Valley of Flowers (11 page)

Yes! he said to himself, despite having
serious misgivings. And the good feeling that always came to him
after hitting was followed fast by an ignoble vision.

Nicolas sought the skies silently. The unfit
paceman that flew lined the skies white. The ball climbed the sky
as a
ny
common airliner.
T
he
drive
was his heart's opposite. It was
slowly inching up
while
his feelings for it were heading fast back down. The ball went as a
leisurenaut. It
went
as
any life condition. It at first was expansive
and
then ascendant. It would soon reach
some peak. Then it would descend.

With cheerless intent
,
Nicolas watched it go. He wanted it to
drop in the drink,
Kerplop!
He feared it may overshoot its target. He
experienced dampened spirits.

"Go less!" he yelled
.

He
remained in the follow through position.
Nicolas
again sent his
gaze low.
He believed this was
the correct position for him, a future flower harvester.
The
flowers with their sweet scents looked like upturned designer cups.
They appeared made only for catching broken hearts.

Nicolas told himself added punishment would
be his if he did not look up and follow the shot. He settled in
again at watching.
He
saw
in the delightful blue
skies the
ball vie for more space.
The ball
showed a lack of conviction for
one fresh out of the box.
It
reached some peak.
It
went into its death dive.
The ball
proceeded to dump down into the
snow-melt lake and there he saw its violent finish.
Now he was no longer a go-getting linkster
but an insurance person.

He
wondered if this act might herald an accurate prediction for his
whole round here. Nicolas
thought of nothing
now
as blankness froze him.
He
gazed at the spot his
ball’s life had ended predictably wet.
Nicolas looked as any shocked relative of the deceased.
Eight seconds had gone by since his ball left the tee box. It went
into the Protector of the Masses Lake as he had planned
it.

Nicolas
brought the club down.
He
rocked the 3-wood back and forth over
the
green
grass. He
swung the club lightly to and fro as if rocking to sleep old
granny.
He
shook his
head in a similar dejected way. In absence of applause, his usual
appreciations,
he did not tip
his cap. Instead he
continued sweeping the club over the
sorrowful ground. It seemed to
him
the time to till the land had just now come.

He lived
inside this poverty a second or so. He experienced more than an
ounce of regret. Nicolas defied the six years of age he felt by
bending low like the aged. He
reached for and
unceremoniously removed the blue tee from the ground.
He
lifted it amid the perceived
quaking laughter, or general hardy-har-hars coming up at him from
the dull-green grass.

Nicolas
thought of
t
his teacher’s perceived indignation.
He
went to return the 3-wood to his
rucksack. He walked with an award-winning performance in aloofness.
He
went in a silence
that was vacuum-like.

He
said in his
head
, Do it gently. This was his sole stage direction.

He
picked up and then he t
ied his jacket around his
waist. He raised his rucksack
up
onto his right shoulder. Nicolas moved to strap
in
his
other
shoulder
. His pack which
m
ight
have grown moss on
it from the long delays was adjusted to fit.
Next he
hopped up to even the weight on his
shoulders. He stood then in jelly suspension.

Nicolas
went over in his mind the tee shot that had ended. He
sneaked
a
peek at his
good
teacher who
appeared
not bothered.
The youth
considered the
nonplussed look on the old man's face that spoke volumes.

Arjuna
already had
on his jacket.
He picked up
his pack
and put it
on
. He
lifted
his rainbow-colored umbrella to work as a
sunshade.

Nicolas undid the straps of his pack and set
all down. He took out his umbrella, gray and shrunken. He opened
then
hoisted above him
the thing that looked miserable.

Arjuna adjusted his pack
then
he was off.
He
walked down off the front of the tee box
platform.
Arjuna
went
without uttering a word.

Nicolas perceived this as a slight. He felt
this snub was for hitting his ball in the Protector of the Masses
Lake
. He tried thinking
of something different.
He
told himself to
remain
positive. In this way he hoped to achieve
some relief.

14

Nicolas could not help but walk slope-shouldered
down. His irons banged together as he stepped
down
off the tee b
lock platform
. The sounds of his clanging
clubs came to him
then
as sharp criticisms. The series of
I told you so's
reverberated in
side
his
ears. The reproach entered
his
body
unobstructed.

Pesky, chatty, his irons seemed determined
to speak all at once at him. They sounded quite concerned over the
plight of these flowers or statues of martyrs. His club complaints
were made greater as he descended further off the elevated tee box.
With each step down his irons clamored for him to heed their good
counsel and quit this place.

Just then a shadow of his self appeared. The
image was that of a black knight, dressed in all black. It extended
left and behind him. The shadow trailed him outside the protective
shade of his gray umbrella. It followed him slanted.

Nicolas stepped out onto the flower fairway.
He went into one colorful crowd or hostile social situation. He
headed to the flowing water he had once found reassuring. Nicolas
reached the stream as any creature might, desperate for its
particular brand of salvation.

His club
complaints had been drowned out. Sounds from the rushing stream had
quieted his squad of nuisance clubs. The eternal hum of the stream
dimmed also the noise going off in his head. He
undid his pack and set all down. He bent low to take a sip.
Afterwards he saddled up and carried on. Chants of
Om Si Ram
played in his
mind. Nicolas recited this gift not to achieve bliss but for total
distraction.

