Back to Hyderabad: Echoes of a teacher and a gentleman

    Hyderabad greeted me with its usual blend of chaos and charm. The traffic was as unpredictable as ever, and the heat? Still enough to make you question your life choices. But this time, I wasn’t attending a conference with a group—I was on my own. And yet, my mind was still full of the memories of the last time I was here, back in 2010.

    At that point, I had just completed my MD in Medicine. I was freshly minted, a bit dazed, and, frankly, still trying to figure out how to be a real doctor. So when the opportunity arose to attend a two-day gastroenterology conference in Hyderabad with VK sir, I jumped at the chance. He was a teacher we all looked up to —calm, confident, and a veritable fountain of knowledge. Meanwhile, I was just trying not to panic whenever someone asked me a question.

    What made it even more memorable was the fact that we flew to Hyderabad together from Pune. I couldn’t help but feel a mix of awe and anxiety, sitting next to him during the flight. Here was this towering figure in medicine, and there I was, hoping my seatbelt wasn’t the only thing I could manage to keep together. But he was relaxed, as always, talking about everything from case studies to casual observations. His calm demeanor making me realize that there was no rush in this journey we were on.

    Once we arrived, we stayed in the same hotel. I remember walking into the lobby, pretending to be cool and collected, while internally screaming. While I was just trying to keep it together, he was casually engaging in conversations with the everyone around. It was like watching a Jedi at work—completely unflappable and always two steps ahead.

    That evening, after a long day of lectures, we ended up in the hotel restaurant together. I was convinced that I was supposed to keep the conversation academic—“So, sir, about that case study on IBD…” But instead, he asked me what I thought about the conference, about where I saw myself in the field. He made it clear that while knowledge was vital, so was finding your own path. It wasn’t just about what you knew—it was about how you approached the journey.

    During the conference and on numerous occasions afterwards, I learned a lot more than just gastroenterology. VK sir had a knack for making complex concepts seem like they were second nature. But what really stuck with me were the brief moments and quiet encounters in our association, where he would subtly guide me through the complexities of both medicine and life. He didn’t rush, he didn’t push; he just shared his wisdom in a way that didn’t make you feel overwhelmed. And that made all the difference.

    Now, walking through Hyderabad again, I can’t help but feel a mix of gratitude and sorrow. VK sir passed away a few months ago, and with his passing, a part of my own journey feels a little quieter, a little less guided. He wasn’t just a mentor to me, but to almost every gastroenterologist in our organization. I can confidently for all gastroenterologists in out organisation and many physicians that he would have met that his teachings shaped the foundation of our practice, and his influence lives on through us. I laugh at my younger self, thinking I needed to have all the answers, all the time. But VK sir showed me that sometimes the most important thing you can do is ask the right questions and, more importantly, take your time.

    This visit to Hyderabad isn’t just a trip down memory lane—it’s a quiet homage to a teacher who, without saying it out loud, taught me more about life and medicine than I ever realized at the time. His legacy lives on in the lessons he imparted and in the many lives he touched. I carry his wisdom with me every day, and though he is no longer here to guide me in person, I will always remember the quiet strength and brilliance that made him so extraordinary.

The Eighteenth Fairway

They called him Doc

Not just because he fixed stomachs in the city hospital, but because he had a way of diagnosing a defect in a golf swing with surgical precision. But out here, among dew-draped greens and wind-swept fairways, he wasn’t a doctor. He was a seeker. A man among friends chasing rhythm and stillness. But something was off this past week. His swing lacked soul. His presence—usually so grounded—felt scattered.

On Sunday, he chose solitude, as he had on a few occasions before. No scorecard, no stakes, no audience. Just a bag of clubs, a mind crowded with memories, and a heart full of questions. 

The first hole did not offer any comfort. The swing was stiff. The rhythm felt foreign. Shots veered to the left or the right. Putts lipped out. Small flaws—but enough to unravel the thread. The silence, usually soothing, only echoed his unrest.. The quiet, usually soothing, only echoed his doubts. By the seventh hole, he considered turning back.

Tired, he sat on a low stone by the edge of the fairway. The breeze moved through the grass like a whisper. He watched a squirrel pause, look at him, then continue on, untroubled.

