Golf and Gandak

About a myth called indispensability.

Remembering dates and recalling chronology is not my cup of tea unless they are associated with memories. Suffice it to say that the exotic east was my home for two and a half years around the time 9/11 happened. Chhaya, my soulmate and Mudit, our son had stayed back in Delhi for the latter’s schooling when I moved on a posting to Tezpur as the Senior Logistics Officer (SLO). Those days mobile phones were rare and smart phones, non-existent. Video chat existed, but only in the drawing room discussions about the awe-inspiring future technologies. Public call booth was our means of connecting with our dear ones back home. The waiting at the booth used to be long when the call rates used to dip after 10 pm. Despite those little struggles, one realises in hindsight that without smart phone, existence was meaningful—one could indulge in activities which boosted the feel-good-factor, and to some extent, the quality of life.

In Tezpur, without family—people called that state of being, forced bachelorhood—I could devote all my time and attention to work. Thanks to the dedication of my predecessors, logistics support to the Station was streamlined; the ageing MiG-21 fleet was afloat, nay soaring. So, I also had the time to afford other activities. Once in a while, critical shortages of spares, or elephants rampaging our Ration Stand, used to inject excitement in our routine.

The Gajraj Golf Club situated across the runway, offered me an opportunity on a platter to sharpen my golfing skills. My approach to the game was maniacal. I played like a man possessed, not missing a day unless there was a justifiable good reason. Unbelievable, but true—I played 45 holes on a particular holiday. That fact must not mislead one to conclude that I was playing well—piling birdies and pars. Far from it, long hours spent on the fairways—not to talk of the golfing lessons from the pro, Minky Barbora—did little to help me master my shots. At my best, I played to a fourteen handicap. So be it. I was happy playing. Period!

Air Commodore PK Barbora, popularly known as Babs Sir (later Air Marshal and Vice Chief of the Air Staff) was our Air Officer Commanding (AOC). He, and a dozen other officers shared similar passion for golf.

***Nothing could stop the golfers, but…***

The weather in Tezpur used to be hot, and mercilessly humid, for most part of the year. Rest of the time, it used rain heavily. A drizzle could never stop us from teeing off. What about rain? It was a mutually agreed rule to continue playing if it started raining after we had teed off. We permitted ourselves free lateral drops whenever a downpour created scores of shallow lakes in the fairways. We were unstoppable. For a few minutes though, we paused our game one day, only to give way to a herd of about 30 to 40 wild elephants who chose to cross our path.

Rounds of golf on the courses owned by the association of tea planters were jamborees. Amusingly, their fairways were maintained by the grazing cattle. The events provided unadulterated joy, taking us to the next higher level of being. Nirvana!

Indulging in a sporting activity alone, golf in particular, is no fun. Normally the AOC used to telephone one of us and confirm if we were playing on a given day. One day when others were occupied, he called me to check, if I was available. “So Ustaad, are we ON today? What time do we tee off? Is 2:45 fine?”

“Ustaad!” That’s how the AOC addressed everyone. That form of address had nothing to do with the formal term coined by Air Chief Marshal S Krishnaswamy to recognise and honour professionals.

It was a matter of chance that I too had a commitment that day. So, I responded apologetically, “Sir, I have a commitment today… I might get late. May I join you on the third or the fourth tee?”

“Ustaad, are you trying to impress me by staying late in the office.” Although the AOC said it in a lighter vein, his remark pricked me. Oblivious of my hurt feeling, he chuckled, “It’s fine. I’ll start alone. See if you can make it after finishing your task at hand.” Was I attaching too much meaning to the AOC’s words? Was I inviting offence when it was not meant? I wasn’t sure. But disturbed, I was.

The AOC was on the third tee when I joined him, “Good afternoon, Sir.” A grumpy me greeted him half-heartedly. His words, “Are you trying to impress me…,” were still screeching in my cranium; disturbing me. I felt he had been unfair in judging my commitment to work as an exercise to impress him. I knew in my heart, I would work anyway, regardless of him.

The AOC must have read my mind for he broached the subject, “Good afternoon Ustaad. What were you stuck with?”

“Sir, the weekly courier was to land today. I had a repairable aeroengine to be sent to Bangalore… it was urgent. Sometimes, when the aircraft are loaded to their capacity, the loadmasters decline our consignments. I went to the tarmac because I didn’t want that to happen today. Fortunately, they had the space and accepted our load.”

“What would you have done if they had had no space to accommodate your stuff?”

“It is a common occurrence, Sir. When there is no space, I speak with the crew of the aircraft and try to prevail upon them to offload some of their less important packages and accept my critical stores. I promise them to dispatch their offloaded packages by the next available aircraft. They appreciate the logistics needs of a fighter flying training station and generally concede to logic even if they are inconvenienced.”

