Valley of Flowers (2 page)

And while the discussion participants were
accustomed, chained-to scholars of the game that provokes and
maddens, immersed in solemn contemplation at one moment, then
eagerly arguing a point in another, the question was going mostly
unanswered.

When one brought up the name of a player
playing in the present, this was opposed with the argument that
this player has enjoyed playing with better equipment than those
who had come before. When a player from the distant or not too
distant past was suggested, it was argued that this player had
enjoyed playing at a time when there was far less competition as
the game's popularity was not nearly so great.

As the debate was heading this way, to a
most uncertain conclusion, Nicolas, his admirers pleased with fame
and victory and the crowd's loud voice emerging behind him,
interrupted his father’s group yet again with his declaration. This
stunned the crowd into a formal awkward hush.

Only when Nicolas insisted on speaking out
of place, by repeating his statement yet one more time, did he
receive a response from his beloved father.

His father smiled at first. He put on a
fantastic 32-teeth display. He spoke his words clearly, firmly, to
his son and for all to hear.

'Nicolas! It seems your ego is getting the
best of you! Go now, and give it to death!'

Following this, the next several days at
home were spent preparing for this departure. Nicolas Kumar,
confused and heartbroken, begged his father's forgiveness and for
some explanation.

But none were given. In their place he was
told where to begin his journey and which way to go. He was told
what conditions he could expect once there, and to gather all the
supplies he felt he would need and could reasonably carry on such a
high mountain trip. He was also told to do it at once.

Mournfully, he sat alone in what was now the
punishment corner of his room. Sadly, he turned his head towards
the wall as to join with an imaginary other. Nicolas remained this
way in a type of commiserating huddle. He had the feeling of being
fastened to this unhappy other character.

Nicolas struggled to catch some
understanding of his hurts, his feelings of brokenness and
resentments, along with his marring bitterness.

Some time passed before he rose by will. He
went to his study table to make out a list of things he wanted to
have with him in the mountains. When this list became too long he
tore it up and threw it out.

Again, Nicolas conjured up a catalog of
essentials and this list too was made overlong.

At about this time he pleaded out loud for
the kitchen to come serve him. He called for a plate of croissants,
along with a masala omelet with juice to be brought to him. Soon
after he was enjoying another worthy entrée. He gobbled up precious
pancakes, soaked in delectable syrup, along with hot-melted butter
that was presented to him in his room.

That done, Nicolas felt more or less ready
to get down to the business of preparing. He directed his mind to a
single task without mood swing and soon found a solution there.

He would begin with a number.

Nicolas began with the weight he knew he
could carry, twenty-two kilograms. He added two kilos to this. As
his clubs would be the heaviest items in his pack he went about
seeing to them to start.

Along with his three wedges, two woods and a
putter, he logically considered minimizing his tote by taking with
him only the odd-numbered irons, though not a 1-iron as he did not
carry one. He reasoned that if a shot required an 8-iron, he could
either jump on a nine or ease off a seven.

As for retaining both woods, he hoped to
take advantage of the added distance the thin air offered, as there
would be no telling how long some holes might be up in the
Himalayas. Driver included, he felt quite capable with his woods
off the fairway. He felt confident too, given reasonable lies, he
could achieve good height on most shots hit with them.

Nicolas reviewed his club selection once
more. He lingered on the idea of flat refusing one of his three
recovery-agent wedges. Faced with the decision of leaving behind
his pitching wedge, his lob wedge or sand wedge, Nicolas was not as
certain as he had been with his standard irons.

The difference in shot length between his
sand wedge and his lob wedge was approximately twenty-two meters;
the difference between his pitching wedge and sand wedge was
another twenty meters, and not the concern.

What he wanted from them most were their
cutting blades, unique to each, with varied uses and customized for
him.

Finally he decided to retain all three.
Nicolas determined he would not want to be faced with a greenside
recovery shot when one of the left-behind wedges was clearly
required.

Believing his selection had been sensibly
made, Nicolas pulled from his bag the chosen clubs of his regular
set. He took them to the rice vendor for weighing at the outdoor
market. When asked to weigh the clubs, the rice seller had given
him a questioning look.

'What is the use of these sticks?' asked the
mustachioed vendor, placing the clubs on the weighing scale.

One answer came from the vegetable stall
next door that was the market hub.

'Police truncheons,' said the vegetable
seller, handing a bag of onions to a customer.

'Made special for the Centre,' affirmed the
happy customer accepting the goods.

Nicolas explained the use of the weighed
clubs. And while still distraught over his current bleak plight, he
marveled too then that even in this mega city, in this modern day
and age, there were still those who did not know the enslaving game
known as golf, or even himself now, Nicolas Kumar, idol to hundreds
of thousands and made famous recently by his name and image being
broadcast round the world.

The scale read four kilograms. And although
he had the expectation of a higher number, he was not at all
pleased with the amount. Savings in weight, he reasoned, would have
to come elsewhere.

Eventually, Nicolas would carry a
modified-down pack (670g) that included other ultra-lightweight
camping gear, such as a goose-down sleeping bag (960g), with liner
and pad (400g), one silicone-flyweight tent, yellow, with soft pegs
and weighing 1.2 kilograms, along with a mini-stove and fuel bottle
(350g), a water bottle, full, weighing just under two kilograms, a
less-than-a-liter cooking pot (120g), a bowl, a pint-sized cup with
a spoon, 5x10 binoculars, a medical kit, a short rope and small
knife, a 288 rupee grey umbrella, plus a torchlight and lighter, a
fold-up shovel, sunglasses and sun cream, a sun cap to protect him
from the burning high-altitude sun, a toothbrush, tooth powder,
soap, and one quick-dry towel that would also be on his priorities
checklist.

