India, May 27 -- Amid the scant traffic just before dawn, I steered my car toward the golf course, drinking in the morning's tranquillity. Suddenly, the quiet was shattered. An SUV came fast-hurtling down the road, flashing its lights and frantically trying to overtake me while I was negotiating a rotary. In the process, it sandwiched my car against the parapet. My instant reaction was to unleash a sulphurous tongue and let loose every profanity from my limited vocabulary. But then I noticed the "gentleman" at the wheel. He was decked out in full golfer's gear, wearing an air of invincibility, completely oblivious to anyone else on the road. The moment I registered a fellow golfer, my anger dissipated. It became apparent that he was merely desperate to be on time for a tee-off. A gentle smile replaced my scowl. After all, one can't blame a morning golfer rushing to beat the clock. The other members of his quartet, and the groups queued up behind them, are an unforgiving lot. Not to mention the starter, who is equally intolerant of delay, concentrating solely on despatching one group after another to maintain a human wave of sorts. To those deprived by destiny of the pleasures of golf, this frenzy may seem absurd. But only the initiated understand that when a golfer sets out in the morning, he is a determined optimist. He exudes the confidence of a conqueror-the kind that would make Alexander the Great blush with embarrassment. This is a man who has buried the frustrations of yesterday's errant shots in the deep recesses of his memory, waking up with a fresh zeal for another conquest of the greens. He constantly reminds himself: "He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day." At the first tee, after the initial cheerios, the ball is set. With a furrowed brow, our golfer stares down the fairway much like a general surveying a battlefield before an assault. He wiggles, takes his swing, and lo and behold, the ball takes flight. But instead of following its intended trajectory, it slices out of bounds. "OB!" rings out the cry from a spirited caddie, arms flailing wildly. The golfer's crestfallen face tells a thousand tales. In a single instant, peak optimism plummets into deep pessimism. As he tees up another ball, his shoulders are stooped like Napoleon's after Waterloo. The zest and spring in his step vanish, replaced by the profound mellowness of a jilted lover unable to fathom the loss of his beloved. Yet, like life, golf always offers a glimmer of hope. A decent 20-foot putt, a clean escape from a bunker, or a chip landing right next to the pin does the restorative work needed to keep him going. Throughout the round, he ploughs a lonely furrow with a stiff upper lip. He finds no sympathetic ear for his miseries or his elations; his caddie is indifferent, and his partners are far too busy trying to get the monkeys off their own backs. It is only in the evening, amid intense introspection and boisterous clubhouse chat, that the ghosts of the game are finally exorcised. The day leaves the golfer sombre, chastened, and thoroughly humbled. It is a psychological state most befittingly summed up by PG Wodehouse: "I attribute the insane arrogance of the later Roman emperors almost entirely to the fact that, never having played golf, they never knew that strangely chastening humility which is engendered by a topped chip shot. If Cleopatra had been ousted in the first round of the Ladies' Singles, we would have heard a lot less of her proud imperiousness."...