Valley of Flowers (15 page)

A
quaint
tumbling tune could
then
be heard. It sounded as if a certain
someone had become somewhat bitter. The ball was safely scuttled
away and his muscles loosened. He no longer wore a long face but
was actually beaming. Any could see that the ball falling in was
widely appreciated by him. On his face too was a satisfied look of
hard-won glory.

Nicolas complimented himself on a job well
done. As the big bout was now over, he felt an urge to give all a
good finishing punch.
He
enlisted an uppercut fist-pump that founded his new
est
signature and his spirits
soared.

He
gave his pant leg a
quick
hike.
Nicolas
stepped forward once.
He
reached down and plucked out his
roped-in ball.
He
took
from the cup the principal member in this drama of the absurd
that
had ended just
fine.

Nicolas
extended th
is
moment out of the sheer enjoyment of it.
He
believed he had come
through as a talent-hunt winner.

He
returned the flag to the hole.
Nicolas
headed to his pack sensing the tiny
tactile pleasure of
repeatedly
turning over
the ball
in his hand. He twirled between his fingers
the club he held in the other. This was his favorite aftershow.

Nicolas
went to his
rucks
ack as if he had all along been his greatest
cheerleader.
He
put back
in his
pack
his ball and
also Arjuna's.
He
put
away his glove
and
then
took out his
course
journal
. He
began
recounting the shock treatment he had given this
high
place.

Nicolas
went to the page he believed his score
should go. It looked entirely innocent but was about to be marred.
The southpaw recounted the number on behalf of this curiously happy
victor.

The math complete, he marked down the high
number.
He
p
ick up and p
ut on his jacket.
Nicolas lifted
his pack
and
returned the
putter
. He
straightened
the club's head in the bag.
He
set off for the 2nd without
so much as
benefiting from a returning
glance.
He
thought
nothing
now o
f the
violence he had
just
administered to all in the Valley of Flowers
. He hoped only t
o get back his mood-making
self belief or mojo
.

The freshness of the mountain air was
the
n
on his face as he
thought of his future accomplishments. After an hour he believed he
could see the 2nd in the distance. He was happy to find the next
tee without much searching here or there.

"Just a little ways to go," he said.

He felt he had all by himself found this
next hole.
He
made out
he had discovered this next station-in-charge. He gave no
recognition
now
to the
help he
had
received
along the
way.
He
had all along
followed a goat trail.
This
had been set there eons ago by migrating
herders. Discovering the 2nd was made possible
too
by simply being there.

N
ature had more than adequately supplied a way
for him
to go and would
do so always.

Nicolas moved to retrieve the water bottle
from his pack. He wanted to give himself this reward. At first he
struggled with the bottle’s cap. It soon popped open though and the
waterworks were fully operational.

He
took a drink and savored.
Nicolas
came back from this ecstasy
additionally pumped. He held the bottle by his side and stared
blankly.
He
looked to
the
Indian
Himalayas
,
or spread
out view
of heaven with
renewed energy.
He
felt
altogether good about himself
.
Nicolas
looked forward to more play here.

The death toll over the valley would likely
go uncounted. Of this he was not too concerned. Instead, he was all
over again happy with his changed form.

He looked to where there was nothing made
mechanical by man. Nicolas next peered at what he
believed
was the 2nd tee. It seemed
quite
untouched.
The area
was without the
incredible flower concentration as on the 1st. He could not say,
hand on heart, if this was better. Less flowers was a good thing,
he
thought.
But t
hen he wondered what more
might come.

Nicolas
daydreamed the 1st
had been
easy for him. It was not at all
long, he told himself.
He
t
hen came up with the
bright
idea of being handed a bouquet for
participating up here.
He
thought to say, to any interested in hearing it,
what his ego self was now telling him
. A
nd the message was that it would be foolish to
bet against him.

As for the applause that always followed,
loud and clear in his ears, and straight through childhood,
Nicolas
heard even more.
He
felt nothing
now o
f being
immaculately whipped on the 1st. He thought only of the thing that
had
happened at the end
when his ball dropped in.

Nicolas
Kumar
issued a word of caution for his gloating.
He
brushed that
aside
,
however, as if
caution were a
mere
clod
of dirt stuck to his pant legs.

