Valley of Flowers (13 page)

The thing was over in a flash. It made him
look like an avid embroidery trader. The ball
had
left the spot medium-like.
It
crossed the Protector of the
Masses Lake though off to one side. It
instantly
headed into one
bright
bouquet as a failed missile.
He
felt all was one big
stinking waste dump.

Nicolas looked to where a bundle of colorful
flowers lay complementary to this
very
idea. He stood pressing down on these
little
beauties while
not
really
wishing to.
He went to pick up his rucksack
and
struggled to get it on properly.

While fighting gravity
,
a yellow-throated marten flew by.
Nicolas Kumar
followed
the flight of this unlikely visitor. He wished to catch a ride on
its tiny body to escape from this place.

But as suddenly as this
one
flier appeared it went away.
Then the
flight of
another arrived. The grim shadow of this
one
raced over
the
reluctant flower ground. In place of looking up,
Nicolas
followed its
grisly running shadow. He
watched
a series of silhouettes produce grotesque
shapes over the
Va
lley
of Flowers
. The
gross
images went
quick
in undulating
rolls.

Nicolas
looked up to spot it. The one flying
had
left before
he
could catch
any
glimpse of it, other
than what
had
rolled
ugly over the flower ground.

He
went to the spot near the lake where his ball had
gone.
Nicolas
found it
without difficulty. It was resting against a gathering of pink
flowers.
He
laid
down
his
pack
. He pulled from it one club
and began to
set up.

He settled in
and
took the club back. A second
or so
later flowers ripped up.
They flew off in quick dispersion.
His swing looked done by a farmer's pitchfork bailing hay. It
seemed to him he had
only
come here to tear this world apart.

Nicolas
picked up his pack
. He
headed to the place his ball had flown
and
found it in a
difficult spot.
It occurred to
him
to
just
kick
the thing.
He felt
he
could improve his lie this way.
Nicolas
hesitated and in the end he did not.

A
nother swing came and went. This too was done by
his earth-remover pitching wedge. The ball rode the chill air
briefly. Mountain peaks showed as magnificent backdrops. They were
the models of beauty to anyone.

He
went
the
short way to where his ball lay.
Nicolas
again had the notion to do
some
form
of
ball-tampering. He felt it would be easy enough to give the thing a
spot-kick or roll it over with the bottom of his hiking boot.
Nicolas
thought he could
roll it
up
onto a tuft
of something
not so
petaled.

But he decided against it.
He
said in a voice unlike his own,
"
Devabhumi
. Remember, you are on God’s land."

Soon
after
he took a horizontal swing. Nicolas took back
the club as a flattened practice stroke. He rode the flat line
once, twice,
then
again.
He
swung once more at a
similar angle as Hogan's well known one-plane swing.

Nicolas took aim with his eyes first. He
listened
then
was
treated to
the
thrashing
sound his swing made at impact. He gathered his things
and went to where his ball lay
.
Nicolas began
to
set up.
He swung.
Th
e
shot came out fat.
It
went a short way with the seemingly
worthless material known as
common
dirt.

The ball
had gone into one colorful patch. It
had
fallen
into
flowers
shaped as upturned stars.
He
saw that the flower dead were many. His
swinging in the area
had
claimed lives. Countless now were seriously wounded. The scars on
the ground look
ed like the
after-effects
of a crude bomb.

The disappearance of the
se
flowers seemed sorely missed by the
remaining others.
He
told himself the stroke penalty for hitting in the lake was
something he
had
to
remember.

He went to the place his shot had gone.
Nicolas looked for his ball with his pack on his back. He felt the
flowers might remarkably spill the beans as to where his little
friend was by simply telling him.

In his ears the whispering grapevine had it
that his ball had nestled in nicely.
Nicolas
got word
the ball had
found
good
accommodation in
among
their bunch. The flowers seemed to tell him,
or perhaps it was
just
his intuition
,
that
his
ball was off right.
Nicolas
turned his
offending wedge in that direction.
He stood tall in the fight. His cap was then in his free
hand when suddenly he pointed with it.

"There!" he said.

He set down his pack of club boys to one
side. Nicolas put back the club and pulled out a
different
wedge. In this way he showed his
firm
intention of taking
up arms in the valley.

He took two swings above his found ball. He
stood blank, became lost as any hare. Now he felt all were hunting
him and this was his elimination round.

For his next turn at destruction, Nicolas
chose a lob wedge. He
took
a
sw
i
ng above the
spot his ball lay comfortably in the mix
. He set up
in earnest. In a flash the
little white
ball was
hit with a bundle of flower growth. All took off heavy with a slab
of moist earth.
He watched all
fly.
The mud-as-divot flew
off
with the flowers.
It
soon gave up its struggle for life through flight
and flopped down.