I kept emptying my mind, “Besides, having spent seven years at PTS (Paratroopers Training School) Agra, I am able to connect well with most of the AN-32 and IL-76 crews, and sometimes I am even able to pressurise them to accept my consignments….” The AOC listened to my monologue without saying a word except for an occasional, “Hmm!” I wondered if I had been talking to a wall. We walked the distance together as I kept illuminating my late joining.

On the next green, the AOC was the epitome of peace and calm when he took stance for a long seven-foot putt for a par. The clinking of his Titleist Pro V ball as it fell into the cup was music to the ears. Then it was my turn. About three feet from the cup, with two strokes in hand I was sitting pretty for a birdie. Chaos and disorder were still stewing in my mind when I struck the ball. I missed the putt twice. It was a bogey.

“Oh no! Ustaad, how could you have missed that sitter,” Babs Sir exclaimed.

I shrugged my shoulders in disbelief. I too thought, at least a par was unmissable.

It was a disastrous day for me on the course. When we sat down for the usual cup of tea after the game, the AOC took out his pouch of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. He carried forward the conversation as he struck a match to light it, “You know Chordia, I am a happy AOC who has a conscientious SLO like you working for him. I appreciate your sincerity of purpose. Full marks….” He showered lavish praise on me for despatching the aeroengine. His demeanour suggested that he was headed elsewhere.

“But, think of it. Couldn’t any of your youngsters, or a Warrant Officer, or a Sergeant, have accomplished what you did… simply despatching an aeroengine?” He asked me as he took a last long drag on what remained of his little cigarette.

“Ustaad,” he continued, “Your men are an asset. Good grooming will enable them to shoulder greater responsibilities, and thereby relieve you to devote your time and energy to intellectual work. With thoughtful delegation one can manage things better. The opportunity to golf could be the spinoff of good management.”

I accepted the pearl of wisdom with humility. “Sir,” was all I said in my acceptance speech.

Postscript

There was much substance in what the AOC said that day. My fear that my men would not be able to accomplish things was holding me back from giving them responsibilities and making me feel indispensable. A little introspection and some fine tuning did wonders for me. Thereafter, I had a lot more time. I could not only play golf but pursue a lot of other hobbies and activities. I could immerse in books, draw caricatures, analyse handwriting, practise calligraphy strokes and even try my hand at wood carving. Tezpur turned out to be a greatly satisfying tenure, professionally and personally.

To conclude the sum and substance of this piece, a word about gandak will be in order.Gandak is a canine species, kind of a sheepdog found in Rajasthan. It can be seen walking in the shadows of the camels or under the carts drawn by them. Regardless of the weather—scorching heat or bitter cold—the long tongue of this little beast is always hanging; it is perpetually panting. My mother used to say, a gandak pants because it thinks that all the load is on its back and that it might tip over if it shrugs (read, “shirks”). Hidden inside us is a gandak which gives us a false feeling of indispensability. My life changed when I got rid of the gandak in me.

The Second-Best Thing About Playing Golf

Is golfing merely scything with expensive equipment?

“Chordia, why don’t you start playing golf?” I remember the day, nearly 35 years ago, when our Air Officer Commanding (AOC) at No 24 Equipment Depot, Manauri posed that question to me. In fact, it wasn’t really a question. I felt it was an oblique recommendation to play the game. At least, the old man’s intonation suggested that. Those days I used to enjoy sweating on the football field. About golf, I had a low opinion; I felt it was like scything with expensive equipment. I had just worn the Squadron Leader rank—inside me was a fidgety Flight Lieutenant who spoke first and thought later. Therefore, I am not surprised that I responded promptly with a polite smirk. Yes, a smirk can be polite, pleasant.

“Sir,” I blurted out, “I think golf is meant for the elderly and the moneyed; and may be… for senior officers. I do not belong to any of those categories of beings.”

With that utterance, I had dropped a brick, if not a bomb. I realised it as soon as the words left my mouth. So, I quickly replaced my polite smirk with a smile. And then, the actor in me worked overtime to look like an innocent youngster trying to be jocular.

The AOC didn’t show an iota of dissatisfaction on his favourite game being seen in a not-so-good light. He rather surprised me with a chuckle, “Beta (son), Playing, or not playing golf, and when to start playing, is a choice. You may choose not to play; but it’s definitely time you refined your ideas. Young people are taking to golf and it is not so expensive—you can buy a half set for pittance. That the game is meant for senior officers, is a myth.”

In the following week, he sent me to HQ Central Air Command to study their course and replicate their ‘Mini Golf Course’—a big putting green with nine holes and interesting obstacles. He patted me for creating ‘a marvel’ for Manauri as he called it. Crazy putting green—it was like playing marbles with putters. I wasn’t impressed; did not make a beginning. The AOC gave up on me when I refused to see the grass on the other side of the fence, let alone appreciating its greenness.

Around the same time, in another part of the world, a teenager, Eldrick Tont Woods (15)—nearly half my age—had made waves by winning the US Junior Amateur Golf Champion title. Soon, the world would know him as Tiger Woods. Clearly, old age wasn’t a criterion; people of all ages were golfing.

