Valley of Flowers

by Chris Collins

The club traveled low. Its silver coating made it seem like a snow leopard stalking. The sleek beast crept across the moist grass slowly. The club left a visible trail where dew had been. It lifted up sharply. His hips turned then from the tension caused by his also-turning shoulders.

  The club arrived at a spot short of the usual preparatory high point in any swing’s life, which was more or less at parallel. He looked determined to haul off and belt it.

  In the next instant, the now-young Arjuna threw life off to death and let life be born to it yet again and the ball was away, itself a born and created thing. The one flying, rising majestic and beautiful took its rightful spot among the gods in heaven. It seemed content in that high place.

  Arjuna had finished on a high as well. He had finished with his trademark flying-high elbows. To those looking on anxiously, the club pointing up might have seemed like a spiraling up staircase.

  Arjuna looked to be pointing a direct path to the high holy gates. To others, his finish may have looked as if someone were holding up a sword, beckoning all comers to try and test him. It only ended for him with the sudden realization that this psychic trauma was over.

  He stayed in his follow through position. The young-again Arjuna remain posed or beautifully suspended. He wanted to make sure a lesson had indeed been learned. He felt the youth could benefit from this awesome display of power.

  Then the moment came when all had time enough to study his swing and take good note.

  Arjuna brought the club down. He rested it against his left shoulder. The old man did this, though not before allowing photographers their time needed to record, for tomorrow's headlines say, this memorable head-to-head.

  10

  Back onto this hard-matter existence, curiously referred to as a type of present, Arjuna had bowled a googly. In this one reality, hard and physical, the old man had hit a Jerry Ford crowd-ducker into the first shoots of flowers. He had sclaffed the ground hard at impact and the ball left the tee lead-like. It looked shot from a country-made pistol. It had taken off in what is commonly termed as plain ugly.

  The ball had gone stem-skimming. It had ignored the lake or problem area referred to astutely by game regulators as a water hazard. The ball had appeared to search hastily for a reasonable spot to exit. This was in contrast to its earlier incarnation back on the tee as one cool customer. It had scurried off into the sidelined marginalia as a vacationist. It went into an area not far off the mound. The ball had gone into a place where it looked like hay was kept.

  The old man’s swing did finish high. His arms twisted up in his trademark corkscrew. He had on an expression that was a true collector’s item. Arjuna looked to where his ball had gone with a mixture of relief and some stark disbelief. He understood it had gone into a nearby maze of tall flowers. His drive had fallen short of his high hopes for it. Suddenly he called after the shot with renewed gusto.

  "May you reincarnate as a two-toed, pod-shod Gujarati camel!" he said.

  Nicolas, with a clenched fist he held quaking around his mouth, resisted laughing outright. Then a smile did break through. His grin showed where before it had been strictly forbidden.

  The old man smiled too. He understood well the precarious nature of participating on this plane of existence. Arjuna was filled then with the feeling of outright humility.

  The youth broke loose. Nicolas burst out laughing without regard on how it might be perceived.

  Arjuna turned to him. The old man said in mock-apology for his comment over a well-known ornery Indian camel, "Forgive me, friend."

  Arjuna took this chance to play-act more. He did this for the youth's enjoyment, as well as for his ever-present vast army. He returned the clubhead to the ground. He did this in a resigning gesture. Arjuna shook his head in performed disbelief. He went on to his act's next logical conclusion. He tapped down the ground that had strangely popped up. Arjuna knocked back the dreaming tufts of grass. The old man followed this with his brand of humor over a ball that had clearly gone missing.

  "Is it gone?" he cracked, and the youth laughed until a trail of tears came to make him stop.

  "Yeah," Nicolas managed, adding the needless.

  Arjuna stepped forward once. His pant leg was given one final hike as if this was the thing missing from his earlier preparations. This was followed fast by a deep-knee bend. The old man swiped across the grass with his free hand. He picked up the remains of the tee. He flicked the mortally wounded thing off to the side with performed disdain. He looked to the youth for confirmation that all was well and good up here and smiled.

  Nicolas went along gladly with the old man. He laughed while appearing to cry also. His infectious smile, along with the youth’s good humor, turned each to enjoying life with laughter. Both shrugged. But then, gravely, what came to Nicolas next was the realization that it was now his turn to play. He understood the moment to start here, in India's northern reaches, had now arrived.

  Inside the fright sense came to him then as butterflies in the thousands. This tryst with the terror feeling did not come alone. What came to greet him also, as to thrust him hard under a glaring spotlight was the urgent, though not too unexpected need to find a place up here, in these wide-open spaces, to privately pee.

