Valley of Flowers

by Chris Collins

  "Hope is a vanity," said Arjuna, admonishing the youth gently for his earnest appeal.

  A moment of some silence stood squarely between them as an eerie phantom. Tension rose.

  In the core of this, Arjuna wished to change the subject. He thought to say a pleasant morning walk, or taking regular exercise, was better than accepting the best help from some one other, meaning mostly himself.

  Still he remained quiet. More time passed before Arjuna set out to break the disturbing calm.

  "Used as expectation," he said, "hope becomes a mode only for spiritual ignorance, clouding what is otherwise a clear-blue sky."

  Nicolas looked to the sky described. He gazed next at this fantastic bowl of land that was cushion-like. He peered out at the valley lit ablaze with bright color.

  Nicolas felt dazed and deflated. He seemed under the spell of harsh diseases. With no sign yet of correct culture to guide him, his heart sank more. He appeared at sea over what to do next.

  But then he did do something. Abruptly Nicolas stood up from his throne. The new entrant to this flowerful arena stepped off the tee block square without uttering a word. He strode down to the water. He walked briskly as well as forthrightly down to the fast-flowing stream. He appeared ready to fight. He had on a look of defiance in performing some duty.

  7

  At the water’s edge he saw a small signboard. It was bolted to a vile stake stuck firmly, though savagely into the given green ground, as if on the front lawn of someone’s placid-looking home reading: Test your manhood some other way than by shooting at harmless birds, plants and animals!

  The 17-year-old, with not much hope left, bent down at the limited unclaimed property, or slight clearing by the blue stream and kept on edge.

  The school-going teenager was then on his knees in the peculiar palms' pose that had him looking like one large animal the sign had just cautioned.

  From this brute-beast position, living life would be only to find prey, breed, and settle down out here somewhere for the nights.

  After the swift parking of his hands, onto the grassy floor, Nicolas went forward as far as he could without tumbling in. He leaned over where there was a meditative pool of water to look into. On arrival at this auspicious place, he was nearly prostrate before settling back some.

  He took one long look at the being floating directly beneath him. It lay face up in the shallows. It immediately sent back its side of the picture: an effigy on the spot.

  Laid bare to him there, appearing to await its full embrace, was his ghostly darker twin for which he had a twinge of dislike. Curiously he saw himself as a threat. But then the look on his face grew into an ever-widening gyro, from a dropped bead of sweat off his brow.

  The water picture appeared to seek out wildly then a spot far from this center. It looked to be fleeing in fear for its own individual safety. It returned to being a nourishing fluidity at ease.

  Nicolas reflected well upon his beauty self. He gazed at this personality down in the water that was not an uncommon affair. He volunteered more to take a long learning look to determine its genuineness.

  The pooling water became a stall only for his undemanding preening needs.

  Soon after the meeting of the I's, he reached in to take a sip from this mountain stream and supreme beverage of choice to anyone. Nicolas put in his big dippers as if offering hard cash at the temple to ensure the best result. He watched the water cram onto his hands in an apparent bid to make its own surreptitious escape.

  He looked to the stream's center. Nicolas felt the water was a lot like him at this time: preferring lower places as being far more appropriate.

  He perceived a host of wildflowers on the other side of the stream. They appeared wrapped in bundles as for making him commendable gifts. The variety of flowers on that far side made for a less pleasing sensation.

  Again, he gazed down at the water where like splendor had been written. He was absorbed by this, his gorgeousness self, or fave hero in apparent good health, depicted just then at a sort of side profile. He smiled. Nicolas looked away from his own eyes as if unable to bear modeling more.

  At next glance, the familiar image or case of ego clash appeared oddly to calm him. He moved to take a superb drink. He reached in again with cupped hands to touch the most startling texture ever.

  His mind wandered more. His thoughts went from the terrible task of performing up here. He fled from thinking of playing on this high course, for the simple reason that it could.

  Nicolas tried concentrating on the water. He discovered as from out of the blue he was no longer eager to resist more. This new look seemed supported by a sky-on-blue riding pillion. The water did not suggest any option for him, other than to go on and start his play here. He considered again the eternal question of getting out there and performing. Relating to this sensation, greater intensity crept.

  Now he thought it was not too unreasonable to step onto this flower community. He felt all might be okay. Then, in another attempt at prolonging, the words "Be professional and polite" came to bless and pass by his lips.

  He mustered courage then stood up.

