Valley of Flowers
Authors: Chris Collins
Tags: #bhagavad gita hinduism india hindu philosophy upanishads spirituality himalayas mountains trek trekking ethics morals morality golf fable parable travel asia
Chris Collins is the author
of
Nicolas
Kumar
of
which
V
alley of Flowers
is one part.
Pr
evious publications
i
nclude
h
is
f
irst
short
story that
was
n
ominated for
a Pushcart Prize.
_______________________
Copyright © Chris
Collins
.
All rights
reserved
.
Chris Collins asserts his right under the
Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act to be identified
as
the author of this work.
ISBN
9780982394908
ISBN
098239490X
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters,
p
laces
and
incidents are either the
product of the
author's
imagination
or are used
fictitiously
.
F
or more
on
this
b
ook
go to
@CollChris
o
n Twitter or
Google+
Book 1
This Book Is Inscribed To
Mr. Arnold Palmer
CONTENTS
V
alley of Flowers
by CHRIS COLLINS
a novella
1
The Valley of Flowers
ahead looked awash in sunrays and colorful wildflowers. All seemed
so expertly arranged and crowding the valley
in thousands and
millions
there would be no counting their
number.
D
ew-gilded gleaming flowers
appeared in maximum bloom. The glare captivated him and his senses
took flight. Nicolas Kumar had arrived.
His trek had brought him
to this mountain place on a crisp cool morning that was his
birthday. The scene
presented l
ent a warm ambiance to
his interiors
, yet
he might have preferred his
father had gifted him a brand new BMW.
The 17-year-old Indian youth, pinch-fit from
regular workouts, held up to take a breather as for couch potatoes.
He felt the blunt chill of low temperatures. In front of his face,
puff clouds formed and dissipated from his outgoing breath. His
hope now was for a good solid round here, on first seeing this
famed valley's primal beauty.
Once more the school-going teenager breathed
in deep that stretched his lungs to the utmost. In among the fresh,
sweet open air was a fragrant scent he took in his lungs. Pleasures
from this and the envisioned field permitted him a moment beyond
measure. Gravity tugged.
Nicolas 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. Now he thought being up 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
he
laid it on
to
his
standing rucksack. In a no-hurried manner he removed his cap and
ran his fingers through his thick
brown
hair.
His skin and wavy hair were a
similar color brown with his skin darkened from the many hours out
in the sun on the practice range, and while out on the course
during play.
Dark eyebrows shielded his curious and eager
slate-gray eyes that were good and quick, sharper for sighting long
wood and iron shots out of mid-air, and from spotting the errant
ones lying in the long grass.
Nicolas returned his cap
atop his head
and
crooked it with finger and
thumb. He added more bend to the bill’s center
. He
looked at the flowers.
He
received bales full of
colorful garlands
,
as each frame-to-frame picture
in his mind's eye without exception solicited and obtained from him
a brief promise to stay, and never 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.
He
stared at this scene of
immortal bliss and searched its tranqu
il
wonders. Glee came through to make him smile. His readiness for the
approaching contest suffered some from giddiness, as he stood
self-consciously on the tee box square, gratification of the senses
his highest goal.
"Teledensity has certainly not reached
here," whispered the mostly city-centric youth.
Favoring pink Himalayan balsams, in a valley
far from the maddening urban crowds, the plush sea of alpine
flowers appeared in 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 blue poppy,
there a cobra lily and edelweiss, the flowers in
pl
enary
portions seemed on proud,
glorious display in an absolute must-have
bouquet
,
a
nd all looked nourished by a sparkling
stream, rushing through a slight middling valley.
The spill off came from an
in-the-distance small lake. Its check-dams appeared filled to the
brim and stemming from a spectacular waterfall, flowing like
champagne and then, Oh! A rainbow! The rainbow added shape to this
cut cake, ordered for the occasion of charmed
magic
.
A
nd all got his mind into feeling divine
timelessness and just right disarray.
Nicolas gazed at this sparkle. He took in
the invigorating crisp clean air and view of a lifetime. He
wondered who colored these many flowers. Consequently 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
,
untamed
property was simply to roll out the world's best drive.
He
closed his eyes in a pretend
moment.
He
put his right hand high. He rested it against his encasing chest,
charged with protecting his fast-fluttering heart.
Nicolas
resumed telecasting from
this mountain place and great advertising space. He remembered with
pleasure
then
one remarkable
achievement
.
A
nd what he recalled was qualifying for
the Open Championship
,
only a fortnight back.
This story of success repeated in his mind. He was pleased with
himself also for
making it up here
without hiring
a
piththoo
, or
porter with a basket, to carry his pack or even himself.
Nicolas peered out at the
flowers and his eyes moistened. The valley looked peaceful,
strikingly ablaze with sizzling pinks, stimulating blues,
elegant
electric greens, plus all-accompanying sunbeam
yellows with a smart sporty feel
, a
nd gone
forever here
it seemed
were
the
big city’
s
basic beiges.
Whoever drafted this
course must have seen the brighter side, he thought. And look, what
colors! Nothing I have known can compare with this!
He then
added a bit from the weatherman in him.
And
w
hat a day this is too! The sky is nearly
without blemish. You don't get many days like this, I should
think.
Nicolas sensed something was missing. The
presence of his father, his classmates and teachers, the city he
always said he owed his success, were now all on his mind. But then
he was taken in wholly by this many-flowered valley, while feeling
strangely apart from it too.
He stood on the 1st tee as
any nervy freshman on the first day of school.
He
felt it would take
some
time to come to
terms with
t
his illustrious new environment,
believing any would need a
n
orientation
session
here
, akin to receiving a handheld
walkthrough of the area.
The thought of getting
help reassured him.
This
ignited in him the strong
wish to make it back home, preferably in one piece
and not too far off
into the future,
and that his father would
no
longer
be
angry
with him.
This
jogged his memory into recalling his spoiled days
of childhood.
Nicolas
Kumar,
a destiny’s child, born with a silver spoon in
his mouth, recalled the seventh-heaven habit of being picked up
after by doting as well as adoring servants
,
as
with last summer, when he received a Bullet
motorbike to ride round on, but only under a servant's supervision
and just in the family yard. Now he thought all summers were
blemish-free cards, filled with oceans of love and
happiness.
He
stood
then
in
chilly wonder.
He
enjoyed this reliving of the
happy days.
Nicolas
thought of his father at
the time of qualifying for the Open Championship.
2
'Father, I have qualified for the British
Open!'
Before Nicolas came bursting into the
clubhouse with his glad announcement, his father had been debating
with friends on who was the best ever to play the game. The names
of players past and playing today were mentioned.
His father had even offered his gentle
son.
