Today we’re spotlighting THE DOOR IS OPEN edited by Hena Khan!
Read on for more about the author and the book!
About the Editor: Hena Khan
Hena Khan is a Pakistani-American who was born and raised in Maryland, where she still lives. She enjoys writing about her culture as well as all sorts of other subjects, from spies to space travel. You can learn more about Hena by visiting her website: henakhan.com.
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About the Book: THE DOOR IS OPEN
Discover stories of fear, triumph, and spectacular celebration in this warm-hearted novel of interconnected stories that celebrates the diversity of South Asian American experiences in a local community center.
Discover stories of fear, triumph, and spectacular celebration in the fictional town of Maple Grove, New Jersey, where the local kids gather at the community center to discover new crushes, fight against ignorance, and even save a life. Cheer for Chaya as she wins chess tournaments (unlike Andrew, she knows stupid sugary soda won’t make you better at chess), and follow as Jeevan learns how to cook traditional food (it turns out he can cook sabji– he just can’t eat it).
These stories, edited by bestselling and award-winning Pakistani-American author Hena Khan, are filled with humor, warmth, and possibility. They showcase a diverse array of talented authors with heritage from the Indian subcontinent, including beloved favorites and rising stars, who each highlight the beauty and necessity of a community center that everyone calls home.
~Excerpt~
CHECK YOURSELF
by Veera Hiranandani
I pick up the queen and twirl her between my forefinger and thumb. I can see my path. My opponent has left his rook unguarded, and my queen can take it. It will leave my bishop open to his knight, but my other rook will take it if he does, so I’m protected. I make my move and look him in the eyes.
I once read that the queen wasn’t always the most powerful piece on the chessboard. In fact,
the queen didn’t use to be the queen at all. She was only an advisor to the king, with very little
power. Her power grew over the years, especially during the rise of Queen Isabella I in Spain, when
chess traveled all the way from India, to Persia, and then to Europe. Queen Isabella sounded like a terrible person, though, because she forced all the Jews and Muslims to leave Spain. During that time, the queen chess piece started to change into what she is now. My queen is not like Isabella. My queen protects all her people.
The air sits still around us, and I can hear the creaking as my opponent leans forward in his wooden chair, studying the chessboard. He squints a little and rests his chin on his clasped hands as
the steam of his coffee rises from the mug on the table. A few minutes go by.
“Well, Grandpa?” I say.
“It’s a good move,” he says, but then he moves his other knight and takes one of my pawns. “Check.”
“Darn it,” I say, and check. How did I not see his other knight just two moves away from my king? I scan my eyes over every spot on the board, drawing imaginary lines where each piece could
go and to see what pieces they could capture. I try to stay a move or two ahead, but it’s hard to think into the future like that. That’s what the game of chess is about, though. The present, yes, but
mostly it’s about imagining the future.
The pieces are made from marble. My queen is black with little white marble veins running through her—all my pieces look like that. The pieces on Grandpa’s side are white with little black veins running through them. He gave me the set last spring on my twelfth birthday. It’s smooth and shiny, and the pieces have a nice heavy feel in my hand. Though sometimes I prefer the simple wooden board I bought with my own allowance when I first started to play. But I wouldn’t tell Grandpa that.
I look at my queen again and now see that Grandpa’s queen from all the way on the other side of the board can move in a straight diagonal and capture my king. How did I not notice? I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. Come on, Chaya, I tell myself. You’re a better player than this.
“Grandpa, I think I need a break,” I say with a smile so he doesn’t suspect the sinking feeling that
is taking over my stomach.
“Okay,” he says, “but we’ll practice again tomorrow. You only have two days before the tournament.” Then he leans back in his chair and repeats what he’s said many times before. “Remember, don’t think about the player. Think about what’s happening on the board.”
“I know, I know,” I say lightly, but inside I still feel a weight in the bottom of my stomach. I pad in my sock feet toward Grandpa’s cozy kitchen with its yellow table and white cabinets. He moved into
the apartment down the street from our house ten years ago when my grandma died. I don’t really remember her. Over the years, Grandpa taught me how to play chess, and now I stay at his apartment after school most days until Mom and Dad get home from work.
