India, Jan. 21 -- They say old habits die hard. But whoever coined that phrase clearly hadn't discovered golf. Golf doesn't just "die hard", it thrives, multiplies, and then politely handcuffs you to the nearest bunker. At 67, after a fulfilling career as an orthopaedic surgeon-a life spent hammering nails, tightening screws, and fixing bones-I imagined retirement would be a slow fade into dignified serenity. Instead, I stumbled onto the greens, discovering the curious game that Mark Twain so wickedly dubbed "a good walk spoiled". Nine years into this freedom, I've realised that golf is less a hobby and more a life sentence. Orthopaedics once provided me with an operating theatre, shots of adrenaline, and the joy of mending limbs. Golf has replaced those with fairways, frustration, and the peculiar joy of chasing a dimpled white ball that seems to defy the very laws of physics. I often feel trapped in a sporting chakravyuh (impenetrable maze), where my primary adversary is the gravitational pull of 18 holes. Each morning, I tell myself: "Today I'll read medical journals, attend a webinar, or brush up on the latest in arthroplasty." Then, like Pavlov's dog, I hear the ting of a driver hitting a ball, and all noble intentions vanish into the thin air. The truth? Golf has me thoroughly brainwashed. It whispers, "I'm good for you." And annoyingly, it isn't lying. It keeps me moving without breaking my own bones, forces me to laugh at my incompetence, and injects a daily dose of fresh oxygen into my lungs. Best of all, it provides a tribe of friends who couldn't care less if I once fixed femurs; they only care if I can sink a putt. It is, quite simply, therapy disguised as sport. Roman stoic philosopher Seneca once said, "We are more often frightened than hurt, and we suffer more in imagination than in reality." My so-called "career decline" may just be a figment of a guilty conscience, while my joints and my laughter muscles thank me daily for the transition. Still, my relationship with the game blows hot and cold. Some days I feel like Albert Einstein, who famously quipped that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. That is the quintessential golfer: Expecting a better handicap while repeating the same disastrous swing. On more humbled days, I console myself with Oscar Wilde's wisdom: "Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes." By that standard, my golf bag is a sprawling library, and every round adds a new volume to the collection. Maybe that is the ultimate wisdom of this stage of life. Golf isn't my jailer, it's my parole officer. It doesn't keep me locked away from the world of medicine; it releases me daily into a greener, calmer, and far more forgiving world. I've finally realised I'm not trapped at all. I'm simply conducting a long-term clinical trial-testing whether laughter, oxygen, and a well-timed birdie can heal the mind better than any scalpel ever could. The results so far? Promising....