Inkosari: One More Time
by Pranavi Athota
“Nenu gelichanu! [I won!],” my ammamma exclaims.
“Let’s play inkosari! [one more time!]” I respond.
I clear the game board and fix the faded chalk line before making the first move for one of many
inkosari.
When I was young, whenever I visited my ammamma [grandma] in India, she would teach me a
new game.
The first game was Snakes and Ladders.
Objective: Be the first to reach the final square.
The next game was chess.
Objective: Be the first to capture the opponent’s king.
And the last game was Dhadi.
Objective: Be the first to line up three pieces in a row.
I learned much later that all three of these games have roots in India, a beautiful, culturally rich
country that is home to my parents, grandparents, and ancestors. While my ammamma might
have just been trying to calm down and entertain a hyper, easily excitable child with games, I
began thinking of our matches as challenges. Challenges that I had to overcome to become as
talented and intelligent as her. To five-year-old me, it seemed as if my ammamma was a dice
whisperer. I believed her wisdom must’ve given her a magical ability to climb up the ladders and
skip over the snakes whereas I ended up sliding down the snakes at every turn. Somehow, I
managed to come in second place to her almost every time we played Snakes and Ladders, a
game entirely based on chance. Perhaps I was a very unlucky child, or maybe my ammamma
really was a dice whisperer.
Though I appreciate her determination, I will never understand how my ammamma had the
patience to teach a ten-year-old to play chess. I also wonder how fun the games were for her after
her hundredth win. They were just as fun for me after my hundredth loss. But eventually, I
prevailed and could no longer count my wins on one hand. I could feel myself becoming smarter
and smarter with every additional finger, and pretty soon, I moved onto counting my toes as
well. As I got older, my visits to India and my ammamma’s visits to America became less
frequent, so every match we played became more precious.
One humid summer in India, my ammamma finally taught me the game Dhadi. She drew a board
game, resembling a spider web, onto the cement floor with chalk and pulled out a bowl with our
game pieces: peanuts and pinto beans. Then, she began explaining the rules for what would soon
become one of my favorite games. Since then, everytime I visit India, I challenge my ammamma
to matches of Dhadi and never find myself growing tired of it. Compared to the 8 possible ways
to line up your pieces in a 3x3 Tic-Tac-Toe game, Dhadi is more advanced with a grand total of
20 possible ways to line up three pieces in a row. But what makes Dhadi even more fun is the
ability to move your pieces around the board and capture your opponent’s pieces, requiring
strategic planning and cunning moves. Games provided a mental challenge and introduced skills
outside of the monotonous repetition of school which made me love them even more.
I believe I fell in love with playing games because they allow people to easily connect. Through
our friendly, yet fierce, competitions, I was able to easily communicate with my ammamma even
though I wasn’t entirely fluent in Telugu, my family’s native language. I expressed my
admiration and respect for her through my determination to challenge and defeat her. A few
years ago, I remember asking my dad why I only hear my family say “I love you” in English, not
Telugu. He explained that it isn’t common for people in India to say “I love you” out loud.
Instead, we feel it in our hearts. The excitement and passion I felt in my heart while playing
games with my ammamma is a testament to my dad’s statement.
Games bridge the gap between language, culture, and age when I am with my ammamma. They
cheer me up when I am feeling down, and they humble me when I am overconfident. And they
show that communicating, loving, and cherishing are better conveyed through feelings than
words. I treasure the games my ammamma taught me because they enable me to connect with
her while illustrating the history and beliefs of my family’s culture. As more time passes between
my visits to India, I feel grateful when I’m reminded of our tenacious matches on the other side
of the world. What I truly won from the countless games of Dhadi I played with my ammamma
are lessons of my beautiful culture, humility, and perseverance, along with memories full of love
that I carry in my heart.
“Nenu gelichanu!” I exclaim.