And slowly, so did he.  Slowly. Not untroubled but moved on. 

His mind drifted—not to the course of wind direction, but to last Monday. but to last Monday. A 28-year-old woman. Pain abdomen. A young mother of two. She had come in so ill. Too ill. They had tried everything—he had. And still, they lost her. He had given his best. His team had done everything. But it had been futile. And the result was adverse. The kind of results that haunt you in the quiet. The kind you carry into the rough when your tee shot goes astray. He hadn’t let himself grieve—not fully. Not with his team watching, not with the next patient waiting. But now, every missed putt brought it back. Every mis-hit reminded him of outcomes he couldn’t fix.

He stood at the edge of the fairway, gripping the club too tightly, the round already slipping through his fingers like sand. The scorecard felt heavier than it should. He swung hard. And watched with despair as the ball disappeared deeper into the woods. 

Medicine and golf—his twin devotions. Both required presence. Both were, to him, forms of meditation. He had been a doctor for 25 years and a golfer for 15. His father—also a doctor, also a golfer—had taught him that. Taught him the swing, yes, but also the silence between shots. But, today he was missing something. He looked harder inside his head (and his heart....) 

Then—like a whisper breaking through the noise—he remembered something his dad once told him.

“Just like medicine, Golf isn’t really about the swing or the score,” Dad had said, during one of those long walks between holes, the kind where the sun was kind and time felt slow. “We chase both like they matter most, but what the game is really about… is presence."

He remembered his dad pausing, watching the wind stir the trees. “It’s about showing up. One shot at a time. Standing over the ball with your full attention. Feeling the ground beneath your feet, the breeze on your skin, the rhythm of your breath. Not caught in the last mistake. Not rushing toward the next hole. Just—here. It's always presence.”

The words settled in him now like a deep breath. 

He stood. No adjustment to his grip. No practice swing. 

Just breath.......... Just Presence.

Hole by hole, something shifted. He stopped forcing. Stopped correcting. He started allowing. The 11th hole gave him a perfect 7-iron shot. The 14th, a chip that kissed the flagstick. By the 17th, his stride had softened. The swing was still imperfect, but it had feeling again. He was present in the game.

Then came the last hole.

The sun had climbed now, warming the fairway, chasing the last of the morning’s fog. He looked back at the path behind him—each hole a reflection, some jagged, some smooth.

He swung. The ball flew—not perfectly, but true enough. A gentle fade, landing just short. He smiled. As he walked, he noticed the wind had picked up. The scent of grass, earth, and distant rain filled the air. The wind seemed to whisper—not advice, but approval. Not for his score, but for his showing up. For staying. For trying.

He reached the green, lined up the putt, and paused—not to analyse, but to feel it. Then, with a stroke light as a breath, he sent the ball home. The putt dropped.

No celebration. No relief. Just a nod to the sky. A quiet acknowledgment of what he’d carried — and what he’d let go.

The game was over. The round complete. But somehow, he felt like it had only just begun. 

Presence

(What Dad told me)

It’s not about the swing,

though you’ll spend years chasing it.

Not about the score,

though you’ll glance at it too often.

He said,

“Golf teaches you to show up.

One shot at a time,

one breath, one stance,

right here, right now.”

The wind may shift,

the green may trick you,

your hands may falter—

but presence,

that’s what steadies the soul.

A Story of Natural Law: The Wisdom We Forgot to Hear

    In the high fold of the mountains, where paths turned into deer trails and maps forgot their purpose, lay a village with no name. The villagers called it home and needed no other word for it. A river wound through their lives — not loud or boastful, but constant, whispering its song over stones smoothed by generations

    At the river’s bend lived an old man named Tapan. His home was little more than a hut of woven branches and stone, with moss like green velvet on the roof and wind chimes made of shells that had never known the sea.

    Tapan had once traveled the world — or so the stories claimed. Some said he was a scholar turned hermit; others, a madman who had spoken with trees. No one could say for sure. He rarely left the river’s edge, and each morning, he could be seen sitting cross-legged on a rock, facing the water like a man attending a sermon.