  Back on the ground, after multiple stares down in the water, along with staring down his own myths, the bottoms of his feet stamped down hard all calls over leaving here, and for a brief moment he lost all interest in this place: the ongoing coordination from all in the outdoors, seemingly hell-bent on grinding at him in bombastic opposition.

  Nicolas returned from this distance a species standing. He was a pulsating upright form now walking, though with the renewed powers of reasoning.

  The youth or undertrial, his mind back in the active state and feeling charged now, ruled out all calls for reassessing. He scanned the flowers of sizable number. He estimated their near-total destruction.

  As for explaining his sudden departure to the middling stream, Nicolas broke through all cordons. He thought to say to this awaiting teacher, I am ready now.

  Then he did so. Without caution, or more concern-for-all hesitation he said, "I’m ready now," and felt the tiny stings and tingles of a hundred thousand million eyes pierce onto him.

  Arjuna showed his famous grin. His trademarked boyhood beam was a mix of fun and jest. His gladness seemed as all in the outside world: doing rather well at this time and was also quite spacious. It was an occasion of sheer happiness to him.

  His smile could be seen too, Nicolas thought, as a gateway to some quite cool resilience.

  The old man's cheerfulness was a pleasant surprise to the youth. Nicolas had anticipated a top-to-bottom chastising by him for storming off the mound that way.

  For his part the old man was glad young Nicolas had, all by himself, removed his opposition on playing up here. He felt pleased also from the beauty thought he was having from the old song stating even the longest journey begins with a solitary step.

  His happiness was such he may have declared four days of celebration.

  However, in keeping with tradition, by attempting to set up some spiritual end, he did not set out to burst firecrackers. Instead, Arjuna bent low to fetch the transcendental conch. Soon he had in his hands the overlarge devadatta, or great battle-shell that was Lord Indra’s loud gift.

  The old man stood smiling. He looked as if he wanted to exchange a few jokes. He went to put a hand on the youth's right shoulder. Arjuna seemed ready to tell him he had been part of one big practical joke.

  Smiling, holding something back, the old man looked as if he were going to tell Nicolas that he had all along been part of a half-comic reality show, or some nutty TV promo set up to trap him.

  But Arjuna told not one thing about any joke. He said with understatement, "Very well then." And, "If you insist."

  He stepped back a pace. Arjuna set about fiddling with the conch by raising the shell with both hands. He looked as if he were going to play a jazzy tune on a saxophone. The old man's thoughts too ranged, as he fingered the age-old horn. Mostly, he wished not to allow what was m
eant only as a brief observance to be blown out of all proportion.

  Several seconds passed as he tried finding a good grip. His plan at getting Nicolas to start his play here seemed to hang in the balance.

  Time ticked. The beating heart of the watcher ticked away.

  Nicolas put his hands on his hips in the western aggressive manner. He questioned whether this teacher was capable of doing whatever it was he was trying to do.

  But then Arjuna did find good grip. He lowered then raised sharply the conch to his lips. He took in a breath to fill up his lungs. The trumpet seashell, or great attribute to Vishnu that was remarkably found in these mountains, and so was measureless years old, sounded over the Valley of Flowers. It resonated over this high hill district especially blessed by Lord Brahma.

  Arjuna blew the instrument with the sweetest strain that might have covered miles. The musical device of ancient primal energy, which traditionally signals the start of play anywhere, could again be heard. The old man sounded the horn across this flowered valley, or outstanding setting for creating perfect legends.

  Louder still, he put out the call to all youth everywhere to get out there and perform.

  Arjuna lowered the conch for keeps. He then headed to the rear of the tee box. He returned the ancient sea-born noise producer.

  On coming back, he removed his shawl worn on this chilly morning. He perceived his younger, more proud-playing self. The old man went between being young and then old, but without having much preference.

  He took off his jacket. Arjuna went as a warrior might to the youth's standing pack. As for the clubs, they looked almost bored. The clubs stood at military attention in the off chance they might be needed.

  Arjuna shifted the irons around to simply hear their sound. He rested a hand on the driver. He stared out at the flower valley. He asked for and received one ball. Nicolas Kumar also provided him with one red tee.

  The old man removed the cover of the driver. He yanked the club out from the youth’s standing pack. He went to set the ball atop the tee or position-holder. He backed up, step by slow step. Arjuna stopped a few paces behind and here his expression changed.

  The old man went from appearing friendly to one familiar with being quite fierce. He seemed used to severe brooding. He looked ready to stare down this flower fairway forever.

  Arjuna then made a few arm movements loosely associated with helpful stretching. He stood the driver against himself. He extended an arm over his head while the other arm went behind his back where his two hands clasped. He looked to be turning himself into a twisted salted pretzel.

