One fine sunny morning when I was fifteen, I came across a huge advertisement in the newspaper touting a Scrabble competition in the city. I had just given my tenth standard Board Exams and was generally spending my days at home massaging my wrist and applying ice to it, as the pressure of filling twenty pages with my handwriting every day for a month had taken its toll.   

I showed the ad to my parents. They seemed relieved at the prospect of diverting my attention for a day or so, as I tended to spend all my time whining about when my results would come out.   

A reputed hotel was hosting the event. When we reached the venue, signboards directed us to the banquet hall, which had been stripped of its luxurious satin tablecloths and silky drapes. The first question the organizers threw at us was, which category? The paper had mentioned three categories - men’s, women’s, and under-18. I opted to participate in the women’s competition, and filled out the necessary forms.  

Once the stack of registrations had reached a respectable height, the organizers declared a practice session. All prospective participants were invited to pit their skills against each other to get a feel of the actual competition. The banquet hall, stripped of its luxurious satin tablecloths and silky drapes, was booked for this session.   

In the melee, I met my classmate, Ashish. His younger sister was taking part and his whole family had come to root for her. During practice I learnt the mechanics of playing with a clock to time your turns, like they used for chess games. I played just one game and left for a lunch invitation (a mouth-watering buffet at Holiday Inn). Before leaving, they made an announcement asking all contestants to arrive punctually at seven o’clock the next day for the competition.  

Next morning I rose at nine and started setting up the Scrabble board. I coaxed my mother into giving up her cooking for the day and playing with me. She’s the type of player who will lay down words like to, at etc with scant regard for points. I landed up playing for her also. After a couple of merry rounds in which I defeated myself, I headed for a bath when I got a call from Ashish.   

‘Why didn’t you come today?’ he asked. ‘We were waiting for you.’  

I asked him the four questions that had sprung up in my mind - where, what, when, and how.   

He said, “Didn’t you know the competition was at seven this morning?”  

I said No, I thought it was seven in the evening. Well, the women’s competition is over now, he said. I replaced the receiver and cried to my heart’s content. All my hopes of holding aloft a Women’s Trophy as a fifteen-year old Champion dashed to the ground simply due to a lack of application of the grey cells. My dad, ever the sensible one of our family, suggested the practical advice of going there and hounding the organizers for a solution.  

So off we went to the Gulf Hotel and informed one of the name-tagged, grey-bearded individuals about our plight.   

He said ‘Don’t worry. She can still take part in the under-eighteen competition which will be starting shortly.’ Thank God I hadn’t turned old enough to vote yet.  

With the excitement I had reserved for seven pm, I started my first Scrabble contest. I was brilliant in my first two matches, if I say so myself, and steamrolled my opponents with the ease of a veteran. My third challenger, however, was a tougher nut to crack. He was an eight-year-old prodigy who had been blowing his more mature adversaries off the board.  

After an hour of play he had the good fortune to count me among his victims. Although I lost the game to him, my combined score until then was sufficient to qualify me for the semi-finals.  Before lunch the semi-finals draw was put up on the bulletin board. I peeked at it, and felt like I’d been punched in the gut. My opponent this time was again the child wonder.   

A scrumptious spread had been laid out for lunch, but the delectable cuisine turned to ashes in my mouth. I barely nibbled at my pasta, though my stomach was growling all the time. How would it look if I lost to a boy half my age a second time? Surely my schoolmates would get wind of it and turn me into a laughing stock.   

But Lady Luck arranged for a few convenient tiles like Q and its matching U, and even a Z to fall into my lap. I remember placing the Z on a common triple letter score to form two words. It was an evenly fought match but I won in the end.   

And so the time came for the big final. This time my worthy adversary was a senior from my school. With a spate of high scores and strong tiles pouring in, I thought I had the match in the bag. I was threatening to run away with it, when in a twist of irony, I made the word ‘Exit’. My opponent smiled, and set down a seven-letter word CARROTS, whose S joined my ‘Exit’. After that, pray as I might for a miracle, none came. So yours truly landed in second place.   

I heard later that my opponent’s mother had won the women’s competition and his father the men’s. They didn’t leave much for the rest of us mortals.  

But I’ve learnt my lesson. Now whenever a time is mentioned, I always confirm - ‘A.M or P.M?’ And of course, I never make any more words in Scrabble that can be pluralized easily.