Back in 2011, during my third year of engineering, I was pursuing Computer Science and representing my branch in our college chess tournament. Looking back, it remains one of the most memorable experiences of my college life—not because of a victory, but because of a lesson I learned the hard way.
Our Computer Science team had qualified for the semifinals, where we were scheduled to face the Electronics and Communication (EC) branch. Each team consisted of four players, including one female participant.
Among our team members was my classmate, Pawan, an exceptionally talented chess player who had already competed at the state level. Compared to him, I was an ordinary player. However, I had spent countless hours practicing and had developed a decent understanding of the game.
The semifinal started with mixed results. Our female teammate won her match, but one of our junior players lost. The most important board was against Kewal, EC branch's strongest player, who had also played chess at the state level.
Ideally, Pawan should have played against Kewal. Unfortunately, despite our repeated attempts to contact him, he was unavailable at that moment due to another engagement. After waiting for quite some time, it became clear that someone else would have to take the challenge.
That someone was me.
To be honest, sitting across from Kewal was intimidating. He carried himself like an experienced competitor, and everyone knew about his reputation. But I had prepared well for the tournament and entered the game with confidence.
As the match progressed, something unexpected happened.
I started gaining an advantage.
The game was being played under a time-controlled format, and move after move, I found myself in a stronger position. By the time we approached the end of the allotted time, I was ahead by approximately five points.
At that moment, I was in a winning position.
If the clock expired, I would be declared the winner based on the points advantage. Everything seemed to be going in our favor.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
As the time limit approached, Kewal spoke to the umpire and casually suggested extending the game by another ten minutes. He then turned toward me and said, almost casually, “We can extend it by ten more minutes, right?”
Without thinking too deeply about it, I agreed.
That simple decision still stays with me to this day.
At the time, I was five points ahead. In my mind, ten extra minutes didn't seem like a big deal. I thought, "What can possibly change in ten minutes?"
What I failed to realize was that I was facing a highly experienced state-level player.
The moment the extension began, Kewal's approach completely changed. Looking back, I believe he had been waiting patiently for an opportunity. He remained calm, focused, and extremely disciplined. Meanwhile, our match had become the center of attention.
Students from both branches gathered around us. A large crowd formed around the board, carefully watching every move. The atmosphere became intense.
The pressure on me increased with every passing minute.
Unlike Kewal, I had never played chess at the state level. I was simply a college player who had improved through dedication and practice. The growing audience and the significance of the match slowly started affecting my concentration.
Then it happened.
I made one small mistake.
For an experienced player like Kewal, that was all he needed.
He immediately capitalized on the opportunity, shifted the momentum, and launched a remarkable comeback. Within those extra ten minutes, he completely turned the game around and eventually defeated me.
Shortly afterward, Pawan finally arrived.
After hearing what had happened, he appreciated my effort and performance. I still remember what he told me:
“Gourav, you played really well. The only mistake was agreeing to extend the game. If the match had ended on time, you would have won on points.”
His words hit me hard because I knew he was right.
Had I refused the extension, I would have won the match. Combined with the results from the other boards, our Computer Science team would most likely have qualified for the finals.
Instead, our junior player had already lost, and now I had lost as well.
Our journey ended in the semifinals.
Even after all these years, I occasionally think about those ten extra minutes.
Not because I lost a chess game.
Not because we missed the finals.
But because that day taught me a lesson that extends far beyond chess.
Never underestimate your opponent, no matter how favorable the situation appears.
And always pay attention to the intentions behind seemingly simple decisions.
To be clear, Kewal did nothing unfair. Everything happened within the rules. In fact, he asked for the extension politely and respectfully. The brilliance was in understanding the situation better than I did. He recognized an opportunity that I completely overlooked.
That is what experience does.
That day in 2011, I couldn't help my Computer Science branch reach the finals, and that regret still lingers somewhere in my memory. But the lesson I learned was worth far more than any trophy.
More than a decade later, I still remember that semifinal, that crowd, that moment of confidence, and most importantly, those ten extra minutes that changed everything.
Sometimes, the biggest lessons in life come from the smallest decisions.
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