He next approached one batch of wildflowers
that had on guarded smiles. This was in contrast to the bright view
he had of them on first arriving.

Nicolas walked with his pack on his back as
a day-laborer. He went along the fast-flowing stream. He could see
then the way to cross was by an old stone bridge. The old stone
bridge appeared ancient. It looked to date back to the time of the
Mahabharata.

Nicolas continued under his dull umbrella.
He went as any sad figure might, gray in the middle of a world full
of color. He attempted to stride with purposeful intent. He looked
to Arjuna. He thought a riot-like situation was at the spot he now
stood. The area seemed chock-full of color.

He continued with his heavy foot action.
Nicolas stomped on a multitude of wildflowers as he went. He
crushed color and stem, leaf and bud, with each press down of his
heavy hiking boots. It might have appeared he was carrying out
target killings.

The gushing waterfall, known to the locals,
the migratory shepherds and nomadic cattle herders, as The
Fountain, became louder with each crushing step forward.

Nicolas crossed the stone bridge. Moments
later he reached the front of the lake, or nearest point of entry
of his drive. He set down his rucksack. He pulled from his pack a
new ball and searched for a suitable place to drop it. Little clear
area was found.

He extended an arm over a spot that looked
good enough. He let go. The ball landed fine. But then it rolled
over to a colorful flower group.

Nicolas watched it cuddle up to, or
boyfriend one flower. The ball stopped inches from an area he more
preferred. This was nothing new. It was often the case with any
course-goer who had quite other plans for it.

After the drop fresh tribes of flowers
appeared interested in getting close. Each stood between being a
thing alive and one dead. Several pink geraniums seemed to line up
to take their chances. Stunning mauve polemoniums stood prettily in
his way. Others appeared waiting.

As for
the murder to be administered, in oblong patches, Nicolas did not
care for it much.
To him, the flowers were
simply gathering, giving, benefiting and accepting, in perfect
peace with All. He felt the flowers were multiple bests in a grand
show of winners. The flowers looked as if it was their birthright
destiny also to stand there in his way.

Nicolas understood that most of the
massacring was about to come. He cursed the day he had agreed to
come up here for this. Again he told himself he had no real
choice.

He pulled from his pack his pitching wedge.
He chose this club to cut through all flower clutter. Nicolas bent
back as practice the stems of one flower group. They leaned onto
one another. The corralled became one tamed. They stood captured
and caged.

To control these natives into revealing, he
bent back their stems more. He hoped to get a better looksee at the
ground he would sometime hit. After more proddings he roamed the
club with some force. Soon he was sifting through a delightful
series of blue forget-me-nots.

Nicolas
looked to the old man who
was still searching. He saw him peer into one brilliant patch. He
scolded himself for not helping in the search.

"What were you thinking?" he said.

Nicolas saw that the old man had
unexpectedly found it. He watched him reach down and pick up the
ball. Arjuna then turned in his direction. He raised the ball in
high triumph. The old man held it up as if match-lit. From this
distance he looked like a lighthouse to eternal wisdom.

Nicolas saw him pocket it to quit. He
thought this was his way of accepting his lost chance at securing
par or better.

"Perhaps he is thinking
that toiling on this one would be hard to take," Nicolas said to no
one flower in particular. It
’s like bowling into the nets, his other self
added inside.
"Maybe the next will be
better for him," said the first.

Arjuna, however, had other
thoughts. While he enjoyed the idea of pitting himself against the
vagaries of nature, other things were on his mind. He believed it
best to focus on this fourth stage in life of the
sannyasi
or wandering
ascetic. He accepted his circumstances as they were. Arjuna sent
out his consciousness to be with all in the valley.

"See the Goddess," said Arjuna. He then had
the glorious feeling of self-surrender.

The old man concentrated next on the flowers
that deserved laurels. He sensed their eternal presence. He mixed
sight, scent, sound and thought that intermingled inside. Arjuna
enjoyed the magic of blended senses. He sensed the grand eternal
wonder by simply having enthusiasm for it.

Arjuna
gazed at the waterfall while seeing well into another time.
Eyes locked, he witnessed the existence of Is and Is Not. This
added greatly to the serenity that surrounded.

The old man recited under his breath then a
passage from one holy text. In return for being so mindful, the
Goddess offered him yet another spectacular view. The cascading
rainbow gave its arching colors willingly. In attendance up there
too were a few senior members from Arjuna's playing past.

The old man looked to the flowers standing
nearest him. In each he saw their everlasting presence that can
never be affected. He saw in them too a sea of horizons. Arjuna
felt free from conflict, fear, agitation, guilt and hurt.

The sight of these colors
gushing over the valley had him standing as any true believer.
He
inched towards stillness. Through the
magic of blended sight, scent, sound and touch, as well as thought,
he felt the Divine Force's presence. This re-ignited in him the
sense that All is timeless eternity.

Arjuna reached down to touch one leaf. The
old man bent to hold between finger and thumb one fragile petal. He
felt this flower's cup was the abode of the Most High. Arjuna vowed
to act daily in its service. The old man stood then as an enjoyer.
He felt blessed for this illuminative experience. He was glad too
for this gift of being meditatively so able.