A year later, I was in Kanpur on posting. My work schedule gave me time to spare after office hours, and the golf course was next door. This time on, it was an Ordnance Corps officer, a Major, who nudged me, “Why don’t you give the game a try? The course is so close to your residence.” He dragged me to the greens.

The Kanpur Golf Course is scenic. The fairways run parallel to the Ganges. The river is so close that sometimes wayward balls land up in the majestically flowing waters. The saying goes: “You have to offer a few balls as guru-dakshina to Gangaji (teacher’s fee to the Ganges) to learn golf.” There are natural undulations, and trees with large canopies, which pose varying degrees of enjoyable challenges. The water hazards, the bunkers and the sand traps are positioned at vantage points to get the best out of a player; they get the better of some. Gentle breeze laden with fragrance of freshly blooming flowers and the chirping birds transport one to a different world. The gazebo next to the club-house provides a commanding view of the Course as one sips a cup of freshly brewed coffee. It is heavenly; it is enticing!

I couldn’t resist the temptation and gave the game a try. In those days (early 1990s), the Kanpur fairways had a lot of pebbles; preferred lie was allowed all along the course. That made it less humiliating and easier for a beginner like me to pick up the game. I was soon addicted. That little change of mind—to give the game a try—led to a big regret of my life: “Why didn’t I start playing golf earlier?” The AOC’s chuckle and his advice to refine my thoughts about the game echoed in my mind. To this day, those thoughts keep returning. I have realised the importance of trying things rather than rejecting them at face value or on the basis of perceptions.

As if to make up for the lost time, I began playing golf like a man possessed—never missing an opportunity to swing. Since Kanpur, I must have walked a few thousand kilometres with a golf club in my hand. And, I must have spent days (cumulative time) searching my golf balls in the wilderness. In Tezpur, where I was a forced bachelor—Chhaya and Mudit had stayed back in Delhi for Mudit’s schooling—I played golf every day, for two and a half years, except when I was outstation. I recall a sunny Sunday when I played 45 holes through the day. Even the rains couldn’t stop some of us. We would continue playing if it started raining after we had teed-off and would take lateral drops if there were puddles in the fairways. Playing on some of the courses maintained by the grazing cattle, in the tea gardens of the exotic east was unadulterated fun. One day, half way through the game, we were visited by a group of elephants, 30 or 40 of them. Majestic!

Playing with course-mates and friends has always been fun. Most golfers will agree that good company matters; some will argue that company matters the most. On numerous occasions, when I have reached the course without a booking, I have had the opportunity to play with interesting strangers. I have written about one, a Khushwant Singh-like old Sikh gentleman who shared a pearl of wisdom on ‘when to approach Guru Nanakji to influence one’s game of golf (and life)’.

Somehow my caddies have never been impressed by my game: “Sir, keep your head down!” “Sir, you aren’t following through.” “Sir, you are not keeping your eyes on the ball.” “Sir, you are applying too much force.” And the most hard hitting, “Sir, why don’t you take a break and spend some time on the driving range with a pro?” One of my caddies could lob a ball using the branch of a tree better than I could with a lob wedge. I can compile a 200-page booklet on all the solicited and unsolicited advice extended to me by my caddies and fellow golfers. For me, playing golf has always been a humbling experience. Reading self-help books and watching experts on YouTube has not helped. It is celebration when I score below 100. I am on the winning side only when I piggyback a good player.

I bought my first (and the only) half-set for an easily affordable Rs 3500/- and gifted it to a greenhorn when I was presented a full new set by a dear friend. My second new set was also a gift, from my nephew. I have been lucky in that regard. My long innings on the greens have (mis)led some onlookers and beginners to seek guidance from me. Inspite of my not-so-good-credentials, I have always encouraged them: “Golf is the best exercise, next only to yoga. It requires a lot of concentration; and, your concentration improves if you play golf. It teaches you to put aside setbacks and get going in life… mind-muscle coordination… it is application of laws of physics in three dimensions…,” I have sermonised. To some, I have loaned old balls and my 7-iron. But I have seldom taught anyone anything beyond interlocking grip, basic rules and etiquettes.

When Covid struck and people were confined to their homes, playing golf was out of the question. It wasn’t so for me. I was confined to the sprawling 60-acre Amity University Campus. Hardly anyone entered the University gate those days. I took the opportunity to play golf. I used to take my short irons and a dozen golf balls to the University’s sports ground. For hours on end, I used to hit golf balls from one end of the ground to the other. The best things people associate with golf—good company, good fairways, good greens, a cafeteria etc etc—were missing. But in due course of time, I began enjoying. It was Nirvana!

What was it about golf that I was enjoying so much? Alone? On a football ground?

After much thought, I concluded that the second-best thing about playing golf is the feeling one gets when one hits the ball from the sweet spot of the club-head and watches it take the cherished flight; land and roll to the intended point. It is a top-of-the-world feeling when a few of the fifty odd elements that go into making a perfect stroke, align favourably to give the desired result. The audio, the soft impact and the visual effect—all lead to ecstasy. Much else matters less. Having a friend around who genuinely rejoices when you execute that near perfect shot only enhances that feeling of levitation.

