File image: Vijay Kumar (ANI Photo) NEW DELHI: Around the time Vijay Kumar became a household name in sports newsrooms in the second half of the 1990s, though few knew him, a colleague with roots in Lucknow recalled how his golfer father, a bat-man of sorts with lanes assigned to his father, used to ferry him to school and back, sitting on the center seat of the bike on the small seat of the bike. It was a nice little bit of connection against the backdrop of India’s nascent professional golf scene, where Vijay Kumar held particular sway over the Order of Merit, winning it four years in a row between 1995 and 2000. Back then, in a highly competitive field that included trailblazers like Ali Sher and Rohtas Singh and international crossovers like Chirana Jewalje Chopra, Nakhlau’s own Vijay Kumar was an extra heavyweight.Go Beyond The Boundary with our YouTube channel. SIGN UP NOW!Vijay Kumar lived and died in Martinpurva, an urban village on the north-eastern outskirts of the Lucknow Golf Club, once La Martiniere Golf Club, sitting face to head next to the Chief Minister’s residence. As his appearances on the Indian tour have become rare over the past decade and a half, he has seemed to enjoy relative anonymity, happy to run a pro-shop on the course and engage in some coaching. Residents of Martinpurva, located barely a golf ball from the course, would find employment as greenkeepers and groundspersons, or better yet, caddying for club members. It is the story of every Indian professional caddy – hailing from socially and economically backward sections of society, who spends time on the course long enough to know every blade of grass, pick up a club and then become a professional himself. Vijay embodied the truest meaning of the idea of a ‘professional golfer’ – playing the sport for a living, the competitive part embedded in it. The kind Rashid Khan calls “the no-choice golfer.” “Uncle Vijay and many like him always ended up in the lead groups because there was no option. He had to win to keep his home going. We all have to do it,” says Rashid. Pappan, a fairway fakir of a Delhi golf club if ever there was one, agreed. “If you were to look closely at the final scorecards of the major international tournaments of our time, you would always find us hovering near the winners’ list. That’s because we had to do well.” “Bahaar kyaa jaana, yahan jeet toh rehen hain…” used to be Vijay Kumar’s constant reply when asked why someone with such dominance on the Indian Tour would have such scant regard for playing regularly in Asia, Japan or aiming for Europe. Perhaps it was an inherent inhibition born of his class that stopped him, but Vijay, the Rawat Pasi, always fended off further inquisitions with, “Amaa yaar, chai pilao…” slung over his shoulder. When one visited him in Martinpurwa in 2002, he played the perfect host. It was after his victory at the Indian Open and one hoped that he would be at the forefront of the quiet power of Indian golf. But all one got were distant one sentence answers. Approachable but famously reticent, Vijay Kumar was the unspoken alpha of his peer group in the 1990s and 2000s, traveling “to work” huddled in unreserved train compartments and living in a hall after six during the week. A moment stands out in the memory. He was heavily favored to win the Indian Open in 1998 but had to miss the Pro Am due to a wrist injury. Four years later, as he walked his inimitable march to the 18th hole to complete the long-awaited triumph, his adoring tribe followed him and almost claimed his victory as their own. In the DGC’s late afternoon sun, he almost seemed to be floating on a thousand shoulders as he approached the final green. He was only 57, but stocky in a way that wasn’t stocky and surprisingly sprightly but only when he wanted to, Vijay always looked older. With her size, she seemed to wield the staff with ease and control as if it had been sliced in half. Pappan remembers the ‘dilaer’ golfer. “He didn’t know what pressure meant. It was either winter 99 or 2000 at Noida golf course. Somehow it came down to a playoff between Vijay and the golfer from Chandigarh. We also felt the nerves while watching. But Vijay simply looked around, saw a familiar face and asked him for some tobacco. With his mouth full he said, “Pressure? Pressure Kya, abhi toh mazaa shuru hua hai…”