  The old man gauged the length of one spot to hit his drive. The place he had in mind was sparked by the sun burning bright. As with the one lit ablaze, all in the valley appeared filled with limitless fresh beginnings.

  He looked light-years away. Arjuna returned in his mind to a scene that happened long ago. He arrived as if on time to witness again the very moment he had shown his playing skills so well.

  The young-again Arjuna was back then, at that prestigious tourney, set so deep in his past though not forgotten. Now any would believe a miraculous event was about to take place.

  8

  Arjuna was then in full flashback mode. He flitted between this one reality as well as all abstract time with the seeming joy of a boy. He arrived fighting-fit in both arenas, referred to by life practitioners as then and now.

  The old man threw in plenty of crowd sounds to go with his imagining. Arjuna recalled the virulent hand claps he had always received in his day. The large crowd shouted from all four grand directional points of the compass save one. They cheered him on wildly as their valiant hero.

  Arjuna’s army, three bands fifty and he at the helm as their brigade commander, was surely back again. The gambling rebel in him too had returned, and with plenty of time on his hands. The one with the great charisma then recalled the thunderous applause he had always received from his once magnificent army. This resounded deafeningly now in his ears. Arjuna’s mind had only just come back to the valley when a gigantic roar lit up over one section of this fantastic flower crowd.

  Arjuna watched his self as in real-time video. He saw his younger self bend to tee up on the opening hole of his first major. He recalled just a day earlier at practice when paired with two well-known players. Both were in mid-careers at the time, and one had afforded him a challenge-promoting comment.

  The remark had at first mortified him. Later, as the days turned into months then years that too piled up, the words only gladdened him. He surmised that this moment had helped shape him as a player as well as into a mature man. It added to his cherished memories of the yesteryears.

  The incident took place after one of the pair of marquee names, considered among the game's legends, grimaced while watching Arjuna take another nervous hack at the ball. This famous player said to the other, and loud enough so Arjuna could hear it, 'What’s this kid doing here?'

  Another recollection came to him. he recalled with warm fondness the satisfied look on the venerable man himself. He recognized the grand master of this celebrated tourney. The great gentleman appeared to welcome this brand of tough mental competition. He was in his chair at the time and smiling, looking as if he were enjoying a well-earned breather. In utterless awe, Arjuna thought it remarkable that this man is voted, even in this modern day and age, time after time still, as the greatest player who ever lived.

  Arjuna returned then to this flowered valley, designed by some unperceived greatness.

  A picture appeared of this famous player. It showed in the sky beside one mountain peak. It was nearest the heavens also. It looked to have been from the time of his greatest triumph, achieving golf's Grand Slam.

  The image Arjuna had in mind was the size of a building’s hoarding. It looked to entice all who might try their luck up here with the message, Come relax with the Divine. Flash forward to today on a superb, bright-lit summer’s morning, the message rumbled with authority.

  Arjuna’s consciousness came back to register a practice swing. The old man understood the decision to swing had been made on his behalf while he was away. He wanted to know how this could happen without him being properly informed.

  His fidgety reflexes perked up then. He gripped the upstart driver in an effort to quell a rebellion. The youthful Arjuna, with the down-to-earth manner, appeared ready to take up the big swing. He looked all set to go with his flamboyant, go-for style that was all out.

  His body went through a flurry of whipped-up activities. One more practice swing was administered, and this time he was present. The swing effort was a genial leg-spinner, sweetened for any situational humor on primetime TV. It was over in a flash when the club rose at the follow through in apparent high triumph.

  Arjuna remained pointing his arms towards the heavens. His follow through looked to be a solemn flag-hoist. This seemed to be one for the guys. He rested the club onto his shoulder to the memory of those he was fond of recalling.

  In his heart Arjuna knew they were temporarily inhabiting the grandest of all pasturelands, to get refreshed, before returning to compete again, with an equal amount of style along with a whole lot of grace.

  With his feet somewhat planted, the old man hitched up his pants. Arjuna did this a time or two more in a routine that could pass as a ritual in a pagan religion. This was quite entertaining to young Nicolas. He looked to have benefited immensely. He thought it curious to get ready this way, one in which nobody could forget soon.

  The once-assured or one called King by his legion of loyal followers, and begrudgingly so by his competitors, turned his hips to stand better over the ball.

  Suddenly he backed away from it. He stepped out of the pocket to walk a few paces behind. The old man gave ball and flower fairway a long look. He did this while furiously reforming his grip on the driver.