Valley of Flowers Read online

  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.

  His sight ascended tens of thousands of kilometers then, as he looked to the grand eternal expanse or bottomless blue business that was this morning’s sky.

  Arjuna peered lower, towards the current pantheon of telling points. He gazed at this range’s seven snow-clad peaks. The old man looked to the constructed castle spree up in the crisp cool air. The mountains seemed prone to long-term fits of melancholy.

  His focus came back then, though not resting on one flower cluster, or swath of blue poppies, brilliantly illumined and standing sprightly out of a solid stone, nor was his focus on this colorful communion, where the gods had seemingly tossed down flowers as darts for over a millennia, but on the minute.

  Just then the ground before him abruptly broke open. Through the popped-up tuft of grass a single stem rose. At first this flower came up unsteadily. It went on to put out boldly though the hard knot of a new bud.

  Arjuna watched this miracle of life grow. He saw it rise, struggle to mature, amid the elements and the ever-present life changes. He moved to get a closer look. The old man wanted to study better a water bubble that had miraculously formed on one fragile leaf. To him, the reverse image that showed on the bubble's face reflected well a delicate avant-garde or work that is experimental.

  Arjuna felt the tinge of apprehension. He fretted some over the fate of this flower with the O so subtle gleam.

  The old man was concerned its shine could be broken by so much as a scratch from a butterfly's foot.

  The flower reached a peak. Arjuna felt blessed for having seen this beauty grow up, evolve amidst all here and then age. He watched this flower begin to wilt. Arjuna observed the flower bend low now, onto the ground, to die.

  "Yes," he said, in answer to the youth's original question. "What we resist persists in this miracle and daily informs us that much in this world is O so agreeably lovely."

  The comment supported and got keys to this faultless earthly palace,which readily serves all, together with the coarse, the poor and downtrodden, the powerless and the voiceless.

  "Well," said Nicolas, fashioning to gain control of these pretty premises, and he was well on the lookout now for this opportunity while the art market was still booming. "If life is going to bring this opportunity, and I do get my fair chance, I should do fairly well here."

  With this, Arjuna reached in his pack to rustle up an item to give this eager young fellow. On finding it the old man held the thing out for him to come take.

  "Here," he said. "Inside a map is provided with descriptions of the holes you will encounter along the way. The map shows their lengths and pathways to them. Do you have a compass with you?" Arjuna asked.

  Nicolas felt through his shirt for the compass-as-whistle hanging round his neck.

  "Yes," he said happily, stepping over to the old man.

  "Good," said Arjuna. "Now I have written a few words for your record of play. These hymns to the gods are meant to be heard. So, when you read them to yourself they will be heard! If you find they are useful to you, sing their praises by please using them."

  When Nicolas thought the old man was done speaking, he put his hands together at the chest meaning I recognize the god within you. He bowed slightly to this elder and teacher. He accepted the handmade coursebook with both hands. He did this as if receiving possession papers to a grand palace, or accepting
the keys to creation, happy to get custody but sad too because he sensed all this gift-giving might soon be over.

  As the old man moved to sit more comfortably, Nicolas opened his course journal there and then. He began reading to himself the old man's written mantra for this 1st hole, on the Indian Himalayan course known as Truind.

  There are various ways of warfare, not merely with simple metal weapons, having a reflective, meditative mind among them. Become expert in these many other ways. Begin your duty then, providing an unmatched contribution.

  Nicolas concentrated on the note. He looked at its strange script for some significance. He mulled over one fragment of this teacher's say of words to arrive at some gist.

  Happy in the garden already, on a day made for doing endless somersaults, he felt the message in the handmade textbook were meaningless lyrics to a song, and so Nicolas lifted an eyebrow then shrugged.

  "All right then," he said not comprehending, though feeling quite the star or darling to the masses. Again he looked at this teacher’s curious say of words. Once more his mind ventured out. But then he gladdened at this note, which he felt had come from a loving lord.

  Nicolas told himself to get serious and to concentrate. Still he appeared only ready to accept a funny one-liner. He felt performing on this initial stage was all about having fun. He believed a series of triumphs were sure to be his.

  But just as Nicolas looked up from his course journal as a giggle-puss, there roused in him an element of curiosity. This doubt puffed, swelled up to become a great cloud of suspicion, hanging as if over his head.

  Nicolas had no idea what the subject matter was. This left his thinking as the breeze, in something of a drift. Then a cold wave of air swept through to chill and even buckle up his skin.

  The mystery note had not gone away. It held up motionless, ordinary, markedly self-denying as a vacant cartoon bubble, when just then a solitary message appeared in it as a Pop! in any Eureka moment.

  The bolt-from-the-blue communication struck and pierced his exalting heart. It had him reeling under this new red-flagged occasion. It spawned in him a simple though urgent question. Where is the fairway?

