Valley of Flowers (14 page)

Nicolas
conceded the battle had just become tougher.
He gauged the
putt to be a
difficult
one. The flag kicked up.
It
fluttered in the breeze faithless. As to his
chances of getting it
up
close, Nicolas felt
about
the same as the flag.

He next went to the back of the green.
He
laid his pack on the
fringe.
Nicolas
set
it
down near a few poppy
swells. His pack with his clubs in it lay on the ground
looking
dazed and confused. This
was in contrast to the
f
lowers standing
bolt
upright. The
flowers
stood at
military
attention as if their security level had
just been raised a hue.

Nicolas undid his jacket from around his
waist. He laid it onto his pack.
Next he
pulled off the glove on his left hand. He
bent down
. He
removed
the club that usually attends to any difficulty atop a green.
Nicolas gripped
the
putter
again and again.
The grip appeared
to have turned into a string of
goat meat that now needed tenderizing.

He went to the hole and pluck the flagstick
from the cup. It seemed to be the usual dimensions. The hole looked
to be 108mm wide by 108mm deep by regulation. The numbers struck
him as
quite
curious.
The number 108 happened to be Hindu holy.

He
pulled the flag from the hole and did not toss
it.
Nicolas
held it out
front as if it was a baton and he was leading the parade. He laid
the flagstick down onto the green, though well away from his
line.

Nicolas
went to look at his putt from the far side
of the hole.
He
thought
of the magic 108 number that was the number on the holy mala beads.
He
re
membered
that
there are 108 points that help define the body,
along with being the full range of human emotions.
Nicolas
recalled that 108 is the
number of the Yantra,
the
geometric figure
that
is a crucial aid to knowing Ultimate Truth.

He walked the
full
length of the putt.
Nicolas
came back
and squatted
behind the ball about a meter
or so. He took a long
-
learning look at his putt.
Nicolas
ran an imaginary line from his ball
to the cup
then
back
again. He focused on the grass
next
to complete this triad known as the
Trimurti.

The cosmic functions of birth, life and
death were all there with him
then
when abruptly he stood.
He
went to the hole
and
came back. Once more
he
squatted low as a vegetable seller.
Nicolas
was directly
behind the one
about
to
be consumed.

He
rose
.
He
studied the line from his
roughly
six foot aerial angle.
The youth
went back to pacing the length of
his putt
that looked
serpentine
.

Again he arrived behind the ball and
squatted. He inched closer.
He
did this to get
an even
finer line.
Nicolas
asked for divine help
then
stood. He moved to set up but backed
off.
He
returned to his
usual two meters behind the ball to recheck.
Nicolas
again squatted low.
He
rested the club on
a
thigh. The club with the lead
tape on its back, referred to as Father Electric, was to him the
real deal. Of his many club weapons this was the one he could rely.
It was known for getting
him
good
results.

Nicolas
was fond of this producer of winning
memories.
He looked at the logo
burned into the club.
It had been forged by one of the
game's well known hardware merchants.

Nicolas
raised his hands to the sides of his cap as
to put on blinders.
He fashion
forwarded it some.
His line to the hole was a sidewinder.
Nicolas
figured the
right-to-left breaker would open up at the hole
. He
began creating his usual
pre-enactments.
Nicolas
walked the
full
length
of the putt as an inspector
might
looking for clues.
He
returned as one who had gotten a
whispered tip-off from a reliable source.

He
moved to take his stance over the ball. Suspense
entered.
He
hoped to
knock it in on one and be done with the thing.

Nicolas
took a few practice strokes.
He p
ut behind the ball the one
about to make its directorial début. He brought his right foot
up
to the spot it
had been
previously. As
for the other
,
he
moved it forward to
be
more
in line with the
first.

He
bent
over
to putt in his familiar style.
Nicolas
appeared
set to close some big real estate
deal.
He
looked forward
to the ball falling into the cup, which serves symbolically the
cosmic function of Shiva, or Lord of Destruction, the purist
example yet all nature is holy.

The thought of looking into the dark
cup
ruled him. Nicolas
held firm the club designed for such a subtle touch. He said in a
tiny whisper, "I pray only for your kindness, Lord."

Now
he
felt he should get down to work. He wanted to get the
proper line and speed of the green.
Nicolas
hoped to be done with the thing and
finally.

A
Quiet, please!
order seemed to have
been issued to all in the
famed
Valley of Flowers. Over the fast-rushing
stream, the mountains
,
the
colorful
flowers, a hush fell onto this hard-to-believe landscape. Only the
occasional sounds of light air gusts could
then
be heard. A strong breeze rushed in to
shove him forward. It left without much success.

Nicolas adjusted his stance to settle in
better. He turned the face of the club to aim right for more break.
He
scoped the line.
Numerous looks at the hole, then over the green, then back at the
ball, would soon set all in motion.