“Inkosari adukundam! [Let’s play one more time!],” my ammamma responds.
by Pranavi Athota
“Nenu gelichanu! [I won!],” my ammamma exclaims.
“Let’s play inkosari! [one more time!]” I respond.
I clear the game board and fix the faded chalk line before making the first move for one of many
inkosari.
When I was young, whenever I visited my ammamma [grandma] in India, she would teach me a
new game.
The first game was Snakes and Ladders.
Objective: Be the first to reach the final square.
The next game was chess.
Objective: Be the first to capture the opponent’s king.
And the last game was Dhadi.
Objective: Be the first to line up three pieces in a row.
I learned much later that all three of these games have roots in India, a beautiful, culturally rich
country that is home to my parents, grandparents, and ancestors. While my ammamma might
have just been trying to calm down and entertain a hyper, easily excitable child with games, I
began thinking of our matches as challenges. Challenges that I had to overcome to become as
talented and intelligent as her. To five-year-old me, it seemed as if my ammamma was a dice
whisperer. I believed her wisdom must’ve given her a magical ability to climb up the ladders and
skip over the snakes whereas I ended up sliding down the snakes at every turn. Somehow, I
managed to come in second place to her almost every time we played Snakes and Ladders, a
game entirely based on chance. Perhaps I was a very unlucky child, or maybe my ammamma
really was a dice whisperer.
Though I appreciate her determination, I will never understand how my ammamma had the
patience to teach a ten-year-old to play chess. I also wonder how fun the games were for her after
her hundredth win. They were just as fun for me after my hundredth loss. But eventually, I
prevailed and could no longer count my wins on one hand. I could feel myself becoming smarter
and smarter with every additional finger, and pretty soon, I moved onto counting my toes as
well. As I got older, my visits to India and my ammamma’s visits to America became less
frequent, so every match we played became more precious.
One humid summer in India, my ammamma finally taught me the game Dhadi. She drew a board
game, resembling a spider web, onto the cement floor with chalk and pulled out a bowl with our
game pieces: peanuts and pinto beans. Then, she began explaining the rules for what would soon
become one of my favorite games. Since then, everytime I visit India, I challenge my ammamma
to matches of Dhadi and never find myself growing tired of it. Compared to the 8 possible ways
to line up your pieces in a 3x3 Tic-Tac-Toe game, Dhadi is more advanced with a grand total of
20 possible ways to line up three pieces in a row. But what makes Dhadi even more fun is the
ability to move your pieces around the board and capture your opponent’s pieces, requiring
strategic planning and cunning moves. Games provided a mental challenge and introduced skills
outside of the monotonous repetition of school which made me love them even more.
I believe I fell in love with playing games because they allow people to easily connect. Through
our friendly, yet fierce, competitions, I was able to easily communicate with my ammamma even
though I wasn’t entirely fluent in Telugu, my family’s native language. I expressed my
admiration and respect for her through my determination to challenge and defeat her. A few
years ago, I remember asking my dad why I only hear my family say “I love you” in English, not
Telugu. He explained that it isn’t common for people in India to say “I love you” out loud.
Instead, we feel it in our hearts. The excitement and passion I felt in my heart while playing
games with my ammamma is a testament to my dad’s statement.
Games bridge the gap between language, culture, and age when I am with my ammamma. They
cheer me up when I am feeling down, and they humble me when I am overconfident. And they
show that communicating, loving, and cherishing are better conveyed through feelings than
words. I treasure the games my ammamma taught me because they enable me to connect with
her while illustrating the history and beliefs of my family’s culture. As more time passes between
my visits to India, I feel grateful when I’m reminded of our tenacious matches on the other side
of the world. What I truly won from the countless games of Dhadi I played with my ammamma
are lessons of my beautiful culture, humility, and perseverance, along with memories full of love
that I carry in my heart.
“Nenu gelichanu!” I exclaim.
“Inkosari adukundam! [Let’s play one more time!],” my ammamma responds.