I rummage through the kitchen cabinets looking for the exact snack that will distract me from
worrying about Saturday’s tournament. It’s the final local tournament, and whoever wins will
compete for the state chess championship. Last year, I lost to Andrew Pierson in the final game and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Though I do think about the board, I also think about the player— well, particularly one player: Andrew.
I probably wouldn’t win state anyway, because New Jersey’s pretty competitive. I just want to beat him. I can’t stand the way he struts around at chess club giving everyone tips they didn’t even ask for. It’s like he thinks he invented the game.
I find the snack I am looking for in the back on the bottom shelf—soup nuts. Grandpa usually
saves them for soup, but I like to eat them straight out of the can. Soup nuts are not even nuts at
all, but puffy little round crackers that are kind of crunchy and a little bit salty. They remind me of cold winter days and Jewish holidays when my mom makes matzo ball soup. My dad likes them too, even though he was born in India and didn’t grow up eating them like my mom did. I open the can and stuff a big handful in my mouth.
“Blah!” I say with my mouth full. I run over to the garbage and spit them out. “Gross!”
“What?” Grandpa says as he comes into the kitchen.
“These are so stale,” I say as I wipe my mouth. I grab a glass, fill it with water, and take a big gulp, washing away the stale taste. Then I look at the expiration date.
“Grandpa, these expired a year ago!”
He waves his hand. “I don’t pay attention to those dates. They just want you to throw out perfectly good food and buy more.”
“I don’t think that’s true, Grandpa. I feel like I’ve just been poisoned,” I say, and put my hand
around my neck, sticking out my tongue.
“Oh, you’re fine,” he says. “Stale soup nuts never poisoned anyone.”
He finds a box of chocolate chip cookies, peers through his thick glasses, and reads the side of the package. “These don’t expire until a month from now, so eat up.”
I smile and we both dig into the cookies.
Later that night, at dinner, as I push around the aloo gobi and rice on my plate, I can’t stop thinking about the game Grandpa and I never finished and that I would have probably lost.
“What’s wrong?” my mother asks.
I shrug and take a bite of rice.
“School okay?” she asks.
I nod.
“How was Grandpa’s?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Nervous about the tournament?” she says.
“Nah,” I say.
My dad looks up from his food. “I’ll play a game with you tonight,” he says, and wipes his mouth.
“That’s okay, Dad. I’m good. Thanks, though.”
He nods, and then he and my mom start talking about their workdays, which can get boring, so I head upstairs, grabbing more cookies on the way. If I tell them I’m nervous, they’ll go into very annoying problem- solving action, and the truth is my dad’s not the greatest chess player. I always beat him. My mom’s a little better, because Grandpa taught her, but she never seems to have time to play.
That night, my belly full of too many cookies, I lie on my bed and imagine the future. I imagine beating Andrew. I think about the last game of the tournament, everyone else tired and disappointed
and Andrew and I facing off. I think about the moment when I can say “Checkmate,” and his cheeks turn a little red. I think about standing up, being a good sport, shaking his hand, and how he would have to shake my hand, smile, and be gracious. Then I think of calmly walking to the bathroom, making sure I’m alone, and punching my fist in the air with a burst of glory so delicious, I’ll coast on it for months.
I feel a little mean, thinking all of this, but I heard Andrew say once that a girl had never beat him, which first of all isn’t true because I’ve beat him in chess club practice games and so has Maha
Iqbal. So, if he’s going to lie like that, maybe he deserves to lose to one of us, the only two girls
in chess club. Because there aren’t as many girls, some people (mostly boys) think that girls aren’t
as good at chess. I know that’s not true, but the only way to prove it is for one of us to win the tournament.
Thinking about this, I try extra hard with Grandpa the next day after school and manage to beat him in three out of the five games we play.
“You’re ready, Chaya, and no matter what happens, you’re doing it because you love the game.”
