The Delhi Golf Club Members League no longer pretended to be a gentleman’s game. The illusion has cracked. What remained was a playground for cheaters — polished on the surface, rotten underneath. It began as the vision of a millionaire golfer obsessed beyond reason, but it had since fallen into the hands of figures that sounded more like caricatures than custodians. A Colonel Astronaut with a past brushing against army life, shadowed by a lineage of controversies. And a dog of a man, forever sniffing at any opportunity, any patron, any backside that might lead to profit — because the bottom line, pun entirely intended, was always money. Any colour. The darker, the better.
And in the end, stripped of all pretence, it was nothing more than a failed experiment whispered in corridors of fading prestige: “that formula didn’t work, sir”.
And yet, beyond the noise, beyond the smoke and theatre, there were those who still understood what the Delhi Golf Club once stood for. The most prestigious among its members — custodians of a legacy far older than this farce — began to pause. To reflect. To question. Because decisions made in quiet rooms do not remain contained there. They ripple outward.
Think, before you cast. Think a little more. There are many thousands at the receiving end when such decisions are made — decisions built not on truth, but on the fragile scaffolding of false words spoken by false people. Reputations are not the only things at stake. Institutions are.
And this is not the end of the story. Not yet.
More will come.
For I remain — watching, listening — the fly on the wall.