He would have with him a dozen-and-a-half
balls (45g each) arranged in the box as a truncated triangle, 3 4 5
6.

Nicolas would bring with him cold weather
clothing too, like a windcheater and gloves, an extra pair of
briefs, dry-fast synthetic socks, black polypropylene tights, shell
pants or overtrousers, a long-sleeved T-shirt, beneath a dark-blue
pullover, coupled with his red jacket and clutch pack.

And because he liked them, and since they
were already well-broken in, the hiking boots he planned to wear
would be the waterproof, Italian-made pair his father had brought
back for him from Nepal.

Nicolas always wore a watch on his wrist
when he played, and for this trip too he would have with him round
his neck a small compass in the form of a red whistle.

As for food he would buy most of it in the
hilltop village at the start of his trek. Altogether he judged the
food to weigh around 4 kilograms. It would consist of muesli, flat
round breads, two-minute noodles, freeze-dried veggies, pasta,
beans and some rice.

Powdered milk would also be incorporated. He would have his
all-important tea, a mixed bag of nuts, a compliment of chocolate
bars, all of which were readily available at the hill
station's
kirana
store.

Preparations too, he well knew, included
leave-taking away from his much-loved father.

Matched with math questions, his budget,
regarding his days-long play up in the Himalayas, Nicolas had
continued preparing for any and all unknowns.

For this career timeout, he carried on
thinking up the worst possible scenarios and he tried planning for
them.

And there was little time. Soon approaching
was his train journey overnight, then bus ride further up the
mountain, leading the next day to a showtime Wednesday morning that
was, to him anyway, Moving Day.

Nicolas returned in his mind to this garden
paradise. He came back to this 1st tee box where community members
from the lower village had, decades ago, brought up two bronzed
pots to work as tee markers.

On the slopes of the valley he noticed
scattered here and there a few pint-sized trees, their limbs with
their leaves blowing in the occasional whipped-up cool breeze. He
felt this high garden was a faultless example of what could be
achieved on Earth: an oasis of perfect peace, plain and simple.

Nicolas took more mental note of the
incredible flower concentration. He gazed at all that was arrayed
under a brilliant sun. He believed all had been set there just for
him.

3

Just then Arjuna emerged carrying a large
conch onto the tee-block platform. The old man made his self
present amid this incredible earthly activity on tremendous scale.
Walking and breathing with effort, underneath the illuminative
shade of his rainbow-colored umbrella, Arjuna gratefully unsaddled
and set down his pack, his self sitting and resting on it. He sat
ruling the roost from there in the center of this fantasma.

Arjuna had a boyish grin on a deeply tanned
face. His experienced smiling eyes, great gifts from having seen so
much of the world with a balanced attitude, showed bright while
sparkling intense depths.

The old man's hair looked like puffs of
white clouds, not too unlike Lord Indra’s who playfully stole
heavenly cows in the old Vedas tale. His hair behind his ears had
the color of clouds also, but was a touch rain-bearing.

Arjuna was kitted out in synthetic black
pants that were modern and popular for trekking. To Nicolas, the
old man appeared more familiar with the age of silk ties, plus
fours and argyle socks.

He wore a blue-down jacket to keep himself
warm in the cool mountain air, and draped around his neck was a
pale-white shawl. The hand-spun, pashmina shawl rose and fell some
with his jacket reacting to his lungs taking in repeated deep
breaths.

The old man nodded in a kindly way. He
raised a hand to signal a short break or perhaps start up like the
band. This somewhat smiling elder held out for more air while
resting.

For having entered the valley of immortal
bliss, Arjuna straightaway had the cheerful suspicion from the old
myth of being carried off by nymphs and fairies. He delighted more
in large dollops of mysticism. He wondered what additional
mysteries were contained in the age-old stories from here, recorded
in the Hindu holy tracks he cherished.

With a touch of bewilderment, Arjuna half-expected trained
musicians with flutes, maestros from the Gwalior
gharana
, accompanied by hip-shake dancers, bedecked in
red-and-white saris, with their tinning bangles, jingle-bell
anklets and cheering enthusiastically, to come swooping down on the
wind, roll off onto this flowerful carpet, or glitzy affair, to
stand positively before him and performing in 3/4 time.

"
Look!
"
cried Nicolas, standing at the front of the tee box.
"
Isn’t it beautiful?
"
And with a sweep of
his arm he added a slow stroke over this celebrated
land.

Just off the tee was a blue-flower cluster.
From this patch of blue poppies, growing out inexplicably from a
crackless stone, the old man's mind rose more above the material
mundane. Arjuna's meditation was then on one blue leaf.

He looked to one patch of grass. The grass
stood near the stone from which these flowers grew.

Among the luminaries present, a butterfly
fluttered about. The butterfly gave this nature lover the
opportunity to observe near at hand the fine art of flying.

Arjuna watched this flier flit from flower
to flower and for a moment he marveled, wondering gladly, though
not for the first time, how this one fine thing was indeed
possible.

He felt not love for this poetic gathering
of butterfly, rock, flower, along with his humble self, but a
joyful anxiety, characterized as the will to do something in this
world and make some difference.

The old man considered worthwhile a strategy
to serve, or at least put a smile on the faces of these citizen
creatures for here. Arjuna flouted more this norm or strong feeling
to give back. He held out an upturned hand. He wished to give a
good landing place to this butterfly and O so valiant flier.