I have shared this thought with many a golfer. Most have echoed the joy of striking the ball from the sweet spot, but, in the same breath they have questioned, “If that joyous feeling is the second-best thing about playing golf, then what is the best thing about the game?” Elementary! The best thing about playing golf is strictly personal. It resides in each golfer’s mind—it is that single reason which beckons them to the greens at dawn, over and over again, when rest of the world slumbers. A dear friend who strives to see every sunrise in the golf course says he is drawn to the game because: “It is the maximum fun one can have with pants on.”

A Tarnished Golf Trophy

A moment of weakness on the course torments a conscientious golfer…

They were beginners.

They had purchased old; second hand golf sets with assorted clubs with worn-out grips and dilapidated bags. They played with old balls, reserving the new, and the better ones only for the putting greens. They used the oldest ball in their bag, on the fifth tee for the fear of losing a good one in the water hazard. They had not been exposed to the wisdom of playing with a new ball.

They could strike a ball clean from the tee––not muffing it––just about fifty per cent of the times. But only on half of those contacts, the ball would take a decent flight and land in the fairway. A mini celebration would ensue every time their approach shots from within a hundred yards range landed on the green––that happened as rarely as the solar eclipses. They took, on an average, not less than two and a half strokes on the putting green to hole out. They played for honour; betting only once in a blue moon with breakfast of eggs and toasted bread with jam and butter at stake. Ignorant of the rules, they played with consensus until one of them picked up an old out-dated booklet of golf rules from a street vendor, which they referred only when a dispute remained unresolved for a few days.

Amit Ahluwalia (Alu), Anil Jain, Gopal Phanse and Biswajeet Ghose had been bitten by the golf bug. If they had their way, they would spend their entire lives on the greens. But wishes don’t have wings. Gupta Law Associates (GLA) kept the four young lawyers tethered to their workstations through the week. Nonetheless, their weekends were devoted to golf––it was a ritual they never skipped. Winning or losing the game was less material; they would do ‘anything’ to snatch an opportunity to play.

Anything!

It was far easier to plead and convince a judge presiding over a criminal case than to persuade Harsh Gupta the seventy-nine year old Chairman of Gupta Law Associates (GLA) to spare the young men for a few hours on a workday even for their personal errands. Being spared to play golf––there was no chance whatsoever. How Alu sold the idea to the old man is a guarded secret. But suffice it to say that at the end of their seven-minute interaction, Harsh Gupta had not only agreed to field a team to represent GLA in the HH Maharaja Jayachamaraja Wadiyar Golf Championship at the JWGC, Mysore but had also sanctioned all their expenses including a sleeve of golf balls and a tee shirt each. The old man had possibly calculated the net gains that would accrue to his law firm by way of publicity due to the presence of his emissaries in Mysore amidst what he considered an elite crowd.

With a registered handicap of 18 and actual performance no better than 24, none of them stood the remotest chance of making the cut at the end of the first round. Winning a prize in the Stableford format on the final day was out of the question. They knew their limitations well. Yet their urge ‘just to play’ another round was rather strong.

In the first day’s fixtures their names appeared together in a four-ball. In that, Alu saw an opportunity and a ray of hope. He came up with a scheme. He suggested that they played exactly as they played on their parent golf course in Bangalore––changing the balls on the putting greens and conceding short (one grip length) putts. That would give them the advantage of a few strokes and a possible chance of making the cut. He also suggested a ‘rolling’ mulligan that could be availed discreetly on any hole. “I’ll ‘manage’ the caddies,” he added slyly.

“But that would be unfair to the other golfers participating in the tournament,” protested Jain.

“You are right,” reflected Alu. “But that’s our only hope to qualify and play another round. In any case, with our known performances, none of us will win a prize tomorrow even if we were to qualify today. A little manipulation will not harm other people’s chances of winning a trophy.” Then, after a pause for effect, Alu continued, “Jain, if you avoid being Satyawadi Harishchandra for a change, all of us could enjoy another day of golf.” He looked at Ghose and Phanse who extended tacit support. Unsure and reluctant, Jain also gave in.

To cut the long story short, at the end of the first day’s play, all four of them stood somewhere on the leader board entitling them to play the final round the next morning. That evening they enjoyed the gala party hosted by the organisers. How they had made the cut was forgotten soon enough.

For the final round they were put in different four-balls. Everything changed––no mulligan, no ‘gimme’. It made no difference to them because they had achieved their aim of playing another day. Scores didn’t matter anymore. In fact there was nothing to write home about when they submitted their scorecards. They wanted to set course back for Bangalore as soon as possible but then, as a mark of respect for the organisers they decided to stay back for the prize distribution.