  Nicolas Kumar went to relieve himself. On coming back he discovered his mind had gone missing. This seemed to be not enough to the gods bent on messing with him, as the wind picked up then as if to toss him. Nicolas pretended he was all bashed up. It seemed to him the flowers had been pulled up and were just now darting him. He imagined he was made up of pierced metal. To help himself, he focused on his rucksack that stood by in tacky splendor.

  Nicolas, once a cool customer himself, made an effort to return from wherever his mind had gone. He moved to take delivery of his own driver. He decided that if he were still in this confused state, he would go through the motions and tee off anyway. He told himself to rely on muscle memory to get through the shot. Before being handed the driver, he told himself also he would not take as much time as this elder. Not even.

  He had another go over the sorry plight of the flowers. His thinker went on another dramatic flight. His fearing pulled him from his body. This left him so immobile.

  Like by magic, Nicolas Kumar discovered that his jacket had miraculously been removed. It lay atop his rucksack. He discovered too that his left hand was reaching out then for a driver he did not now recognize.

  Arjuna handed him the club like nothing at all was wrong. He gave it to him as if it were a common broom and he had in mind a few household chores for him to do.

  For his part, Nicolas felt he had been given the sweeping item with no instructions on how to actually use it. In his other hand, he discovered one ball and also one blue tee. The sad look of the ball and tee made them appear headed for some premature end.

  Nicolas sent his sight to patrol over the valley. He gazed at all those whose only apparent crime was to stand there and look pretty. He looked at the flowers lit ablaze by fantastic hues and also at the sparkling lake. Nicolas automatically determined the lake was within his reach. It seemed to be in cahoots with the sky-highs. Nicolas looked from the lake’s reflection to other areas in the valley. Included in this too were his usual yardstick calculations.

  He turned his attention from the fairway, the cool air and blazing sunshine, to the spectacular waterfall and escalating Himalayas, rising to heights in the background. He returned to the time of his greatest glory. Unlike Arjuna, the time he thought of was not far back. It was only two weeks ago at the time he qualified for the Open Championship.

  With this rediscovery of his great golfing self, he came back and said quietly, "But how shall I among friends?"

  Nicolas looked to the fast-flowing stream. He searched its ever-present tranquility. He hunted next for the sign that attempted to ward off all trespassers. He peered out at the valley. It was plagued riotously by colorful wildflowers. His feelings sank into more sadness. Nicolas fretted again over the fate of these li
ttle beauties.

  Is this designed only to tarnish my fair name? he asked his self. Nobody should be allowed to malign me.

  He tried to relax. Nicolas believed it was best to take it easy. He pulled from his jacket pocket the course map or journal. Nicolas began reading from it, though not this time for the perceived bit of poetry. He read for the actual concrete yard measurements. He looked to the map for helpful tidbits that could be gleaned from it if any.

  One option was to put it into the lake. He again judged the area to be in reach. Nicolas thought to hit it to a spot more conventional. The idea of sending his tee shot into the drink returned to like light him up.

  The youth thought more on the gravity of this situation. He believed hitting in the lake was the best of bad choices. He began calculating the force needed for such a drive.

  Gaining merit here won't be easy, Nicolas told himself.

  This thought shined in him. Nicolas put on a slight smile. He felt he would be saving lives this way. Yes, he thought. Then he said softly, "Easy."

  His considerations then included the wind coming in from the east. It traveled at about five kilometers per hour. He felt its sudden change of direction. It occurred to him this quick-change artist had been sent to aid him.

  More likely, he well knew, was that the wind had arrived to plague or even stop him.

  Nicolas chose not to oppose the idea of sending his drive into the lake. He felt relieved after deciding. He asked his self if he should use his 3-wood or his 3-iron. One feeling rose suggesting he use neither. That sense forwarded some. It raced down to his awaiting-production hands that did just that. And the reason his little grippers may have given for the hold up, if able, would likely have been of the nature-loving kind.

  He told himself, Nothing is ever permanent.

  Nicolas went to put back his driver. He set aside his jacket that lay on top. He returned the club to his grouped-up set or perceived dud kit. He thought of his forthcoming offense against life. Nicolas yanked from his pack the 3-wood he called Little Benefit. The club was his chosen candidate to avoid all flower destruction.

  His choice appeared final. The expression on his hardened face suggested a landmark judgment had just been handed down from the High Court, after 10 years of waiting.

  11

  "Here you should not look for shortcuts," Arjuna advised. "Nor should you seek ladders to step easily onto some top, as the priority here is to participate. Whether upon peak or fair open valley you should not be in any mad rush to ape others who have come to this place."

  The old man took in a breath. He considered what more to add. He said, "Now's the time to create for yourself, and for All That Is because at very essence you are alone here."