He
missed his gizmos. His computer
he
had
left at home; his many gaming devices were back
at
his
family's haveli;
his phone too was
back
in his room where
he
had been
told to leave
it. Growing up as a gadgeteer
,
he
wished to have
at least
one of these.

Nicolas
concentrated
next
on the series of standing-O’s
he
usually
received and was
just
now taking delivery. Sounds of
virulent golf claps swelled his head. It felt like crackling
sparklers had been lit off and were bursting all
a
round
him
.

He heard endless praise of himself. Nicolas
enjoyed this as any fanboy. He basked in this glory.
He
felt these audience cheers were
like
roars of thunder.
He
heard loud and clear
in his head the insistent calls of
"Autograph please!"

From this crowd’s incredible root-for, it
was clear to
him
that
they wanted to see
more.

He focused next on
finding
that No. 2 spot.
He
walked in high triumph.
Nicolas
believed he cut a striking
figure. He
felt
he
looked as good as any cinema star
as he
reached up to touch his chin.
He
felt for a five o'clock shadow
before midday. Failing this
,
he
lifted his cap
as
to acknowledge the appreciation of the imaginary
flower
crowd.

He
let loose his star-plus hair
.
His hair fell over his ears.
It
hung an inch
or so
above
the
shoulder
area
.
His
hair
went to and fro from his extended strides
.

Nicolas
Kumar
returned his cap atop his head
. He
flashed
at all a
brilliant smile.
He
hoped in this way
to
show his immeasurable greatness.

No longer a beanpole from his earlier school
days, but lean and muscular,
Nicolas
could not help but think he was the one
doing the saving
up
here. The one with the gray-green eyes and tendency to outward
identify, therefore so divide, came up
next
with the idea
that
he alone was carrying on to win over the whole
world.

With almost no memory of his play
to now
,
he
believed
he could
still
achieve a good round
up here
.
He
imagined there would be the equivalent of a
vanity van ready and waiting for him.

But there was none. No one was waiting to
whisk him off, to be interviewed
perhaps
by the world's adoring media. He would have
to do the footwork all on his own.

Still
,
he felt he could achieve headlines
,
and do so
even f
rom this faraway mountain place.

Nicolas neared the 2nd tee. He
stayed
quiet while walking. He
peered at the
Indian
Himalayas
,
or massed-up
humble giants, set there forever,
and
which have long been a source of inspiration to
so many
,
although now he
felt he was the one others should look up to.

By that thinking all was not at his level.
This placed him above the common rest of them.

Nicolas
distanced himself further.
He
ventured to a spot in his
I-making mind
. He
hibernated in this dream world.
He was not at the heart side.

As to what
all he
perceived over the
valley
, the
various
applause, the appreciations, coming as from
the
colorful
flower
gatherings, the persistent
calls or challenge perhaps to those living in the modern era, all
seemed hushed
,
and
waiting anxiously, in his silent support.

"The clock starts now," he said
. And
his ego mind carried on,
placing himself on something of a higher pedestal.

Keep your mistakes to a minimum, Nicolas
advised himself
inside
,
as he approached the walk-up to the 2nd tee
. A
nd he
felt
he would be perfect from here on out.

But
t
hen he sensed in his legs the effort put in from even this
mild climbing.
He
experienced the struggle and strain from moving in these
mountains.

While breathing heavy, from walking
up
further in
to
thin air, his happiness with his
self stayed, however, undaunted within him.

His pride too, in his perceived achievements
on the course
till
now,
along with how good
he
thought he looked, left him quiet though still there.

Conversely,
he
had no sense yet of losing his self in the
presence of All.

Had it not been for his strained breathing,
which
just
now held his
fascination, along with the soreness he felt in his shoulders,
back, arms and legs, the daily sensations of any cart-puller, he
might have gone on to spout his made-up versions of Ultimate
Truth.

Nicolas warmed
more t
o the topic of his
own
mystery.
He felt spurred on by this particular brand of ego
growth.
He said
aloud
to no one, "For me to bear down
now
and deliver would be quite
satisfying."

By his recent modest play here, two putts,
Nicolas
Kumar
felt he had rendered all
quiet: breeze-blown trees, rustling brush, humbler folk, his
audience.

###

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