The real medicine

Dr Fahim Chand | Monday August 25, 2025 10:53

The window is open, and the curtain shifts just slightly, as if the morning is peeking in, asking permission. I slip out of bed before the house stirs, feeling the quiet stretch wide around me. The floor remains silent, maybe out of courtesy. I boil the tea water in the kitchen; it sounds oddly reassuring. I take the first sip eagerly.

This day will be used, not wasted. Outside, the sun isn’t yet fierce; it leans gently against rooftops and trees, still undecided about its power. I like it this way. I lace my shoes, not with hurry but with intention. The world is just beginning to warm, and so am I. The early hours are simple, unpolished, unforgettable.

Time is handed over before anyone else remembers to ask for it. The day waits. I’m already in motion. I step outside, the breeze jolting my neurons awake like a secret morning espresso. Relief follows quickly, relief at slipping free from the pressure cooker of dental school, with its endless deadlines, patient lists, and oceans of information to swallow whole. Today is different. The holidays have begun, and the only voices demanding my attention are the birds, singing as if they too understand the value of this stolen hour.

At the car, instinctively, I reach for the playlist. Music is my lifeline, the soundtrack that makes even routine feel cinematic. I cue up Fascination Street by The Cure, Robert Smith bending the dawn into something darker, sharper, alive. The opening riff resonates in my chest; adrenaline stirs, testing its wings. I flick the setting to shuffle, handing the rest of the morning’s mood over to the quiet algorithms of chance. The streets are deserted, just the way I like them, solitude as luxury, thought as company. By the time I pull into the parking lot, the raw insistence of The Icicle Works’ Whisper to a Scream is pushing me forward, fittingly relentless. For a moment, I drift back to the student club where I first saw them live, volume shaking the walls and our younger selves.

Then the present reclaims me: Rian, Aslam, and Naeem waiting with wide grins. A Sunday morning, a golf course, and music still ringing in my head, this is how the holiday begins. Of the four of us, I was the lone student. The others had escaped academia, earning real-world salaries, indulging in shiny new cars and disposable-income hobbies. Golf was their latest obsession, courtesy of my Uncle Zeib, one of the coolest and classiest men I knew, a tech executive for whom golf was as essential as oxygen. His presence alone made the game feel glamorous; his stories, peppered with wit, made my cousins believe golf was less a sport than a passport to success.

Their conversations about the game rivaled summit talks, except instead of nuclear disarmament, it was Ping Zings and their supposed power to turn hackers into Tiger Woods. Every new magazine article or whispered pro tip was treated as sacred doctrine. My knowledge was Spartan, so I played the role of nodding diplomat whenever someone glanced my way, storing away terms like “loft” and “lie” without the faintest clue how to use them. We were first on the links that morning, my cousins impeccably dressed, kitted out with clubs that cost more than my semester fees.

Aslam, ever the professional, assessed the hazards, tossed grass into the air for wind readings, and arched into the perfect backswing. Then came the anticlimax: a heavy thud, the ball dribbling 20 meters forward. Silence.

And then I laughed so hard I dropped to my knees. Aslam glared; the others smirked, and I realised teasing was not only inevitable but necessary. The rest of their shots weren’t much better, and I quickly stopped laughing, realising I’d been duped by their nonstop bragging into expecting brilliance. Lesson learned: never assume. Besides, ribbing each other was our family’s unofficial sport, and I’d been on the receiving end often enough.

By day’s end, we’d had more fun than pars. Naeem stuck with the game, becoming a single-digit handicapper. Research even says golf lowers the risk of heart disease and stroke. I don’t doubt it. But honestly, if health is the prize, golf is only the excuse. The laughter? That’s the real medicine.