Category: Life

Guru Nanakji & Golf

My drive from the third tee and the conversation following it changed my life forever.

That day I had landed at the golf course without a plan; I often do. Bansi, the Starter let me tee off with another golfer waiting to start.

He was a Sikh gentleman. He must have been in his early seventies; his grey hair and thick glasses suggested so. In his appearance, he resembled the legendary Khushwant Singh. He walked slowly and deliberately. He swung equally slowly with a perfect follow through. He must have been a very good golfer in his heydays. He was hitting short distances but his ball was following the path intended and directed by him. On the first hole he missed a five-foot putt and a par by a whisker. I barely managed to get a bogie.

On the second hole he got an easy par; I missed it narrowly.

The third fairway at the Race Course Golf Course is narrow in the beginning and widens in the later part. There are OBs on either side. One has to hit a long straight drive to be in a comfortable position for the rest of the par-five hole. He cleared the first hurdle comfortably.

It was my turn to tee off. I placed my ball on the tee; walked back a few paces to align myself and took stance. I thought of some of the 50 and more elements that go into making a perfect drive: the grip, the stance, the swing, the follow through, the transfer of weight, eye on the ball etc. I must have done really well at that because it was a long and straight drive, way ahead of the Sikh gentleman. There was instant accolade from him. “That’s a marvellous hit,” he said.

As we walked down the fairway to play our second shots, he appreciated my drive. The praise from the otherwise quiet man filled me with joy and pride. Outwardly I didn’t express much; I wanted to be modest; look modest.

“It just happened. I didn’t do anything. I just struck the ball, said “Wahe Guru” and prayed that it went long and straight.”

“Come on! You can’t get this good result with prayers alone,” he said. “You surely have worked hard for it.”

I tried to look even more modest. That’s when he narrated this story and I reproduce it:

“A Sikh youth was looking for a five-rupee coin that he had accidentally dropped in wet mud. He was praying to the gods to help him find his coin. There was a peculiar thing about his prayers­­––he was praying to all the gods other than the Sikh gods. When a curious bystander asked him, why he was remembering the other gods when his prayers could be (obviously) responded better by Guru Nanakji or other Sikh saints, he said, “Come on! Don’t expect me to ask Guru Nanakji to go into the mud for my five rupees. I’ll bother Him when I have a bigger problem or need. If I keep bothering him for petty things, He might not come to my rescue when I actually need Him.”

Returning to my good drive and prayers to Nanakji, he chuckled and said, “Don’t bother Guru Nanakji for small things in life. Save your prayers for the day when you are in dire need of His intervention.”

The message was loud and clear. That moment onwards, I have always done my bit; and done my bit well, and never nagged God for small favours.

Pray, I still do.

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“Can you make me look like Shah Rukh Khan?”

It was a terribly warm day in mid-May; the outside temperature was in excess of 40∘C. I had wound up early from the office and was driving back to Noida. I wanted to get home fast. A traffic jam on the Ashram flyover had caused a holdup. I entered the Delhi-Noida-Delhi Expressway and heaved a sigh of relief. “I can speed up now.” I thought. Just then, I saw a man on foot, about a hundred metres ahead, dragging a motorbike.

I stopped by his side, lowered the glass and asked him if I could be of any assistance. He was sweating at each pore. Wiping his forehead, he said, “ Sir, my bike is not starting. I don’t think you can do anything.”

“Don’t tell me you will drag your bike four kms across the DND Flyway in this scorching heat.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

By then I had come out of the car. “Why don’t you lock your bike and come along with me to Noida and get a mechanic.”

“Sir it will be a big exercise, if the mechanic is unable to detect the fault. Besides, he’ll fleece me for coming here. Please do not bother. I’ll manage. Thanks anyway.”

He was in a pitiable condition. I wanted to help him somehow. I had my towrope in the car. And I had had sufficient experience of towing cars––until then I had towed more than sixty cars on Delhi roads. “Would I be able to tow a bike behind my car?” I debated in my mind. “I just have to tow the bike the way I have been towing cars. It is this guy who has to balance the bike.”

“I have a towrope. What if I tow your bike?” I asked him. “Will you be able to manage? It’s a long distance.”

“I can give it a try.” He was hesitant.

“Are you sure? It will be a tad risky.”

He mustered courage and said, “I’ll do it.”

I tied the towrope to his bike and connected it to my car. I then briefed him on the hand signals that I would use along the way. And finally, I briefed him about the likely emergencies, and the actions in those situations. I wished him good luck and settled in my car.

Thumbs up! And we rolled slowly. I gained confidence as we moved. I had an eye on him in the rear view mirror. I gave him another thumbs up; this time, to indicate that I was going to accelerate. He smiled and gave me thumbs up to go ahead. I was tense all along the way, worrying about his safety.

