Durak
Writing about playing cards with my grandma
I first wrote this piece in November 2021 during my freshman year of college. I shared it on my LinkedIn then, and am permanently moving it here now :)
Shuffle, deal, play.
That is the sound of my childhood summers, playing cards with my grandma for hours on end. Though at the moment those card games just seemed like a fun pastime, the lessons I’ve learned and the memories I’ve made while playing those games will stay with me forever.
My parents immigrated from Belarus to the United States and every other year, we would fly back, to visit family, friends, and our homeland. The memories I remember and cherish most are those in Praudinsky, the small village in Belarus where my maternal grandmother, Babushka Vera, lived. Afternoons and mornings would pass in the summer sun, swimming in the river, going on walks, or hiking to the forest to go hunting for mushrooms or blueberries. Yet each day I was in Praudinsky, without fail, my grandma and I always played cards.
The game we played is called durak, a Russian word that directly translates to “idiot”, with the idea being, he who loses the game is the idiot. The game features alternating patterns of defense and attack, where you try to play cards that your opponent cannot defend against. If you’re unable to defend, you take all the cards, with the object of the game being to get rid of them all. He who is left with cards at the end of the game loses and becomes the durak.
For hours we played. And not just one round, but hundreds and hundreds of games - by the end of each summer, I will have played at least 500 rounds of durak. And we didn’t just play either; during our matches, she would quiz me: “What is the capital of Kazakhstan?”. “Astana”, I reply. “Russia?”. “Moscow.” By the end of the summer, I would know the capital of nearly every country on Earth. We would talk about life, her life, mine, and those about the rest of our family. Before we knew it, we had played dozens of games, me winning some, but it was I that usually became the durak.
Poor tactical plays on my part would always result in a stern lecture from my grandma: “Why would you play like that?!”, “You know I will be able to defend appropriately, why play that card first?!”. We would play and play, not stopping until I had perfected and understood every last possible concept, strategy, and tactic of the game. Though those lectures seemed harsh, I soon became a master - I would win long strings of games, until my grandma would say, “Vso”. Enough.
Eventually, the end of summer would arrive, and with it, the time to return home to America. Bags would be packed, one last meal together eaten, tearful hugs exchanged. During the summer after my freshman year of high school, my family visited Belarus and my grandma. Before we left, I played one more game of durak with my grandma. I never knew it would be our last.
Back home, high school continued, with life and responsibilities making the years and memories blend together. Each month, I’d call my grandma, telling her how much I loved her and couldn’t wait to visit her again. Our last time speaking was on my 18th birthday - she called to congratulate me on becoming an adult and reminded me of how proud she was that I graduated high school and enrolled at UCLA. That was the last time I ever heard her voice.
I remember getting the call from my parents like it was yesterday. It was the fall quarter of my freshman year at UCLA, and my parents were supposed to visit me from the Bay Area. I couldn’t wait to show them around campus, swipe them into the dining halls, and visit the beach and Getty Center with them. On Friday, my dad calls me, beginning with pleasantries, as usual. Then he breaks the bad news: “We’re not coming to see you. Babushka Vera died, and we need to fly to Belarus tomorrow for her funeral.” At that moment, I felt a piece of me die.
Quickly I called my roommate and best friend, Gilbert. “Please come over, I need to talk to you right now”. Hearing the worry in my voice, he ran across campus. Telling him my grandmother had just died, I began crying in his arms. It was the worst I had felt in my entire life.
Over time, the pain, sorrow, and grief faded. Yet even now, it is not gone. I doubt it will ever fade completely. But just like she taught me from all of our games of durak, I bounced back. Even in defeat, I continued. Gilbert told me a piece of advice that has stuck with me to this day: “My grandma died when I was 10. Yet I still feel like she is alive. We keep her alive through our stories, through our memories. You must remember her story, and share it with others. That will make your loss less painful.”
I took his advice. Missing my grandma, I began teaching all my friends how to play durak. The Russian deck being foreign, I taught them how to understand the hierarchy of cards. I taught them the complicated rules, the intricate strategies, and the intuition behind being a successful player. Learning of the name of the game and the story behind it, we began referring to the loser as the “village idiot”. We played many games, each of us being the durak at some point.
Over time, I felt Gilbert’s advice working - my loss felt less painful, the wound less raw. Each game we played, I would remember my grandma and feel her with me. I felt her lessons and her love, her lectures and smiles, our long afternoons playing the hours away in Praudinsky.
Even after all these years and hundreds of games, I still enjoy each and every game of durak I play. The simple cards have brought me great happiness in life and taught me many lessons. Yet the one most powerful is the one I learned first - everyone loses sometimes. No matter how well you play, how strong of a strategist you are, whether you have played a thousand games or none, you still sometimes end up being the durak. The cards will be dealt against your favor, your opponent will be brilliant, or you will simply experience a string of bad luck in the game. You lose, yet always shuffle again. Durak is thus not about the game itself or about victory - it is about learning, about connection. It is not about winning or losing, but about the bonds you build and the connections you create with friends and family.
I think back to my grandma often, remembering her rich life, priceless memories, and wealth of experiences. Though I can never give her a hug again, I know that she is always with me - every time I play a game of durak, remember the capital of Kazakhstan, or bounce back from a difficult defeat, she is with me. Her wisdom and love stay with me, as are her lessons, her life, and her games. I know she is watching over me as long as I live.
People are often asked what they would wish for if they could have anything in the world. Some ask for more time, some for money, others for fame. Yet I know what I would ask for in an instant - one more game of durak with my grandma.