They sat in the last row cracking occasional jokes, eating plum cakes and sipping fresh fruit juices. The announcements being made as a part of the prize distribution ceremony were falling on their deaf ears so that when the name of the runner-up for the prize for the Stableford Net Score (handicap 18 and under) was announced they didn’t monitor it. Anil Jain’s name had to be called thrice before he could register and respond to the call. He had to literally run to the podium to receive his trophy. The sense of winning a prize dawned on him only a half hour later when, on their drive back to Bangalore Alu demanded a treat for Anil’s ‘achievement’.

Next morning in the office: Harsh Gupta felicitated Jain in the presence of the office staff. There was a high tea to commemorate his win at the golf tournament. “It is GLA’s achievement,” said an elated Gupta. There was a photo session with the trophy. And then…

And then came an exuberant Alu. “Congratulations, Bro!” he said with a broad smile as they shook hands and hugged. “Great game! You have been hitting well over the last few days. I knew you would win a prize….” Despite Alu’s effort to be innocuous, Anil felt that every word he uttered was loaded with meaning. “Am I imagining things,” he wondered. A smirk on Alu’s face laid that doubt to rest––Alu was mocking him. Anil also sensed indifference in the way Ghose and Phanse greeted him on his maiden golfing success.

In the evening, when Anil returned home his wife, Sheela wiped the already glittering trophy clean with one end of her dupatta and placed it proudly in the glass showcase in the drawing room. Ideally, that should have been the end of a not so pleasant chapter for Anil.

Not really….

That day onwards, whenever Anil looked at the trophy, rather than getting a sense of fulfilment, it only depressed him. Golfing with his buddies was not the same either––he began seeing meaning in whatever the other three guys said. Carrying the burden of ‘that’ maiden golf trophy was becoming increasingly difficult for Anil until one day it became absolutely unbearable.

Sheela looked at the trophy and said, “Anil this golf trophy is tarnished.” Then turning it over, she exclaimed, “Oh my God, this is real silver. It must be 200 grams. This will require repeated polishing…. I don’t mind you playing more often if you win trophies like this one….” While she continued with her monologue, Anil was stuck with one word: “T-A-R-N-I-S-H-E-D.”

Anil couldn’t bear the guilt of unfair play any longer. The next day he called the Secretary of the JWGC, Mysore and expressed his desire to return the trophy. His lips quivered as he cited his reason for returning the trophy. Mr Madhavan was, first, shell-shocked, and then, touched by what he heard. Collecting himself he said it was fine so long as Anil regretted his action; he didn’t have to return the trophy. After a little ado, he agreed to take back the trophy and present it for fair play to a deserving player in the next tournament.

At the prize distribution ceremony of the HH Maharaja Jayachamaraja Wadiyar Golf Championship next year, Madhavan made a surprise announcement; that of award of ‘Fair Play Trophy’. Without citing any name he spoke about Anil’s confession and called some Dr Sanjay Dixit to receive the trophy––Dixit had been selected by a panel of judges for the honour.

Amid loud clapping, euphoria and standing ovation, Dixit came to the podium and received the trophy. Then with all humility, he returned it to the Chief Guest saying, “I thank the organisers for finding me suitable for the ‘Fair Play Trophy’. But I would not like to take home a ‘Tarnished Trophy’.

For a long minute, there was pin drop silence. And when people spoke again, the ‘Tarnished Trophy’ had become a talk of the town. After much thought the General Body of the JWGC decided to place the “Tarnished Trophy” in the foyer of the Club––with its brief history cited below it.

Now, the trophy inspires players with a conscience, to be loyal to the royal in them.

(Author’s Note: The resemblance of names of persons and places mentioned in this story to real persons and places is incidental).

Jay, Veeru & India-China Relations

What if the world we live in was Utopia? And the countries of the world played golf (rather than rugby)?

Utopia is Utopia. To simplify the other analogy, golf is a game in which, ideally speaking, one plays with one’s own ball, as it lies. Emphasis added on ‘as it lies’. So, what if countries pursued their agenda without jeopardising the interests of others?

Or, at least, countries did not behave like the proverbial dog in the manger––doing little on their own but raising hue and cry when another one tried to do something in its best interest. Allusion here is to the countries of the world (including India) not doing their (enough) bit to gain from the trade and commerce that is available to them but envying (read ‘being jealous of ’) China. For example,countries not doing enough to woo the Dark Continent or Latin America but raising a hue and cry when China lands there and starts reaping benefits; and sending those benefits back home to Beijing.

Another example is the Chinese initiative on the connectivity of countries of the region––Xi’s ambitious OBOR Project. The countries that have joined the mega project know what is good for them and what is not. They have got on the bandwagon with conscious volition. Period.

Why should others (read India) bark?

Because in real life, this world is not Utopian, and the countries are not playing golf. And even those that appear to be playing golf are not playing the ball as it lies––honestly. At least one American President in the recent years has been notorious for(blatantly) improving the lie of the ball. Let’s spare the US and the US Presidents for the time being, since China and India are the subject matter of this post.