When we reached the tollbooth at the other end of the DND Flyway, I disengaged the bike to get past the barrier and asked him to re-join me on the other side. When we met on the other side, he looked at the IAF stickers on my windscreen and enquired, “Sir, are you from the Air Force.”

“Yes, I am a Wing Commander,” I nodded.

With gratitude in his eyes, he said a few sentences in praise of the armed forces. I cut him short politely and asked him to reposition his bike for towing further, he said that it was OK and that he would manage further. When I said I had no issues towing him up to a mechanic, he said that he had to go close by. “Sir, Thank you so much. Please don’t bother anymore. I have to go to the Film City. It is just here.”

“Do you work there?”

“Yes Sir, I am a makeup artist,” he said with a sense of pride.

IMG_3925I was impressed. I posed to look smart, and winked, “Can you make me look like Shah Rukh Khan?” That question was just for fun; I didn’t want an answer.

He smiled and said, “Sir, you must be joking. Shah Rukh Khan is just an actor. You are a real hero. Does he do what you are doing? If at all, the likes of Shah Rukh Khan must crave to be you; act your role.” He gave a pause and winked back at me and said, “In any case it would be easier for me to make you look like Anupam Kher rather than Shah Rukh Khan.”

We parted on that light note.

Epilogue

Years later…

My book on Operation Cactus had been published (I had participated in that Operation in November 1988). Discovery channel had telecast a documentary on Operation Cactus (they had given me the credit as ‘Episode Consultant’). Bollywood producers had expressed a desire to make a feature film on Operation Cactus.

I was sitting with two producers, a director and a scriptwriter and was discussing the film in Mumbai. I recalled with a sense of déjà vu what the makeup artist had said that day. I thought, “If all goes well, a Bollywood star would be acting my role in the film.”

 

Banwarilal

Banwarilal was his name––a man my age (nearing 60) but who appeared to be years older. He seemed to have seen 75 summers. He was a gardener and had undergone accelerated aging working in the lush lawns of Lutyens’ Delhi. Squatting on his haunches and working long hours in the sun, had given him a permanent stoop and a dark tan.

We met first when I saw him trudging on the roadside, a walking stick in hand, and had offered him a lift in my car. He was taken aback. He sat on the edge of the seat for that’s how poor people are supposed to sit in the presence of the well-to-do. At least, that’s how Bollywood depicts them. Overwhelmed and full of gratitude in his eyes, he sat quietly looking at the road ahead and occasionally stealing a glance at me.

“Baba, kaise ho?” I tried to make him feel easy.

“ I am fine, Sir.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“Delhi Sir. I work in a government nursery.”

A polite meaningless conversation ensued. When I dropped him a kilometre further, he showered blessings as expected.

I saw him again the next day and pulled up by the roadside. He got into the car with a smile. It being the second time, his demeanour was devoid of apprehension. We resumed our conversation. He was immune to governments and governance. His life revolved around his small family––a son, a daughter-in-law and some grandchildren.

It became a routine––the business of me offering him a lift. It was two to three times a week. It continued for over two months. With time he opened up and became talkative. He even offered to take care of my lawn. Then there was a long break. I started car-pooling to the office. As a result our timings did not match any longer.

I forgot Banwarilal.

Until another warm day over three months later…

I returned early and found him again. I stopped the car for him to get in. He wasn’t his chirpy self.

“All’s well Banwarilal?” I asked.

“Not really, Sir. I have not got my pay for three months. There has been some hold-up in the computerised system of payment since de-monetisation drive began.”

“Life must be awfully difficult…” I sympathised.

“Our reserves have touched rock-bottom; life has indeed become very difficult…” he went on. It was a monologue and I was a mute listener. Here was a man tortured by fate. He was silently suffering––not begging for a job or largesse.

A thought engulfed me: “Is there anything I can do for him?”

My chain of thoughts was disrupted when he asked me to stop.

As he opened the door to get out, I asked him if I could give him some money to overcome the crisis in his life.

To be honest, it was a half-hearted offer borne out of my feeling of helplessness to do something to mitigate Banwarilal’s misery. There were two diametrically opposite reasons for my hesitation. One: I was sceptical that Banwarilal might accept the offer and demand a huge amount of money that I would not like to dish out. On my part, I had decided to give him Rs 3000/- an amount that I had just received as remuneration for writing an article for the Defence and diplomacy Journal. Two: Banwarilal might get offended or feel demeaned.

Banwarilal declined the offer. He said that conditions were bad but not so bad so as to seek largesse. It was still possible for his family to stay afloat. I made a counter offer: “If you are determined not to take money, consider it to be a loan and return it to me whenever you are comfortable.

Banwarilal smiled again. With a broader grin this time, he said, “Sir, I am touched by your gesture. But I really do not need money; all I need is your prayers so that there is an end to my misery.

Being rich, poor or well-to-do is but a figment of imagination.