Golf in the Field of Time

Valley of Flowers

Book 1, Chapter 1                                        Garden on Top of the World

MANY TIMES IN THE LATE SUMMER light the youth had viewed flowered meadows ranging red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet-white. Many times too he had encountered dreamlike valleys of luster and loveliness in seeming peerless splendor. Countless now were his hopes and high expectations for a good solid round up here, on first seeing this famed valley’s primal beauty: gathering, giving, benefiting and accepting, multiple bests in a grand show of winners.

The area ahead looked awash in sunrays and colorful wildflowers, so expertly arranged and crowding the valley in thousands and millions there would be no counting their number. Dew-gilded gleaming flowers appeared in maximum bloom. These warm smiles accompanied his own carefree laughter, at the refined scene of high charm.

The glare from this presiding delegation captivated the youth and his senses took flight.

His readiness for the approaching contest suffered some from this giddiness, as he walked self-consciously up to the grassy tee-block square, gratification of the senses his highest goal.

1st hole, 328m par 4, Path of Distress and Discernment

Nicolas Kumar had arrived. He thought so. And pervading the fresh, sweet open air was a fragrant scent he took deep in his lungs. Pleasures from this and the envisioned field permitted him a wreathed, full-opulent moment beyond measure. The upward graph of his trek journey had brought him to this high mountain place — on a crisp cool morning that was his birthday.

The scene presented lent a warm ambience to his interiors; however, he might have preferred his father had simply gifted him a brand new BMW.

The 17-year-old Indian youth, pinch-fit from regular workouts, held up to take a breather like for couch potatoes. He felt the blunt chill of low temperatures. In front of his face, he noticed like for the first time a puff-cloud that formed and dissipated from his outgoing breath.

Gravity tugged.

Once more the school-going teenager breathed in deep that stretched his lungs to the utmost. Nicolas Kumar bowed to this mounting pressure. He exhaled while setting down his pack in a freestanding display. Gradually his breathing became more normal and he felt reassured.

Nicolas now thought being in the Indian Himalayas was a timely step for him, and one in the right direction.

He took off his red fleece jacket, wrapped around his waist, and laid it over his standing rucksack. In a no hurried manner, he removed his red cap and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. His skin and mid-length wavy hair were a similar color brown, with his skin darkened from many hours out in the sun on the practice range, or while out on the course during play. Dark eyebrows shielded his curious and eager slate-grey eyes which were good and quick, sharper for sighting long wood and iron shots out from mid-air, and from spotting the errant ones lying in the long grass.

When Nicolas Kumar returned his cap atop his head, he crooked it, with finger and thumb, and added more bend to the bill’s center. He fashion-forwarded it some. Again, he looked out over this of pulsating valley field. Wishful in wonderland he covered a lot of ground with his eyes observing. He wondered what a saunter through here would be like. Nicolas continued to receive bales full of colorful garlands, as each timeless frame-to-frame picture in his mind’s eye without exception solicited and obtained from him a brief promise to stay, and never again return to the jungle of concrete and commotion, roads or dividing walls, nor ever go back to the unholy rolling on juggernaut of live wire.

Nicolas Kumar stared still at the scene of immortal bliss and searched its tranquil wonders. Glee came through again to make him smile. Feeling as if he were floating, ready to accept whatever else might come his way, the innumerable flowers captured his eyeballs and now he looked mayest.

“Teledensity has certainly not reached here,” whispered the mostly city-centric youth, appreciatively.

Favoring red rhododendrons, and far from any maddening urban crowds, the plush sea of alpine flowers were in seeming palpable excitement over the possibilities of this one fine day in paradise.

Dotted here and there purple and blue, and raised from the earth, here a Himalayan blue poppy, there a cobra lily and edelweiss, the vibrant flowers in plenary portions were on glorious display, in an absolute must-have bouquet.

So inconceivable in its breadth, the flowerful assortment bathed a gentle glow over every seeable border with commendable finesse. And all seemed nourished by a fast-running stream, rushing through a slight middling valley.

The spill off came from the lifting waters of an in-the-distance small lake. Its check-dams were filled to the brim and stemming from a spectacular waterfall, flowing like champagne. And then lo! a rainbow: the grand clash of colors with pristine appeal. The color-combining wonder of airy substance, or perfect-blend intermediary between earth and the gods in heaven, gave more shape to this cut cake, ordered for the occasion of charmed magic, through excellent vision, and all got his mind into feeling divine timelessness and just right disarray.

Nicolas Kumar gazed more at this sparkle. He took in more the invigorating crisp clean air and view of a lifetime.

Subsequently he fought for ownership of this prime piece of land. The battle within him, however, did not drag on. Inside, his immediate plan to claim this superb property was simply to roll out the world’s best drive.

*****

valley of flowers

Book 1, Chapter 2                                         Great Advertising Space

THE STIRRING SIGHT impinged on the youth to put in place some for-his-own-good safety measures, and temper his excitement for here. But applause in his thoughts only compelled his mind to do otherwise.

So appealing was the view to the mind of this worshipper, the telebuff metro teen could not help but close his eyes in a pretend moment. He put his right hand high, then rested it against this heaving: his encasing chest charged with protecting his fast-fluttering heart.