It was fine so long as China was pursuing its trade and commerce for its own good in the countries surrounding India; a little adverse effect also would have been an acceptable outcome. But then,China began pursuing its interests at the cost of India’s. The GMR issue in the Maldives, for example, was a setback for India.

If that was not enough, China started establishing its military bases in return for the infrastructure it developed for the host countries. Acquisition of Hambantota Port in Sri Lanka and the islands leased to it by the Maldives are some of the many cases in point. Besides, the CPEC running through POK is a cause for great concern for India. China’s initiatives in Nepal and the Doklam standoff confirm that it is not Utopia; it is not golf either.

So, what could or should be India’s approach?

Those who occupy offices in the North and South Blocks and steer the destiny of this country know it best, but here is a simple suggestion for whatever it’s worth.

For a moment, recall the Jay (Amitabh Bachchan), the Veeru (Dharmendra) and the Mausi (Basanti’s Aunt) of the Bollywood classic, Sholay. Recall also, how Jay paints a (dark) picture of Veeru for Mausi: “…a good guy until he drinks. He drinks when he is sad. He is sad when he loses money… gambles, visits brothels, blah… blah… otherwise a good guy.”

Can India do to China what Jay did to Viru? Can India paint China’s character for its prospective host countries the Jay way: “China coming to your country would be a great thing. You’ll be able to boast about enviable infrastructure. Your country will progress in leaps and bounds. But of course, the Chinese will use their work force and machinery and building material. So what if your people don’t get employment, they’ll learn good things by being (sorry) spectators. Besides, there will be signs of prosperity, so what if you have to seek more loans to pay the interest on the Chinese debt…. After all being in perpetual debt is not all that bad a thing for a country. Things could be even worse. Haven’t Sri Lanka, the Maldives and even Pakistan benefitted from Chinese largesse?”

Two things need to be borne in mind while dealing with China…

One: For long India has been responding (reacting) to Chinese moves. Pre-empting China on known turfs will consume much less effort than dowsing the fires it lights for India in the future.

Two: Countries are run by people. By human beings who are made up of flesh and bones and blood. And they have a mind. And they have a mind that knows (learns) fear. The fear of notional (and national) loss and slavery is a fear. It can give nightmares, if not to (a corrupt) leadership, at least to the intelligentsia of a country. That fear is the key.

A conscientious three-pronged effort by the diplomatic corps, by those who pursue national interest on parallel tracks and by those who promote people to people contacts with other countries, can go some way in dealing with a less sporting neighbour.

MiG-21 Bison & F-16 in the Eyes of a Goof

My pride in my brand new Grand Slam Powerbilt golf set was blown to smithereens when I saw a caddie––in tattered trousers and oversized shoes––lob a golf ball beautifully over a bunker on to a practice green. The club he used was not a branded lob wedge but the branch of a tree, which resembled a walking stick. I was incapable of performing that feat.

Unbelievable, but true!

Although the golf set I was using was gifted to me by Mahesh, my nephew, that incident, more than a dozen years ago, made me wonder, “Was it worth it to invest a couple of thousand rupees in a costly golf set, when a similar result could be obtained with an ordinary old set (or a stick)?” The example of the caddie lobbing a ball with a stick was playing on my mind. Secretly, I envied that urchin to no end.

I’ll give a pause to golf for the time being for there’s a more pressing issue to discuss.

The other day, an Indian Air Force MiG-21 Bison downed a Pakistan Air Force F-16. That’s what they say, and that’s what my feeling of nationalism, which is overflowing at this moment, makes me believe. In the many debates that ensued on the prime time television and in the electronic and print media, I found some people suggesting that MiG-21 aircraft was a match for the F-16. In fact, it was the other way round. They said, “F-16 is no match for the MiG-21 aircraft.” Mind the subtle difference!

Some suggested that Indian fighter pilots––with their Su-30 Mk I, Mirage 2000, Tejas and MiG series of combat aircraft––were too good, and were capable of matching any adversary. Hesitantly though, some experts broached the subject of urgency to procure the Rafale fighter aircraft. They felt that it was important to remove the doubts about the kickbacks before procuring the aircraft.

In a vibrant democracy people are not only entitled to opinions, they’re free to air them too.

Returning to golf….

In due course of time I realised that the youngster could do little more than lob the ball a few yards away with that stick. To strike the ball long, or putt it, he needed a proper club––a stick of any shape or size was no good. When I gave him a pair of better shoes and one of my golf clubs, he displayed even superior prowess.

I set aside my envy and focussed on my game with the new set. My spirit was high; and my game improved––a few more pars and an odd birdie on the whole. I started winning more games against my usual partners. Interestingly, the scores of some of my opponents dipped. “How can we match your superior new golf set?” said one.

To conclude: Ability of the man behind the machine (equipment) matters; it is of utmost importance. But good equipment not only improves his performance but also raises his morale and goes on to intimidate the adversary. It’s time to address the equipment needs of the Indian armed forces in the right earnest. Today, the morale of the adversary is at a low ebb. Delay in enhancing our capabilities will give time to the adversary to recoup and re-muster its strength.