  4

  One answer came as a heavy thud. This was followed fast by his quick-beating heart. Right before his eyes there seemed to be a severe paint-peeling going on. This marked well his extreme disappointment.

  Nicolas staggered some in his thoughts. He felt barely able to stand also, physically. If he toppled, Nicolas imagined he might appear as yet another hooch tragedy, emanating from the alcohol-selling state of Gujarat.

  He looked eyes-glazed over the flower valley. He peered at what had once been his exact image of perfect peace and absolute goodness.

  He scanned the multitude of flowers that sparked his fears. He looked dartingly there and there.

  Once a tall, 185 cm figure and proud, Nicolas felt greatly diminished. He stood in silence. He looked for any space for an escape. He saw in the violent realities there was no known room without occupying flowers.

  His hopes sank to their lowest lows. His eagerness now was plainly missing as with state funds being siphoned.

  Nicolas inhaled deeply. He found all this hard to digest.

  What is this all about anyway? he thought.

  More words out of frustration may have come from him had there been no real self control. At this time he thought to cast himself in the role as a defender.

  Nicolas felt these flowers with their bright worried faces were like candles lighted in protest. He heard them raise hue and cry over the desecration issue. He thought the time spent coming up this high heap had all been thoroughly wasted.

  He looked down and drained. Nicolas was convinced he would be heading back down the mountain soon. He had dreams of idle perfection. He turned to Arjuna to express his deep concern.

  Having seen the change coming, the old man had readily risen. Arjuna looked prepared, standing, waiting beside his small pack. He stood unmoving, not shuffling nor shifting about. He appeared ready and willing, as with any good mentor, to accept whatever may come from the aggrieving youth. And Nicolas did speak.

  "Sir, you confuse me," he said in an upset voice. "Am I to hit into these many flowers?"

  Nicolas felt he was at some life crossroads. He braced to cope. He stared at the array of colorful wildflowers without having much hope for them.

  "Destruction before creation," said Arjuna tenderly, as in a condolence message.

  This communication was delivered soft. It arrived as if at his doorstep, however, as a norm-buster. Nicolas replayed the message from this good teacher. Again it went off as a planted bomb. A moment of some silence passed between them. Both understood without thinking of it that silence in their culture was not at all offending.

  Still the quiet felt like an affronting whipped-up wind.

  More seconds passed where each thought the other should say something. The old man caved first.

  Initially, Arjuna broke the silence with a throat-clearing cough. He then added a retiring line that denoted grave kindness.

  "It is always this way," he said," and in this way beauty calls."

  Nicolas was in turmoil, his eyes fixed and housed terror. It seemed as if bricks and rubble had been strewn all round. He stood there in bits and pieces.

  For his part, Arjuna resisted the base urge to rectify or even solve the problem. He sought only to add to this correct code of conduct. The old man used his influencing strong voice that made starting play here seem almost mandatory.

  "Finally," said Arjuna, "this is Shiva and this is love."

  At first Nicolas tried to understand this fine nuance. Then he had a look suggesting that even attempting to understand this high philosophy could only boomerang back onto him.

  As playing here would be quite unjust, it occurred to him motivating others, to perhaps join some movement, would be his highest priority. It dawned on this peace promoter too that a candlelight vigil, set for the evening say, might help highlight the grave hazards in playing here.

  Only at the last minute did Nicolas move away from saying aloud his wild slew of schemes. He had no desire now to step onto this many-flowered valley, or subtlest example of the Divine Mother’s good grace.

  He looked to Arjuna for some change of heart. He saw only that the old man was ready to speak more.

  "Now it's best for you not to know too much truth," said Arjuna with consternation, "or concern yourself with too much understanding. If you were to come to know All, you would not for a single moment think to harm another, eat the flesh of an animal. This I am quite sure. If you were to know All, a look of horror, Absolute Truth’s first salvo, would bolt across your face in a lightning’s flash. Maybe you would fall to your knees just then and bleat like sheep. Along my many life-wanderings, I have seen this look numberless times. For you, and it will not always be this way, moving towards wisdom is by performing deed, for yourself and for All That Is, and only by performing deed do you make Truth be your vow. These are the words I care to express to you, so enjoy heatedly then, by getting out there and performing, as there can be no substitute, all the while remembering that from the four main points of the compass, as well as from above and below, life will come at you. So be ready."

  Arjuna allowed a few seconds to pass without speaking more. He gifted himself this break to take in a quantity of air. He replenished his expended breath. Then he went back into the hunt.

  "Now I ask you, Nicolas, what are you hesitating about? Go on and take on this battle. Get into the game now and carry out your born-into promise."

  Nicolas looked out at a sea of distressed flowers. This had him thinking he was not at all ready for this horrific hand and foot action.