat alone — it comes through shifts in mindset, patience, and affection. That’s why Ponniyin Selvan rises above mere cinematic experience and transforms into a refined reflection of life’s intricate chessboard. It doesn’t showcase the heat of triumph, but rather reveals the delicate path that leads to it.
Life itself resembles a chess struggle. For some, it’s an unrelenting competition — an effort toward continued success. Their aim is to overcome opponents and climb to the top. Their moves are sharp, direct, and firmly focused on winning.
But for others, life is a journey beyond victory — one that seeks to preserve the delicate balance of human relationships. Even when they could win, they’re willing to yield — for fairness, for love, for compromise. Their moves are rooted in patience, kindness, and foresight.
These two approaches are the dual faces of life. One reflects the intensity of ambition; the other, the quiet strength of emotion. It’s the second that I find most resonant