  He felt confused. I am alone here? Nicolas asked himself. It occurred to him that he might avoid all unnecessary heat by just staying quiet. He thought to step up and take a whack at it short and sweet.

  Yet he was going nowhere. He looked at the ball put up on display. The round one seemed to be resting atop the blue tee comfortably. The ball looked like a standing monument highlighting his inactivity.

  Nicolas needed help saying Yes! to it. His mind remained uncertain. He hesitated more. He could not hit or cremate this body of a ball until he received word or had gotten the green signal. He wished to be free of these heavy-as-iron 18 holes, linked each-to-each, which felt clasped around his prisoner's legs. Nicolas Kumar looked forward to being free of these manacles.

  He peered at the lake. The lake was known to village locals, domestic tourists, the legions of pilgrims who visit barefoot annually, as The Protector of the Masses. The Protector of the Masses Lake lay well in range of his trusty 3-wood. He thought to consign his drive there. He felt clever in thinking he could hit it into the water hazard and therefore waste it.

  Nicolas said aloud so this guide could hear it, "Never have I felt so bad on a course."

  Not one word came back from Arjuna. As he had hoped to come out of this with clean hands, Nicolas Kumar decided to send his drive into the lake or catchment area. He felt it worthwhile to incur the what-the-hell penalty, and do so whether this good teacher liked it or not.

  Yes, I believe I will, he thought, reaffirming his choice.And he pointed down the flower fairway to the lake.

  Nicolas told the old man, "As I want moksha for myself I'll play for it to go there and hope for divine charity. This is just so my soul won't forever be cussing me."

  Arjuna offered nothing by way of a returning comment. This puzzled young Nicolas. He believed this teacher could not possibly be lost for words.

  He threw Arjuna a glance. Nicolas discovered the old man was looking low and that his head was downcast. He saw that Arjuna was smiling slightly. To Nicolas, he appeared to agree with his decision to put it in the lake. But then it occurred to him Arjuna might have given up altogether on instructing him.

  Either way it was no longer in his power to say, Nicolas thought. I'm going to do it.

  As this guide no longer had much stronghold over him, he felt quite good about his decision. He stepped a few paces behind the ball to line up. He was enjoying this teacher's solemn silence and hoped it might continue.

  "Only a few measured steps," Nicolas whispered, and again he stared down the many-flowered fairway.

  Stand there and do not think of a solitary thing, the youth said inside. Before taking up the club, think only to set it at the top, he added. Hold it for a second or so. A full swing with not a lot of power will get you there.

  Nicolas, done speaking to himself, moved to set up. The old man coughed. Nicolas looked sharply his way.

  "Wonderful!" cried Arjuna. "Choosing which side to stand is an excellent place to start. You were probably just asking yourself, Shall I take the right-hand path or the left? If you were thinking this, you must understand too that victory by way of the left is known as the Hero Path. Victory by way of the right is that of the Devotee. And of course there is another way. This most hallowed path does not clamor for the reliability of idolisms or perceived perspectivisms. Nor does it require the staging of oaths that appear to deem, to the mind of the simple, one good. This way might be called The Way of the Celestial. It is neither left nor right nor here nor there. It is of the quiet mind only, seeking out ways to approach the feet of the Mother, and to do so with utmost respect. The three are all just and good, of course, as I am not saying they are not. And certainly my saying something is just and good is also choice. I only say this to discourage imparting simplicity or bland discourse. I can see on your face by the roll of your eyes I have gone on too much. Please, continue with whatever it was you were doing."

  Nicolas thought the old man's speech somewhat overlong. He considered what all was said but did not catch a whole lot of meaning. He took note of this and told himself also, If even there was any meaning.

  He thought this guide's interruption gave him an excuse to back off the shot. Nicolas decided to accept it. He stepped out of the pocket or open beggar's home. Nicolas removed himself from the usual set-up position. He did this in the same manner the old man had done a moment or so ago.

  He stepped three paces to the rear. Nicolas went to a spot he hoped might provide his final refuge. He backed up a fourth step to get away more. Along the way he gave this good teacher a look. He peered at Arjuna while pretending to be O so deeply disappointed in him.

  Then news came crushingly back to inform Nicolas that it was now his turn to play. It warned him over issuing more excuses. The choice, he heard inside his head, is yours.

  He peered doomed out at the flower valley. Nicolas stood as one who had been ill but had since gotten over it. He looked as if he had been given a blessed second chance. He decided on one area in the lake to hit. He stepped up with renewed focus. Nicolas felt strengthened by his ability to swing to near-perfection. He approached the rounded one atop the tee as a devotee visiting Swami.

  Back at the ball, he put his right foot forward then the other. He observed a momen
t of intense devotion. Nicolas looked as if he alone had penetrated the boundary defined by many as time and space.