    But the children liked him.

    One of them, a girl named Avni, became especially curious. She was ten and full of the questions that adults had forgotten how to ask. Why does the river never stop? Why do birds know where to fly? How does a bumblebee carry itself through the sky?

    So one morning, when the dew still kissed the grass and the sky yawned open in pale gold, she and the children followed Tapan to the riverbank.

    “You never speak to the river,” she said boldly.

    Tapan smiled without turning. “I don’t need to. It already speaks.”

    Avni frowned, puzzled. “I only hear water.”

    “Then you are already halfway there,” he said.

    She sat beside him, mimicking his stillness — though hers was full of fidgets.

   Time passed, and then she noticed something — a bumblebee, floundering in the water. Before she could leap up, Tapan gently cupped his hand and lifted it free, setting it on a warm stone. They watched together as the creature shook its tiny body, warming in the sun.

    “It’s too heavy to fly,” Avni said. “My teacher told us they shouldn’t be able to.”

    “Yet it does,” Tapan replied. “Because it doesn’t know it shouldn’t. Because it obeys a deeper law.”

    “Like magic?”

    “Like truth.”

    Avni tilted her head. “But if there are rules like that… why don’t we know them?”

    Tapan turned to her, and for the first time, his voice was serious.

    “Because we ask too much, and listen too little. The river flows not because it decides to, but because it follows the shape of the land. The bee flies not because it understands physics, but because it understands need. Nature does not argue with its path — it follows it.”

    “But we’re not bees,” Avni protested.

    “No,” he said softly. “We are the only ones who forget we, too, are part of the same story.”

__________

    That night, Avni dreamed of a world stitched together by unseen threads. She saw roots moving underground, greeting each other like old friends. She saw wolves howling not to the moon, but to each other, weaving distance into closeness. She saw a thousand bumblebees dancing through meadows, drawing invisible lines between blooms, connecting one life to another.

    In the center of it all stood Tapan, silent, holding out a hand with a seed in it...............

The Dilemma of the First Blog Post (and Why I Probably Shouldn’t Be Here)

Well, here we are — my first blog post. And much like my golf game, I’m a little lost, a little unsure of what’s happening, and deeply regretting my decisions. Kind of like when I decided to take that 7-iron to the green from 150 yards out… and ended up hitting a tree. But hey, life’s a journey, right? Sometimes you just have to go with it… even if that means spending 15 minutes looking for your ball in the woods.

Starting a blog is basically like teeing off on a par 3 — you think you know what you’re doing, you’ve got the right club, and then bam, you completely miss the shot and almost hit a squirrel. That’s where I’m at right now. I’m not sure if this is going to be a hole-in-one or a golf cart accident waiting to happen.

I mean, what’s the plan here? Am I supposed to be profound? Do I tell you about my deep, spiritual connection to the game of golf and how it’s taught me so much about life, destiny, and the vast unknown? Or do I just be real with you and admit that I spent 20 minutes debating whether I should put the ball in the left or right pocket of my golf bag (because why not make things complicated)?

Here’s the thing — golf and life are pretty much the same. You start with high hopes and good intentions, then boom — you end up in the bunker, questioning every decision you’ve ever made, including why you thought it was a good idea to try that impossible shot from behind a tree (again, that was my decision, and no, it did not go well). Golf teaches you a lot about life, mostly in the form of “Why did I think that was a good idea?”

So, I’m here to share my questionable decisions. Not just in golf, but in life, because honestly, both are full of them. From using a driver on the first hole to trying to negotiate life’s tricky shots with minimal forethought and a lot of optimism. Spoiler: I’ve had more double bogeys than I care to admit, and that’s just in life.

This blog is for everyone who’s ever made a terrible decision — on the course or off — and somehow lived to tell the tale. It’s about laughing at our mistakes, embracing the chaos of both golf and life, and reminding ourselves that if you don’t laugh after slicing your ball into someone’s backyard, you’re doing it wrong.

So, grab your clubs, your questionable life choices, and a sense of humor. We’re going to make mistakes, but at least we’ll make them together. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll figure out this whole “life and golf” thing. Or, at least, we’ll learn how to laugh at it.