Doves, Lotus, white roses, Bogan Bail, clouds, fresh breeze, singing birds, Taylormade M6 and the beautiful Islamabad Club Golf Course, what a privileged beginning of a Monday morning.
In the vast valley of Margalla hills I take off on back nine at this twenty seven hole golf course. The dog leg hole number ten is a driving test. The golfer ought to hit straight, ensuring command as well as control on distance and direction or fly it over the jungle. I chose to hit straight in the middle of the elbow. There begins the whirlpool of back nine at this golf course. The ball from my second shot lands in the feet of a bogan bail loaded with red petals. I assumed it to be a welcome bouquet by Islamabad club golf course. There was room for an easy chip and putt. Those who know me are well aware of my obsession with sand. How could I bypass a nicely combed bunker?
The eleventh hole is slightly straight yet trees around it embrace this fairway tightly. I couldn’t understand why my ball was turning left despite a grand tee shot. As I approached the ball on the left edge of the fairway, I saw a congregation of fully blossomed lotuses. In great resemblance to Rumi’s swirling dervishes they were ready to receive me with open sepals.
What a reception by the course today. Next par three, hole number twelve is a junction of creek, jungle and bunker. This is a small, narrow, and naughty fairway. I was precise with the club and desired drop destination to no avail. The rough at Islamabad club is a jungle and here it is never easy to put a bridle on a hidden “jungli” inside me. I sometimes feel the horns emerging from my forehead in situations like this. I know one day the beast within me will go into this forest in hot pursuit of a golf ball, never to return again. Hole thirteen is also a dogleg. I had to concentrate on the game after my prior adventures in the jungle in order to refurbish myself back to civilization. A singing dove was trying to mesmerize me further into toxication. The next hole is small and consists of a hundred and twenty yards only, I scored a beastly birdie. Islamabad club likes to brag about its narrow bridges and hollow walkways. Hanging branches over the simly bridge and umbrella-like shrubs at the passage at the 15th hole made an attempt to grant a motherly shawl.
Hole Number fifteen is nothing but a wide waste of width. It is wider than the wind and fat like a beer belly. Only a real pheasant can hit over the boundaries here.
The image of a far away skyscraper in the lap of Margalla hills reminds me that I am very much in the middle of a civilization. I think to myself, either the designer of this club must have been a dog lover given the repetitive dog leg fairways or whether it was the topography of the Potohar plateau that inspired his design. Walking on hole number seventeen seems like a journey longer than life. Distant mirages of Margalla hills argue the endlessness of this fairway. Its vast width however is a carpet of hope that ensures that there is a flag post ahead. Once I frog to the final fairway, the fairytale forwards into the fright of the forthcoming working day.
Golfer, author, entrepreneur, blogger, writer, poet, wanderer.