England is full of signboards, yet where there should be one, there are none. We set off one summer morning, to spend the day on the banks of Abbey Brook near Sheffield. I loved the gentle murmur of the brook as we ambled along its banks. Its meandering nature lulled me into a sense of dilated time. By noon, we began looking for a picnic spot.
“Looks greener over there,” I said, pointing out to my wife and son.
We moved about 100 feet further away from the brook, and spread our blanket on grass softer than the carpets in our student accommodation. For the next hour, we luxuriated in the sun, nibbling sandwiches, sipping chilled Chablis, and enjoying the manicured grass.
“They do look after their fields, don’t they?” I addressed the blue sky and its cuddly clouds.
A group of middle-aged men loitered nearby—not too close, but not far either. They appeared to be waiting for something. Strange, I thought. Bird-watchers? Gardeners? Land surveyors? Eventually, after a good hour, we finished our picnic, packed up our blanket and other accessories, and walked toward the bus stop. The men who had seemed aimless suddenly moved swiftly, with clear purpose. Out came their golf clubs…
Is that an incredulous gasp I hear? I am narrating it as it happened—upon the god of smallpox — as we used to swear to the truth in my childhood back in Kerala.
Forgive me, gentle golfers — you didn’t ask us to shove off or even politely suggest that we move away from the putting green. No, you just stood there and waited for us to finish. You see, I didn’t have a clue. In the India I left behind, golf carried a poor reputation. It was seen as the game of the brown sahib—the Indian avatar of the British colonialist. Politically speaking, it was out of bounds for me. But I will hand it to you with a coconut and a blessing. No one can match the Yorkshireman’s quiet civility.
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