Then he just stroked it. The ball ventured
off. It went as any happy-go-lucky, tra-la-la, more or less towards
the intended target.

He
had a focused calm while watching.
Nicolas
observed
the jolly roller travel somewhat
downhill. He saw it enter a difficult spot.
He
watched it roll into a patch of
collected dirt.
He
demolished down any
high
hopes for it by thinking up the worst.

The ball stopped well short. It had gotten
caught up in the thick area.
Nicolas
took no time in setting up over this next
putt.
He
made the
decision to go for it with
some
speed.

Give it a chance, he told himself.

Soon after
,
the rounded one was on its way. The ball was again
heading towards the cylindrical dark hole but a taste right. It
turned nicely
and
against the odds.
The
ball
moved onto a much better line. The one rolling headed
one finger right. It looked as if it might
still
change lanes. Although it was by no
means a shoe-in, it looked good to him. It went as any Good
Samaritan.

Then the ball did break onto a better line.
It headed directly at the hole. It occurred to
him
that
his putting had not lost its sheen.
He
felt the God-touch might still
be his.

"Yes!" he said.

At the hole the ball did not go in dead
center. It turned at the end. The ball spun from centrifugal force
around the top curvature condition of the hole. It did a complete
360. It stopped
then
stagger
ed
on the lip of
the cup. It looked like any sad wayfarer
,
standing on a street-side curb.

Nicolas hastened a low groan.
Several
funeral pyre
s
burned in him. He looked on the
cusp of bursting into a
tall
flame of fire.

Again
,
Nicolas
felt sorry for coming up here for this. The
little
ball looked as if
it
could
stay on this
hard
edge forever.
Repeated sharp looks at it did not improve the situation. In place
of dropping in, the ball rested
on the cup
comfortably.

The
ball
looked satisfied being between a thing dead and in the
hole and one alive and on top.
It
stayed on that thin line perched between here and
then gone. To him
, the
ball
had turned traitor. He believed it was intent on
spiting him.

Nicolas added a few undesirable remarks. The
agony of his play
till
now, coupled with this close-but-no-cigar effort, came to him
now
as a pair of
seeing-red charging bulls. He looked on the boil. A hectic lobbying
for allies followed. Nicolas
was
dumbfounded
,
b
itter at being left lone
up
here
and
standing there haggling with no one.

He stared at the ball that remained on the
rim of the cup. He could not comprehend how it could make such a
lovely turn at the hole, then have the appalling gall to not drop
in. He could not understand how
it
could do such a thing to him, an otherwise gentle
fellow. It seemed nature was designed for pinning down any
course-goer
,
as
something of
a rule of
thumb.

Once more
Nicolas
decided against using anger. He chose not to
do with
his
club what he
had done in circumstances
such
as this, which was plant it. He felt he had one
option left. He
then
began the mature process of letting his shadow do the dirty
work.

Nicolas moved to put himself between the
sun, the ageless wonder here, and the dark hole. He stood between
the one burning bright and the white ball
,
or object that frequently disobeys.
He
felt
the ball and hole could still be
united in a type of matrimony, with attendees enjoying a brief show
of an eclipse of the sun.

Except for where his ball lay, the swarming
sunrays were successful in covering all in the
Valley of Flowers
. The ball remained
atop
the edge of the cup
as the great Spaniard's in '84. It seemed hell-bent on inflicting
him pain.

S
uddenly he glimpsed a wish-fulfilling wobble.
Then, l
ike preceding the
birth of time
,
the ball
appeared to quiver. A blaze of sunshine showed over the cup.
Nicolas had moved from excitement but
w
as
soon
back in position. He stood in the sun's light and froze. He felt he
still had
some
chance.

1
8

Nicolas no longer felt in control of his
mind. He felt he had little control over his body too. As to what
his physical self might do next, he could not be certain: toss up
his cap, kick up a leg, go into a Scottish jig
even
, if the thing dropped in.

And the ball did remain shaky. It continued
its balancing act atop the lip of the cup. The ball kept up its
devil dance known
to him
now
as The Great Tease.

Despite his
fervent
wish for it,
it
looked unwilling to roll over and
just
die. It
appeared
ready to continue its death dance
in front of him forever. The ball remained atop the lip of the cup
for a full
four,
five,
six
seconds
and more
or entire length of
all
eternity.

T
hen it did move
,
and against the odds.

Nicolas looked at the grass sensing his own
struggle with gravity. Without consciously knowing it, he began
lofting his putter in celebratory anticipation. He lifted the club,
bit by slow bit, with ever-growing assurance.

Then it happened. All at once
,
in a slow counter-rotational
spiral that kept the suspense alive, the ball gravitationally lost
its struggle for life against death. It plunged into the
c
ylindrical
dark cup
that looked massless or time-like. It fell beneath a sky lit ablaze
by the all-seeming uncaring. Into this end-state the ball
disappeared, pure and for keeps.