“I don’t know. Yesterday was a mess.”
“Just nerves. If you stay focused like today, you’ll be golden.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I say, and we fist- bump. I hope he’s right.
Saturday morning comes, the day of the tournament. Mom makes my power breakfast: scrambled eggs and buttered wheat toast because she says the protein in the eggs and the fat in the butter will keep my energy steady. I force myself to eat it even though my nerves rattle through my body.
She drops me off at the Maple Grove Community Center, which I’ve played at many times.
I love having tournaments here because I know exactly how they’re set up and the main room has nice high ceilings and big windows. Sometimes I’ve had to play in much smaller rooms or hot and musty school basement spaces, which make me feel like I can’t breathe, especially if things aren’t going well.
“Good luck! We’re here for you no matter what happens,” my mom says, but I can see the hope in her eyes. She’s hoping I win, not just for me, but because she knows how grumpy I get for days
when I lose a big tournament.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, and shiver a little at the cold air that hits my face. I walk in and see a big
sign in black marker— THE FUTURE OF THE COMMUNITY CENTER IS IN OUR HANDS! TOWN HALL MEETING NEXT THURSDAY!— which makes me more nervous. I’m not sure what’s going on with the center, but I push these thoughts out of my head. Focus, Chaya.
I wish Grandpa were here, but they don’t let parents or grandparents or any guests of the players watch, which is probably for the best. The times my mom watches practice games, she makes
all these concerned faces if I’m losing and happy faces if I’m winning. My dad tries to focus but glazes over at a certain point, so I’m either worried that they’re paying too much attention or too little. But when Grandpa watches me play, he’s in the story of every game just like I am, wondering how it’s going to end.
Every chess game has its own story. Some games start out bold and fast, some slow and careful. The pieces have different personalities, depending on who’s playing them. There are little pawns who become fierce and overwhelming, chipping away the opposing forces like death from a thousand papercuts. There are subtle, sneaky queens and assertive ones and hyper ones. There are quiet, cowardly kings hiding behind everyone else, and kings who do their best to support everyone working hard to protect them. Then of course there are the rest of the supporting pieces, who are all important.
Though I love the queen, because who doesn’t, my favorite piece is the knight. The knight has the most unexpected move. It can fly. Well, not actually fly, but jump over other pieces to reach its destination. The knight, especially for newer players, is often the piece you don’t see coming.
I put my backpack in a locker, check in, and look at the pairing list. Then I find the table for my
first game. I sit down, glad my opponent isn’t there yet, and take in the room. The familiar smell is
comforting to me, a combination of polished wood floors, coffee, and the orange- scented soap used in the bathrooms. My first opponent is Ben Geller.
“Hi,” he says. I say a quick hi back, but I don’t smile. I like to keep it serious while I play. I beat
Ben pretty quickly and play a few more easy games. In the beginning, the lowest- ranked players are matched against the highest- ranked players, and usually by the end of the tournament, only the strongest players are left playing each other.
During the lunch break, I go and find my secret spot on the basement floor down a long hallway.
It’s dark and quiet. I don’t like to talk to people during a tournament. It makes me feel too competitive,
and I start getting distracted by thoughts of winning rather than paying attention to the story on the board, as Grandpa says. Even so, I’ve kept my eye on Andrew and Maha, and they also beat out the lower- ranked players.
I sit and eat my energy bar and apple and imagine different chess openings. I try not to think
about Andrew, but it’s impossible. When I finish, I get up and hear some kids talking. I freeze at the sound of their voices and stand back behind the corner of the hallway. Then I peek around, hoping they can’t see me. It’s Andrew, Ben, and another kid, Aiden. What are they doing down here?
“Maha and Chaya are the ones to beat. I’ve lost to them both today,” says Ben.
“Well, I’m about to go up against them after lunch, so their winning streak will end,” says Andrew.
“Be careful. You’ve got to watch out for those Indian girls,” Aiden says. “They’re good at that kind of stuff.”
“What do you mean?” Ben says.
“You know, math, chess, science, computers.