He
focused on the
place his
ball went. Into more clusters he sent this
sad story.
Nicolas
looked down at the spot of his ball’s previous predicament. He felt
he should replace the divot
,
or clean up some the manhole he had
just
created. It occurred to him
next
the area could end
up ranking highest in destruction of any Indian state.
He believed this
record could
even
widen to earn the
highest sickening incidences
of
soul-polluting cow slaughter.

He
looked at his gloved hand. He acknowledged his
part in the crime.
Nicolas
felt he had worked hand-in-glove as any
cattle smuggler
might,
who worked for the
O so
despicable tanneries.

Butcher! Killer! he told himself. He swung
in anger at the open air.
Nicolas
believed
he was doing less damage this way. His club
hovered over a few flower bulbs. He focused on the ball. He
appeared to be in the midst of a murderous frenzy when he took the
swing. After which
,
he
picked up his pack
and
headed to another
group of mingling flowers.

Nicolas found his ball, thanked God, then
he
laid down his
pack
. He
went to take
the shot quickly
. He
moved to set up. Soon an explosive batch of
wild
flowers was all he knew.

He
looked
down
at
the spot his ball had been and saw only horror. The area
appeared to have
witnessed war firsthand. Many flowers lay dead. Pleas from the
remaining colorful others could at anytime be expected.

Nicolas
picked up
his things and the feeling of joy was not
his. He went to look for his ball. On finding it
he
began to
set up.
Soon
another bundle of
wild
flowers flew up with an oblong slab of soil.
Shot after shot
then
kept the scoreboard in the sky ticking over

Of this
killing h
e said
to
himself
, Who are you to do this?

Again
,
he picked up his kit and bore the pain of
dozen
s
. He went while
the remaining others seemed
to
scream over the bodies of their near and dear
ones. Nicolas arrived and not long after another swing ploughed
through as practice. He shot at flower shafts in a repeated splash
manner.

Nicolas
perceived a valley in vast turmoil.
He
drew back his
destructive club. His wrists he set early. The club rose to the
point known as parallel.
He
held it there and felt the powerful coil.
Nicolas
sensed
hesitation. His many-armed motion came down
, striking
in a flash.

A
Whoosh!
could then be heard cutting
through. The ball with another batch of
wild
flowers was alight.
All
flew low in an abbreviated flight that
descended off right.
The
ball
went into a ghostly haunt of white flowers he would
rather not think about.

Nicolas
struggled with life issues. He
went to what would otherwise
have been an easy mid-pitch to the green. This too would sail a
second or so. It would go sleepless into another flowerbed.

He
discovered the spot where his ball lay. He went
about making another demarcation trench in the
flower
ground.
T
he
flowers
seemed
to know they were in the unenviable position
of being at the mercy of this one little human.

He swung. All lost their heads while Nicolas
did what he could to keep his own melon thinking rationally.
He
wished to leave this
trail of death and destruction.
He followed the short flight of his ball. Nicolas gathered
his things. He
went to look for
the ball
and found it easily.

"Just one more hack at it and I should be
on,"
he
said.

Several determined swings later, a rash of
flop shots, and the valley was
thoroughly
reaped away.
Now he was in no mood for sparing anyone.

Two more shots came down on the
E
arth heavy.
He
neared the green.
One
final act was to make another shovelful
of mud, killing a handful of
wild
flowers. This attempt too was a flop shot.

Nicolas went with his pack
the short way
to where his ball lay
lifeless
near the green.
He set all down.
Nicolas
resisted taking a stab at it
,
but soon it was away. The shot was one of his
better ones. The ball landed on the green and he felt happy. The
green m
ight
as
well have been decorated with
festive lights at the time of Diwali.

He
went to retrieve his things.
Nicolas
put all on his right shoulder. He
led his gang of ignorant thugs through traffic snarls made up of
colorful
wildflowers. He
arrived onto this dance floor green shoulders first.
Nicolas s
tepped onto this new
frontier or elevated putting table.

"Finally
,
" he said
.

He
guessed the putt to be somewhere in the
neighborhood of forty feet. It was a downhiller and somewhat
bending.

Nicolas eyed the white flag on a white
flagstick. The two had a seen-it-all-before manner. The flag as Mr.
Surrender
looked
especially
sad or sorry. It
seemed to say
there was no reason to celebrate light
or life. It
appeared to be
telling him t
here was no
real
reason to try.

1
7

The surface of the green did not have the
pleasurable pool table look he was
used
to.
The
green
was drawn in brown more than he would have liked. It
looked thrown here and there with a type of masala chili powder.
The green had a bumpy flow to it that made it look
makeshift or
temporary. It was
thick in areas with genuine rough patches, the result of being
without regular proper maintenance.