NEW DELHI: About the time when Vijay Kumar was becoming a familiar name in the sports newsrooms in the second half of the 1990s, though few knew of him, a colleague, with roots in Lucknow would mention how the golfer’s father, a batman of sorts with the Railways assigned to his father, would ferry him to school and back, with him seated on the little saddle on the bicycle’s central tube. It was a nice little piece of connect, in the backdrop of a nascent professional golf scene in India, where Vijay Kumar held special sway over the Order of Merit, winning it for four straight years between 1995 and 2000. Back then, in a highly competitive field that comprised pioneers like Ali Sher and Rohtas Singh and international crossovers like Daniel Chopra, Arjun Atwal and Jeev Milkha (then Chiranjeev), Nakhlau’s’ own Vijay Kumar was an extraordinary heavyweight.Go Beyond The Boundary with our YouTube channel. SUBSCRIBE NOW!Vijay Kumar lived and died in Martinpurva, an urban village on the north-eastern fringe of the Lucknow Golf Club, once the La Martiniere Golf Club, sitting cheek by jowl with the Chief Minister’s residence. As his appearances on the Indian tour became infrequent over the last decade-and-a-half, he seemed to enjoy the relative anonymity, happy to run the pro-shop at the course, and chip in with some coaching. Located hardly a golf ball’s throw away from the course, Martinpurva’s residents would find occupation as greenkeepers and groundspersons, or better, caddying for the club members. It is the story of every Indian caddie-pro — coming from socially and economically backward sections of society, spending time on the course long enough to know each blade of grass, picking up a hand-me-down club, and then turning pro themselves. Vijay embodied the truest meaning of the idea of ‘professional golfer’ — pursuing the sport as livelihood, the contest part of it embedded within. The kind that Rashid Khan calls a ‘no option golfer’. “Vijay uncle and many like him always ended up in the leadergroups, because there was no option. He had to win to keep his home running. We all have to do that,” says Rashid. Pappan, a Delhi Golf Club fairway fakir, if ever there was one, concurred. “If you looked closely at the final scoresheets of the big international tournaments in our time, you’d always find us hovering near the winner’s list. That’s because we needed to do well.” “Bahaar kyaa jaana, yahan jeet toh rehen hain…” used to be Vijay Kumar’s constant response when quizzed on why someone with such domination on the Indian Tour would carry such scant regard to playing regularly in Asia, Japan or trying for Europe. Maybe it was the inherent inhibition born out of his class that was stopping him, but Vijay, a Rawat Pasi, would invariably deflect further inquisitions with, “Amaa yaar, chai pilao…” tossed over the shoulder. He played the perfect host when one visited him in Martinpurwa in 2002. It was after his Indian Open victory and one hoped to get inside the head of Indian golf’s silent powerhouse. But all one got were distant one-sentence replies. Approachable but famously reticent, Vijay Kumar was the unspoken alpha in his peer group in the 1990s and 2000s, travelling ‘to work’ huddled in unreserved train compartments, cohabiting six to a hall during the week. A moment stands out in memory. Widely favoured to win the Indian Open in 1998, he had to give it a miss due to a wrist injury in the Pro Am. Four years later, as he was walking, in his inimitable amble to the 18th hole to complete a long overdue triumph, his loving tribe followed, almost claiming his victory as their own. In the late afternoon sun of the DGC, it almost seemed he was floating on a thousand shoulders as he approached the final green. He was only 57, but Vijay, heavyset in a way that wasn’t slouchy, and surprisingly sprightly but only when wanted to, always seemed older. With his size, he seemed to wield the club with a lightness and control as if it were sawed in half. Pappan remembers a ‘dilaer’ golfer. “He didn’t know what pressure meant.” It was either the winter of ’99 or 2000 at the Noida Golf Course. Somehow it went down to a play-off between Vijay and a golfer from Chandigarh. Watching, even we felt the nerves. But Vijay simply looked around, spotted a familiar face and asked him for some tobacco. Mouth full, he said, “Pressure? Kya pressure, abhi toh mazaa shuru hua hai…”
