It has been four months, or is it five, since I played a round of golf. First it was a frozen shoulder. After it was ‘defrosted’, pain in the neck which I could not even mention to anyone for fear that it would give them a chance to come out with black humour. Then the rains. It wasn’t much this year but it did rain on the days I wanted to play. Clearly, the gods aren’t kind to me. The hot season has followed.
Come 2 p.m., the hands would start shaking. Like those of an alcoholic at dusk. The palms would clutch each other in a light grip (not too light, not too tight, my coach had told me) and the arms would swing backward and forward hitting an imaginary golf ball. The ball would soar high in slow motion and land on the green with a thud that could be heard at the tee box and stay there, not moving an inch. “Good shot,” my caddy.
Must remember to pay him twenty rupees extra. The sound of the hard ball falling into the tin cup and whirling inside before settling down was music to ears. “Birdie”.
Midsummer now. I am sure to have many more such midsummer night’s dreams. But real golf... when?
“Don’t whine! Go do it! Nobody is stopping you!” I heard someone yell. I will.
tpkann@gmail.com