They’re all good at that stuff.”
“Maybe,” Andrew says. “But I can beat any girl who comes my way, Indian or not.”
“Not if I beat them first,” Aiden says.
Ben just shrugs, but my heart is pounding so hard, I feel the thudding in my ears.
“Do you have the magic?” Aiden asks.
“Yup,” Ben says, and takes three cans of Mountain Dew out of his bag. What’s so special about Mountain Dew?
“Bring on the sugar rush,” Andrew says.
“Those girls are going down for sure.” Then they all clink the cans together and chug the soda. I duck back behind the wall while they finish and wait for them to go back upstairs. My head is spinning with everything I’ve just heard. First, they think Maha and I are good at chess only because of our Indian background, even though Maha’s family is from Pakistan. Second, they think we’re not as good at chess because we’re girls. Third, they drink some stupid sugary soda because they think it will make them better at chess!
I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, something my father taught me. I count for five
on the inhale and five on the exhale. After I do it a few times, I feel more relaxed, more like myself. I think again of Aiden’s words— the part about being Indian and good at chess. I didn’t even know that was a thing people thought.
I usually like things that make me feel more Indian because only my father is Indian. Sometimes
when I’m around people who have two Indian parents, I don’t feel Indian enough, almost like I’m pretending. But I don’t want anyone to think that I’m good at chess just because of my Indian background.
I look at the clock on the wall. I have to be back in the main room in five minutes. I lift my arms
over my head and stretch, then pick up my backpack and head upstairs. It seems like Andrew and his friends don’t want to give me, the actual person I am, credit for being good at chess. I’m either not good enough because I’m a girl or too good because I’m Indian. What would they think about the fact that my Jewish grandfather is the one who taught me how to play?
As I enter the main room, again the wooden, soapy smell comforts me. The pairing list says I’m
up against Aiden. I walk over to the assigned table and sit down, and we face each other. I nod with
laser eyes. He returns my nod.
“Prepare to go down,” he says.
“Nice chess etiquette,” I say sarcastically, but then regret it. The last thing I need is to get into an
argument with Aiden. Luckily, he doesn’t respond. We start, and I decide to play extra fast. Maybe it’s because of the adrenaline running through my veins because of what happened downstairs, or the knot of anger that’s growing inside me, but after I capture his rook, it doesn’t take me long to see the move that will win the game— just me, Chaya, being good at something because I am. My bishop and a pawn have trapped his king after moving him into the corner with my queen.
“Checkmate,” I say after only twenty minutes, and press my lips together so I won’t smile. This game is a quick story, ending before it really began. Aiden abruptly stands up and shakes my hand, though he doesn’t look me in the eyes. His hand feels a little clammy with a slight tremble to it. I want to tell him, “Maybe next time, don’t drink so much Mountain Dew,” but I don’t. I have to focus on the next round, because Andrew just beat Maha.
Suddenly my own hands feel clammy and shaky. I look over at Maha, and she gives me a
little secret thumbs‑up. I smile and nod. Then we turn away quickly. It’s nice she’s encouraging me even though she lost. We’re friends in chess club, but we don’t talk during tournaments. It’s a kind of silent understanding we have. Maybe it’s because we don’t want to act like we’re part of a “girls’ team.” We just want to be seen as two separate kids, playing chess.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and again wish Grandpa were here to give me the look he has
in his eyes when we play, the look that tells me no matter what happens, he’s always rooting for me.
Andrew and I sit down at the same time. I usually try to look my opponent in the eyes right away, but this time when I look at him, I see one corner of his mouth turned up into a slight smile and it sends me back to an hour ago, listening to him in the hallway. So I keep my eyes down and think of Grandpa’s words: Don’t try to beat the person. Just focus on the board.
I’m playing white this time. Chess rules say the white pieces always go first, though I’m not sure who made up that rule. It means I have the advantage, because I won against a higher- ranked player than Andrew did, but now I feel even more pressure. When you play white, you’re supposed to win.
