Then the ball did break onto a better line. It headed directly at the hole. It occurred to him that his putting had not lost its sheen. He felt the God-touch might still be his.
"Yes!" he said.
At the hole the ball did not go in dead center. It turned at the end. The ball spun from centrifugal force around the top curvature condition of the hole. It did a complete 360. It stopped then staggered on the lip of the cup. It looked like any sad wayfarer, standing on a street-side curb.
Nicolas hastened a low groan. Several funeral pyres burned in him. He looked on the cusp of bursting into a tall flame of fire.
Again, Nicolas felt sorry for coming up here for this. The little ball looked as if it could stay on this hard edge forever. Repeated sharp looks at it did not improve the situation. In place of dropping in, the ball rested on the cup comfortably.
The ball looked satisfied being between a thing dead and in the hole and one alive and on top. It stayed on that thin line perched between here and then gone. To him, the ball had turned traitor. He believed it was intent on spiting him.
Nicolas added a few undesirable remarks. The agony of his play till now, coupled with this close-but-no-cigar effort, came to him now as a pair of seeing-red charging bulls. He looked on the boil. A hectic lobbying for allies followed. Nicolas was dumbfounded, bitter at being left lone up here and standing there haggling with no one.
He stared at the ball that remained on the rim of the cup. He could not comprehend how it could make such a lovely turn at the hole, then have the appalling gall to not drop in. He could not understand how it could do such a thing to him, an otherwise gentle fellow. It seemed nature was designed for pinning down any course-goer, as something of a rule of thumb.
Once more Nicolas decided against using anger. He chose not to do with his club what he had done in circumstances such as this, which was plant it. He felt he had one option left. He then began the mature process of letting his shadow do the dirty work.
Nicolas moved to put himself between the sun, the ageless wonder here, and the dark hole. He stood between the one burning bright and the white ball, or object that frequently disobeys. He felt the ball and hole could still be united in a type of matrimony, with attendees enjoying a brief show of an eclipse of the sun.
Except for where his ball lay, the swarming sunrays were successful in covering all in the Valley of Flowers. The ball remained atop the edge of the cup as the great Spaniard's in '84. It seemed hell-bent on inflicting him pain.
Suddenly he glimpsed a wish-fulfilling wobble. Then, like preceding the birth of time, the ball appeared to quiver. A blaze of sunshine showed over the cup. Nicolas had moved from excitement but was soon back in position. He stood in the sun's light and froze. He felt he still had some chance.
18
Nicolas no longer felt in control of his mind. He felt he had little control over his body too. As to what his physical self might do next, he could not be certain: toss up his cap, kick up a leg, go into a Scottish jig even, if the thing dropped in.
And the ball did remain shaky. It continued its balancing act atop the lip of the cup. The ball kept up its devil dance known to him now as The Great Tease.
Despite his fervent wish for it, it looked unwilling to roll over and just die. It appeared ready to continue its death dance in front of him forever. The ball remained atop the lip of the cup for a full four, five, six seconds and more or entire length of all eternity.
Then it did move, and against the odds.
Nicolas looked at the grass sensing his own struggle with gravity. Without consciously knowing it, he began lofting his putter in celebratory anticipation. He lifted the club, bit by slow bit, with ever-growing assurance.
Then it happened. All at once, in a slow counter-rotational spiral that kept the suspense alive, the ball gravitationally lost its struggle for life against death. It plunged into the cylindrical dark cup that looked massless or time-like. It fell beneath a sky lit ablaze by the all-seeming uncaring. Into this end-state the ball disappeared, pure and for keeps.
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 newest 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 this 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 rucksack 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 pick up and put 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 of the violence he had just administered to all in the Valley of Flowers. He hoped only to get back his mood-making self belief or mojo.
The freshness of the mountain air was then 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.
Nature 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 then 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 then 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. And the message was that it would be foolish to bet against him.
As for the app
lause that always followed, loud and clear in his ears, and straight through childhood, Nicolas heard even more. He felt nothing now of 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 around 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 from 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. And he felt he would be perfect from here on out.
But then 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 into 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 to 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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Valley of Flowers Page 10