Golf Story

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A Reluctant Golfer’s Afternoon — 

A crisp winter afternoon at the course—the kind where the sun behaves like it’s working on contract—and there we were: Sikka, Jaggi, Put Kedar, and I, the permanent reluctant golfer, armed with hope, doubt, and a swing that even I don't trust.

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Sikka (adjusting his cap and flashing his signature smile at passing lady golfers):

“SN, golf is actually the simplest game on earth. The ball is not running away. Stationary. Waiting for your blessings.”

Me:

“Simplest? With trees that appear out of nowhere? This course is like a haunted forest designed by a committee.”

Jaggi (grinning in his wicked but always warm style):

“Arrey Roybabu, these trees love you. They stand exactly where your ball wants to go.”

Then, with a soft sigh,

“Golf, jokes, and friends—that’s my life now. Rest all gone with time.”

We all fell silent just for a heartbeat, the kind that comes when humour brushes against truth.

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I stepped up to my ball. Perfect stance—knees bent, eyes down, grip textbook-correct—looking like a golfer only in the brochure.

Me:

“Everything set… only the outcome uncertain.”

I swung. The ball shot off like it understood physics for the first three seconds, then—TOK!—straight onto the only tree in the entire fairway.

Put Kedar (shaking his head like a disappointed philosopher):

“Uncle… golf is like life. You plan the route, but destiny negotiates with the nearest tree.”

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Next tee. More lady golfers walked by. As expected, Sikka’s spine straightened, swing became silk, voice deepened.

Sikka (after a perfect drive):

“SN, did you see that? Pure muscle memory.”

Jaggi:

“And pure motivation, Roybabu—please note the timing with the ladies passing.”

Kedar nearly swallowed his laughter.

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Then we reached the sand bunker, that desert of despair.

Me:

“My ball visits this bunker more frequently than I visit my doctor.”

Put Kedar:

“Uncle, consider it an unplanned outage. Even the best power stations face it.”

Jaggi:

“Only difference is—power stations recover faster than Roybabu’s swing.”

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At the green, the grass began its mischief—tilting and whispering directions only it understood.

Me:

“I hit straight, grass guides left. I hit left, it shifts right. This lawn is doing politics.”

Put Kedar:

“Uncle, pendulum stroke. Calm. Smooth. Like a temple bell on a quiet evening.”

Jaggi:

“Or like Roybabu when he’s planning how to explain to Madhuri bhabhi why he’s late again.”

I lined up the putt. Back-and-forth, gentle and precise.

The ball rolled… rolled… slowed… and stopped one inch before the hole.

Me:

“And this, gentlemen, is why I remain a reluctant golfer.”

Sikka:

“But SN, without you, our foursome loses half its charm.”

Jaggi:

“True, Roybabu. Your struggles give me hope.”

Put Kedar:

“And content. Every group needs one unpredictable factor. That is you, Uncle.”

We burst out laughing and moved toward the next tee—four men negotiating trees, grass, bunkers, memory, muscle memory, and each other.

Golf looks simple.

But for a reluctant golfer like me, it remains the most dignified comedy show in the world.

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