Beyond Work & Golf

Sapan Das.

My meeting with him was incidental. It (just) happened.

When I was posted to Tezpur in the December of 2000, I had to leave behind my family in Delhi to avoid disruption in our son’s studies. He was in the XI standard then, and had to appear in the board exams in the following year.

In the Exotic East it was rather difficult for a forced bachelor (that is the term commonly used in the Air Force for an Air Warrior separated temporarily from his family) to spend the time after work hours. I had taken to serious golfing to put my spare time to good use but then, there were days when weather stymied that effort.

It was one of those days when, although it was not raining, the golf course was flooded and I had little to do. So I started my scooter and headed aimlessly towards the sleepy town of Tezpur. I stopped en route to visit Sapan Das. I thought I’d buy one of those wooden rhinos sold at his complex. Normally I would have requested one of my colleagues to buy one for me.

Hidden from view, a little off the road among the trees was his set up. A better word would be ‘Ashram’––‘Ashram’, because he used to sculpt his masterpieces in that serene environment. He had mastered the art of carving a rhino in wood. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he could carve a rhino with his eyes closed. All his creations were identical to the minutest detail––only the size varied.

Everyone posted in the region used to buy one for self and more for gifting. It was almost a ritual, and I had gone there to fulfil it.

In his hamlet among the trees, there was a low platform, half the size of a volleyball court, covered with a thatched roof. He sat there on the floor engrossed in chiselling a piece of wood. He greeted me with a smile and pointed at a cane chair opposite him.

“Dada, I have come to buy a rhino,” I said, as I sat down.

“Sure Sir, please choose one from those kept on the shelves,” he pointed at a rack. It amazed me that he was looking at me while his deft fingers worked unceasingly on his next masterpiece. Awestruck, I postponed the selection of a piece and sat down again in the chair and started observing the master.

I sat mesmerised for the greater part of an hour.

The spell broke when Sapan Das took a break. Otherwise a quiet person, he opened up when I made small talk over a cup of tea. He had won several national and international awards for his work. He had also been training youth in the area. A large number of them were learning the art from him. I sat for another hour looking at him work. I bought a rhino and returned to the Air Force Station only to come back to Sapan’s abode the next day.

Golf, my passion, had taken a back seat.

My second day at his premises: he was amused at me watching him work so intently. Soon it became a routine. I would visit him whenever time permitted and just watched him work. It used to be a soothing experience; next best to a round of Yoga.

Then, one day, I asked him, “Dada, why do you carve only rhinos? Why not any other thing?”

“Because it represents our region; it symbolises Assam. Besides, it sells and generates funds for me to train these children.”

“For a change, why don’t you carve something else?”

“What else?” He was quizzical.

“I’ll get something for you.”

The next day, I brought a clay dog for him to copy. For him, it was a refreshing change. He got down happily to carving a replica. While he did so, I took a piece of wood with his permission and tried my hand at woodcarving with my Swiss Knife. This amused Sapan Das to no end. He encouraged me by giving me a chisel and a larger piece of wood to carry to my room and work on it in my own time.

A few days later, when I went to collect the wooden dog, I surprised Sapan Das with my work––a statue of Ganesha. He was mighty happy with my maiden effort. He appreciated my work and wax-polished it for me.

I continued visiting Sapan for the rest of my stay in Tezpur.

Observing me learning woodcarving, one of my men too got interested. He was talented and picked up the art really fast. I was delighted when he carved a miniature replica of Sapan’s iconic rhino, and presented it to me. Still later, he carved a large, 18-inch statue of Ganesha––an absolutely professional work by an amateur.

Sapan Das is one of the most unforgettable characters I have met in my life. Time spent at his abode, was time well spent. There I learnt that there was life beyond work and golf.

Straight From a Goof’s Heart: An Eagle on the Seventh Hole

The par four seventh hole of the Air Force Training Command Golf Course was a difficult one. Let alone a par, getting a bogie on that hole was a herculean effort. But in those days––I am talking about 2004 when owing to family commitments, I was leading the life of a forced bachelor––I had all the time in the world and I used to play regularly. My game had improved greatly. I was hitting good distance, fairly accurately. I was confident about my short game and could manage puts equally well. Getting a few pars and an occasional birdie had become an expectation.

“Small bets make you fight; they get the best out of you.” That suggestion from a fellow golfer had appealed to me and I had got into what I thought was competitive golf. The bet used to be modest: breakfast on the loser, or meagre amounts that would be barely enough to pay the caddie. Howsoever small those amounts were, there used to be a great charm in winning. If nothing, honour used to be at stake. No wonder, the hundred-rupee note that I won for hitting an Eagle on the seventh hole, signed by the fellow golfers (those days scribbling on currency notes was not considered an offence) became a trophy of sorts for me.