I start out moving my pawn in the e4 space and decide to follow with my knights. Andrew
will probably do the same, and our four knights will be in a sort of face- off. Grandpa says the real game happens in the center of the board, during the middle part. And I agree. It’s what my chess teacher says at the club, too. But the pieces waiting in the corners and on the edges can be just as powerful, even if they’re not in the center, even if they get forgotten sometimes. In certain games, they’re the most powerful pieces of all.
But right now, Andrew is moving his pieces aggressively. He’s got his queen on my side of
the board. He’s already taken several pawns and a bishop and I’m down several points. I turn my head from side to side, stretching my neck, and try to ignore what’s coming— that dreaded last- game‑of‑the- tournament moment. It’s the moment when my adrenaline starts to drop and my breathing slows and I remember that I’ve been playing chess all day. My limbs start to feel heavy and my eyes burn. I just want to go home, have dinner with my family, and feel safe.
This time I look up at Andrew to see if he’s losing his energy, and what does he do? He winks at
- It feels like someone has just dropped a handful of ice down my back.
“Check,” he says.
I frantically eye the board. I’ve lost sight of the future. He’s got his rook aimed straight at my
king. I need to move my king, but then I see my knight next to my king, waiting for me. I haven’t touched it in a while and can use it to launch over Andrew’s pawn and take his rook. That will open up my bishop, and then I can put him in check with my queen.
We play a few more moves, and I do put him in check. People who have finished their games start to watch us. Andrew clears his throat loudly. I see the sweat glisten on his forehead. He meets my eyes again, and I can tell how much he wants to beat me— not my pieces, but me. If he moves one way, I have a plan to win. If he moves another, he might win. The future is unknown.
I start to think about why this game matters so much. The reason it matters to Mom and Dad
is because they know I want to win. It matters to Grandpa because he knows I’ll learn something no matter what happens. I already beat Aiden, showing him that girls can beat him. If I lose to Andrew, will it show him that maybe people with Indian backgrounds aren’t always good at things like chess? Maybe, but I don’t want that to be the story of this game.
Instead, he makes the move I hoped he would. Now I have the future all planned out. After two moves, I say, “Checkmate.”
Andrew’s face falls and his cheeks turn red. I almost wonder if he’s going to cry. But then he
straightens his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and stands up slowly.
“Nice game,” he says in a low voice, and holds out his hand. He even manages a small smile. A part of me still wants to shake him by the shoulders and say, “But what about all that ridiculous stuff you said downstairs about girls and Indian people while guzzling Mountain Dew?” Instead I decide to let the game speak for itself.
“Thank you,” I say, and accept his handshake. Then I do one last thing: I wink at him. He blinks and moves his head back like he’s startled and quickly turns toward the back of the room, where Aiden and Ben are waiting for him. His shoulders drop a bit as he walks away. Aiden and Ben give him a nudge in the arm and a pat on the back, but Andrew doesn’t look at them. He just stares straight ahead and keeps walking.
When I leave the community center I see Grandpa, Mom, and Dad near the front steps waving
to me. I keep my gold trophy behind my back and watch each one of them, their faces looking at me, searching for the end of the story. I know they all hope for the same ending, but for different reasons. I hold out my trophy toward them. The gold glints in the late- afternoon sun and their faces light up.
“Fantastic!” Dad says, and claps.
“You did it!” Mom says, and holds her arms out for a hug.
“You were ready,” Grandpa says, and squeezes my shoulder.
They all surround me, and it feels even better than pumping my fist in the air alone in the bathroom. But this is just the ending of today’s story. Tomorrow, in the future, all the parts of me that make me who I am will start a new one.
Title: THE DOOR IS OPEN
Author: Edited by Hena Khan
Contributors: Veera Hiranandani, Supriya Kelkar, Maulik Pancholy, Simran Jeet Singh, Aisha Saeed, Reem Faruqi, Rajani LaRocca, Naheed Hasnat, Sayantani DasGupta, and Mitali Perkins.
Release Date: 4/23/2024
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Genre: Middle Grade Fiction
Age Range: 8-12