With this thought-filled gesture, Nicolas Kumar at once believed he was sole guest of honor here. Alone for the moment and trapped inside, he was all set to reopen his eyes and resume telecasting from this high mountain spot, and great advertising space. He recalled with pleasure then, as well as some detail, all that led to one rather remarkable accomplishment. What he remembered with considerable satisfaction his qualifying for the Open Championship, only a fortnight back.

Nicolas held this event close to him. He had it wadded up like a ball of paper, and stored deep inside his breast pocket. This story of success took place again and again inside his echo-chamber mind, as if he had gone all out that day and saved 19 lives. With a valorous attitude, he cherished this, like later on he had been presented with a red-on-white bravery award, made of ribbon. On return in the next instant, Nicolas Kumar believed all in the valley was like him at this time, immersed in his own coronation fever. The youth became quite pleased with himself also, for making it all the way up this mountain, without having hired a piththoo, or porter with a basket, to carry his pack or even himself.

At the prospect of playing up here, his eyes moistened. They went wide in the shadows under his cap or company-branded hat canopy. Nicolas Kumar was taken to ease some then, by the color-laden overcrowding before him. The flowerful area ahead looked to him to be still and quite peaceful, strikingly ablaze with sizzling pinks, stimulating blues, electric greens, plus all-accompanying sunbeam yellows with a smart, sporty feel — and gone forever here it seemed were the blogspot days of basic beiges.

“Whomever drafted this course must have seen the brighter side,” said the megalopolis youth, wistfully.

The citified lensman sure had an eye for appealing landscapes, when he added: “And look, what colors! Nothing I have ever known can compare with anything like this!”

Now he felt to be involved in the everyday and the ordinary, the world chosen by him and his father, would ever after be these: the colorful and the make believe, and gleaned from the gates of heaven. Nicolas tried but failed to elaborate more on this. So he ended his little speeching or wordsmithery, adding only a tiny bit from the weatherman in him.

“What a day this is, too!” he said. “The sky is nearly without blemish! You do not get many days like this, I should think.”

Nicolas Kumar benefited from this pulsating landscape that looked set to spread the message of eternal peace and harmony. He gladdened more from these cheerful budding faces, filled with fun and frolic, though still he felt something was missing. The presence of his beloved father, his classmates and teacher, the city that he  said he owed his success to was all on his mind. But then he was taken wholly again, by this alpine meadow of extraordinary appeal, while feeling strangely apart from it too.

Nicolas now stood on the tee-block square feeling like a nervy freshman on

the first day of school. He believed it might take some time, as with any newcomer, to come to terms with this illustrious new environment. He thought anyone would need a little orientation for here, a fresher’s just chance perhaps, akin to being offered a handheld walkthrough of the area.

The thought of receiving some assistance here, in navigate through this beauty-beyond-compare place, went some way in reassuring him. Getting help re-ignited his wish to return home. The awareness of future aid chimed in him fond recollects of his early summer seasons of fun. This jogged his memory into recalling his spoilt days of childhood. Nicolas Kumar, a destiny’s child, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, brought back in his mind the easy seventh heaven habit of being picked up after by doting and adoring servants — as with last summer, when he received a Bullet motorbike to ride around on, though only under the servant’s supervision, and just in the family yard. Although now he felt all summers were blemish-free cards, filled with oceans of love and happiness, and he enjoyed more this reliving of the happy days, brought back by his mind’s picture memories in sepia tones.

He thought once more of his father, at the time of qualifying for the Open Championship.

*****

valley of flowers

Book 1, Chapter 3                                                   The Game

“FATHER, I HAVE qualified for the British Open!”

When Nicolas came rushing into the clubhouse with this announcement, his father was debating with friends and well-wishers on who was the best ever to play the game. The names of players both past and playing today were mentioned. Nicolas’s father even offered his gentle son. And although 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, it was opposed with the argument that this player has enjoyed playing with far better equipment than those who had come before. When a player from the distant or not too distant past was suggested, it was argued 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 going this way, to an uncertain conclusion, Nicolas Kumar — his admirers pleased with fame and victory, and a girl’s voice emerging behind him — interrupted his father’s group once again with his declaration, stunning the growing crowd into a formal awkward hush. Only when he insisted on speaking out of place, by repeating his statement yet one more time, did young Nicolas receive a much-desired response from his father.

His father smiled at first. He then 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!”

*****

valley of flowers

Book 1, Chapter 4                                               The Rudiments

FOLLOWING THIS, the next few 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 trip.

He was also told to do it at once.

Mournfully, Nicolas sat alone in like the punishment corner of his room. Sadly, he turned his head towards the wall as to join with an imaginary other. Nicolas Kumar stayed for a while this way, in a type of commiserating huddle. He had the persistent feeling to like fasten to this other character.

Alone though still, inside this miserable state of being, the young man struggled to catch some understanding of his hurts, his feeling of brokenness and resentments, as well as his marring bitterness.