The habit continued when I left Bangalore. I have been playing with very modest stakes for more than a dozen years now. When I look back, I find that in all these years, my game has deteriorated gradually. I have analysed the decline in my performance and have been satisfied with my conclusions: I have not been playing regularly; age is catching up, my strength and stamina has gone down…

“Could playing with stakes have taken toll of my game?” The idea never cropped up.

This afternoon I was with someone I consider my golf guru, Minky Barbora. It was not for a lesson in golf, but we were at the Noida Golf Course just for lunch. Discussion on my own performance was not even the last thing on my mind. There were two other gentlemen and as it always happens, the discussion moved on to performance on the course.

Minky had an opinion on betting, much different from mine. He said that when one bets, one is content with performing to a level, which ensures a win––just a win. One is satisfied with a par when the opponent has a bogie. He is fine with a bogie, if the competitor has a double bogie and so on… The determination to go for pars and birdies, regardless of the competitor’s performance, erodes. Under the circumstances, progress is a far cry.

The guru had a point, a valid one in that. I have so often seen people conceding holes when playing with stakes––to save time and to move on to the next tee.

In my case, quiet introspection has led to a decision: On the next visit to the course, I’ll play G-O-L-F. The modest betting amount that I have been setting aside—If I improve upon my previous performance, I’ll tip the caddie. If my game is bad, I’ll give it to him assuming that I have lost a bet.

Straight From a Goof’s Heart: Greens & Dreams

Last Monday, playing nine holes after six months, I had three pars; two of them were missed birdies. Rest of the game was decent, mostly bogies, and an odd double bogie. For me, that’s a great performance. It can give me wings to soar for the next six months. But that is not what made my day. My day was made at the Noida Golf Course when I went there later in the afternoon to witness a Golf Tournament organised for the caddies.

I was late and saw only the concluding ceremony. That was enough to overwhelm me.

The golf bit––the gross scores, the net scores, the longest drive, the closest to the pin… and the prizes––was like any I had seen in so many places. What touched me was a team of people talking passionately to them about L-I-F-E. Trying to talk them into looking at their lives and think about improving it. I did not know the people who spoke, but I remember the passion with which they were trying to influence their minds. They spoke to their families too––their wives and children who had come well dressed for the occasion. They had cast a spell on the lot. At the end of it, they seemed determined to rise and shine in life.

Chicken biryani, dahi raita and gulab jamun laid in an area which is normally an out of bound area for the caddies was another high in their lives.

In the end of it all, when they were asked to write on a display board, one good thing each one had learnt that morning, they vied to express themselves. It was a sight I’ll cherish for days to come.

The joy and the positive vibes that I experienced there were unparalleled.

Well done Minky! Well done Mahima! You are making a big difference! Keep it up!

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.

It Happens Only in India!

Early one summer morning, I was on my way to Gurgaon to participate in a golf tourney. It was an annual feature in which the logistics officers (serving and the veterans) of the Indian Air Force vie for honours. The modest prizes mean little; actually it is an occasion for the logistics officers to meet and catch up with friends. I had started a tad early from Noida to be able to spend some quality time with buddies before teeing off.

I saw a white Ambassador car parked by the roadside as I was driving past the Film City. Someone was working under the bonnet. Another person, back towards the car, was looking expectantly at the passing vehicles. It was daybreak and there were very few of them on the road. The man was fidgety, gesturing to stop the passing cars.

I stopped abeam his car and lowered my window. “What’s the matter?”

“Sir, my car has broken down. I have to catch a flight from the Indira Gandhi International Airport. The driver has not been able to place his finger on the fault yet. I’ll miss the flight if I wait till the car gets repaired…”

“Hop in,” I said cutting him short. “You are lucky. I am heading for a golf course in Gurgaon. The airport is on my way and I have some time in hand. With a small detour, I’ll be able to drop you.”

He was accompanied by a lady who stepped out of the car as we spoke. They sat in my car; the gentleman by my side and the lady on the rear seat. We exchanged niceties. Then the gentleman expressed their profound gratefulness. What he couldn’t express in words, he tried to convey with his body language.

They were in their late twenties; maybe early thirties. Just married. They were on their way to Leh for a honeymoon. The gentleman was a senior executive with a Government of India enterprise. The lady was an NRI settled in the US. She had come to India after decades.

As we drove along, we indulged in polite meaningless conversation, the type we make with strangers to while away the time––we talked about the weather, about the beauty of nature, about global warming, about congestion on the roads… The lady, who was a bit reserved in the beginning, started participating actively.

I was busy making calculations as I drove; I wanted to be in time for the golf tournament after dropping the couple at the airport. With the mind racing ahead of the car and trying to reach the golf course, I was participating passively in the discussion. But then, the lady said something, which drew all my attention. After thanking me for the lift she said, “I never expected this to happen in India.”

I turned my head for the first time, smiled at her and said: Young lady, it happens only in India.” There was silence.

The silence was broken by the man. He gave a long monologue, which was meant for his sweetheart. He highlighted every good thing that happens in India.

The lady was sheepish when I left the honeymooners at the airport.

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