Samarkand 2026: When Old and Young Wings Soar Toward Legend

Samarkand night, I sit alone in a small room in Saint Petersburg, looking at the schedule map of the 46th Chess Olympiad. Outside, September snow has not yet fallen, but I already feel the cold of a conquest. I remember the Luzhniki night of 2026, when Akinfeev stopped Spain with the gloves of an old bird. Today, I see that image again in the eyes of Gukesh, of Praggnanandhaa, of Sindarov – young birds preparing to take flight from the land of Timur.

The schedule just announced by FIDE is not just a dry timetable. It is a strategic map, a promise of battles that will enter legend. From September 1 to September 14, 2026, the city of Samarkand – the jewel of the Silk Road – will become the center of the chess world. Eleven rounds under the Swiss system, two sections: Open and Women. But what troubles me is not the tournament structure, but the story hiding beneath the numbers.

India arrives in Samarkand as defending champion in both sections. They bring Gukesh – the reigning world champion, who wrote a fairy tale in Singapore. They bring Arjun Erigaisi, Praggnanandhaa, Nihal Sarin and Vidit – a lineup any nation would dream of. But I remember the words of an old Russian friend: "When you stand on the summit, every wind is a storm." India stands on the summit, and Uzbekistan – the host – is preparing winds of their own.

Javokhir Sindarov, the young Uzbek player, faces the biggest opportunity of his career. He will face Gukesh in the World Championship match at the end of 2026. But before that, he must face Gukesh at the Olympiad, on home soil, before thousands of cheering spectators. I have witnessed many young players crumble under home pressure. I have also seen others blaze like meteors. Which will Sindarov be?

India's strength lies not in individuals, but in the resonance of an entire golden generation – something Uzbekistan does not yet have.

I remember my days as a young player in Vietnam, when I dreamed of setting foot at the Olympiad. That dream never came true, but I have spent my life watching others fulfill it. From Anatoly Karpov to Magnus Carlsen, from Judit Polgar to Hou Yifan, I have seen generations pass. And I have never seen a team with the depth of today's India. Gukesh, Praggnanandhaa, Arjun – all under 25, all past 2700, all accustomed to the biggest spotlights.

But there is something technical analysis cannot show: fatigue. Six consecutive days of play, then a rest day. I have followed hundreds of tournaments, and I know that rounds 8 and 9 often decide the fate of the entire event. That is when physical reserves deplete, nerves stretch taut, and mistakes begin to appear. India has squad depth, but even the greatest players have their limits.

I also want to talk about Praggnanandhaa – the boy I have followed since he was 10, when he defeated even seasoned grandmasters. His recent dethroning of Erigaisi as India's No. 1 is a significant signal. It shows that India's internal competition is at an unprecedented level. But it also raises the question: will this competition create strength or create fractures? I have seen teams fall apart over ranking disputes, and I have seen teams rise through healthy rivalry.

The blind spot of collective memory is that we often forget that even the greatest champions lost before they won.

Uzbekistan is no easy opponent. They have a long chess tradition, government support, and a rising young generation. Sindarov is the brightest star, but he is not alone. Nodirbek Abdusattorov, who defeated Carlsen at 17, will also be there. Uzbekistan won the Open section at the 2026 Olympiad, and they will not easily surrender their crown at home.

I remember the 2026 European Championship final, when the Soviet Union beat Yugoslavia 2-1 in Paris. Viktor Ponedelnik scored in the 113th minute, before 105,000 spectators. I was not there, but I have heard the story hundreds of times. Football and chess share a common trait: the greatest moments often come from unexpected places. Samarkand may witness such moments.

Tactically, I want to emphasize one thing: the Swiss system with 11 rounds is a marathon, not a sprint. A team that starts slowly can still finish with the title. A team that starts too fast may run out of steam in the final rounds. I have witnessed this many times in my observational career. And I believe the team that best manages its players' physical and mental reserves will be the one that wins.

When the stadium has no ball, memory begins to score. When the board has no pieces, the story begins to be written.

I also want to note that the final round starts at 11 am instead of the usual 3 pm. This is a small adjustment that could make a big difference. Players accustomed to late nights may struggle in morning games. I have seen decisive games affected by such seemingly minor details. Chess is a sport of details, and sometimes the smallest detail creates the biggest difference.

In terms of media, I believe this Olympiad will attract unprecedented attention. FIDE will broadcast live on YouTube, and the presence of Gukesh and Sindarov – the two protagonists of the World Championship match – will create a compelling narrative. Fans will not only follow team results but also track the form of these two players as a warm-up for the big match at year's end.

But I want to offer a different perspective. Perhaps we are focusing too much on Gukesh and Sindarov, forgetting that the Olympiad is a team event. A team's strength lies not in its number one star, but in the depth of the entire squad. India has that depth. Uzbekistan is building theirs. And there will be other teams – China, Russia, the USA – not mentioned in this article but certainly making their voices heard.

I remember my younger days, when I believed chess was a sport of exceptional individuals. Now, at 65, I understand that chess – like life – is a sport of connection. A player can be as talented as they come, but without a support team, without the companionship of teammates, they cannot reach the summit. India has understood this. Uzbekistan is learning this. And Samarkand will be where that lesson is written.

The day the heart stops, I learn to beat slower but deeper. The day the board is empty, I learn to see moves never played.

As I write these lines, snow has not yet fallen in Saint Petersburg. But I know that in Samarkand, the sun is still shining on the turquoise domes. I know that thousands of players from hundreds of nations are packing their bags, checking their opening repertoires, and dreaming of games that will enter history. I know that Gukesh and Sindarov are training hard, each in their own way, but both aiming at one goal.

The 2026 Olympiad will not be just a tournament. It will be a symphony of dreams, ambitions, and stories. And I, an old man who has spent a lifetime watching chessboards, will sit before my screen, recording every moment, as I have done for 49 years. Because I know these moments will never return. Each Olympiad is a unique opportunity, a page that cannot be rewritten.

Samarkand is waiting. And I, along with millions of chess fans worldwide, am waiting to witness history being written. Because in chess, as in life, what matters most is not victory or defeat, but how we play our game. And I believe that, whatever the outcome, these young players will play their game with all their passion and courage.

Samarkand night will be a night of stars. And I will be there, even if only through a screen, to witness them shine.