Some time passed before he rose by will and went to his study table to commence making 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 he conjured up a catalogue of essentials, and this list too was made overlong. Next he pleaded out loud for the kitchen to come serve him. He asked for croissants, a masala omelette with some juice. Shortly thereafter Nicolas was enjoying another worthy entrée, gobbling up some precious pancakes, with maple syrup, and melted butter that was presented to him inside his room. After that, and even more deliberation within his self, Nicolas felt near-about ready. He then directed his mind to a single task without mood swing and soon found a solution there:

He would begin with a number.

Cited as a key co-efficient, Nicolas Kumar began with the weight number he knew he could carry — twenty kilograms. He added two kilos to this, promising to remind his self to lighten the load as he went by eating the heavier foods first. As his clubs would be the heaviest items in his rucksack, he went about seeing to them to start.

Along with his three wedges, two woods, and a putter, Nicolas logically considered to minimize his tote by bringing 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, Nicolas thought to try and take advantage of the added distance the thin mountain air offered, as there would be no telling how long some holes might be high up in the Indian Himalayas.

Driver included, Nicolas was quite capable with his woods off the fairway. He felt confident too, given some reasonable lies, that he could achieve good height on most shots hit with them. With prudence, practicality, and precise measure, Nicolas Kumar reviewed his selection once more, while lingering 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 his sand wedge, Nicolas was not as certain as he had been with his irons. The difference in shot length between his lob wedge and sand wedge was approximately fifteen meters. The difference between his sand wedge and pitching wedge was another thirty meters, and not the concern. What he wanted from them most now were their cutting blades, unique to each, with varied uses, and customized for him. Finally he decided to retain all three, determining 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 was sensibly made, Nicolas next pulled from his bag the chosen clubs of his regular set, bound them with blue ribbon, and took them for weighing to the rice vendor at the outdoor market.

When solicited to weigh the clubs, the rice seller had given Nicolas a questioning look.  “What is the use of these sticks?” asked the moustachioed vendor, putting the clubs on the weighing scales.

An answer came from the vegetable stall next door, which was the market hub.

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

“Made special for the Center,” affirmed the customer, accepting her goods.

Nicolas explained the use of clubs. And while anxious and still distraught over his current bleak plight, he marvelled too that even in this large city, in this modern day and age, there were still those who did not know the enslaving game known as golf. Or even his self now, Nicolas Kumar, idol to hundreds and perhaps even thousands, and made most famous recently by having his name and image broadcast round the world, with his name alone travelling the same road to fame, by receiving multitudes of column inches.

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

Eventually he would carry a modified-down pack (670g), which included other ultra-lightweight camping gear such as a goose-down sleeping bag (960g), with liner and pad (400g), a yellow silicone-flyweight tent with soft pegs, weighing just 1.2 kilograms, along with a mini-stove and fuel bottle (350g), a full water bottle weighing two kilograms, a less-than-a-liter cooking pot (120g), as well as one bowl, a cup and spoon, 5×10 binoculars, a medical kit, a rope and knife, a fifty-five rupee collapsible umbrella, a torchlight and lighter, also a fold-up shovel, sunglasses and some sun cream, a sun cap to protect him from the burning high-altitude sun, a toothbrush with toothpowder, some soap, and one quick-dry towel too would be on his priority checklist.

In addition, Nicolas Kumar would have with him a dozen golf balls (45g each), plus accompanying cold-weather clothing like a windcheater and gloves, an extra pair of briefs, and dry-fast synthetic socks.

Normally he wore two pairs of socks for extra padding. He was certain to do this in the high mountains, and because he liked them, and since they were already well broken in, the hiking boots he planned to wear would be the same waterproof, Italian-made pair his father had brought back for him from Nepal. Nicolas would also have with him some black polypropylene tights, shell pants or overtrousers, a long-sleeve T-shirt, beneath a dark-blue pullover, plus a red fleece jacket and a clutch pack.

He always wore a watch on his left wrist when he played. And for this trip too he would have with him round his neck a tiny compass in the form of a red whistle. As for food he would buy most all in the hilltop village at the start of his trek. Altogether he judged the food would weigh no more than four kilograms. It would consist of muesli, flat round breads, two-minute noodles, assorted freeze-dried vegetables, pasta, beans, and some rice. Powdered milk would also be incorporated, along with the all-important tea and mixed bag of nuts, plus a compliment of chocolate bars that he knew were easily available at any neighborhood kirana store.

Preparations too he knew included leave-taking away from his beloved father.

Matched by math questions, his budget, other preparation items regarding his play in the high mountains, Nicolas Kumar had continued to prepare against any and all unknowns. For this career timeout, he had thought up the worst possible scenarios and tried to plan for them. And there was little time. Soon approaching was the overnight train journey to Pathankot, and bus ride further up the mountain, leading the next day to a showtime Saturday morning — which was, to him anyway, Moving Day.

Inside his mind Nicolas came back to this high garden paradise. He took more mental note, of this ground’s incredible flower concentration. Nicolas Kumar gazed more at this sparkle. He continued looking over this spread out potpourri of color wildflowers, believing all had been set there just for him.

*****

The Kundalini Plateau

Book 2, Chapter 1