His Rainbow-Colored Umbrella
by Chris CollinsJUST 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 some effort, underneath the illuminative shade of his somewhat overlarge, rainbow-colored umbrella, the old man 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 this world with a quite balanced attitude, showed bright while sparkling intense depths.
The old man's hair was still dark in places in the back. Mostly, though, his hair looked like puffs of white clouds, not too unlike Lord Indra’s who playfully stole heavenly cows in the Vedas tale. His hair behind his ears also had the color of clouds, though a touch rain-bearing. Now his hair went up with the breeze that rolled in over the valley.
Arjuna was kitted out in synthetic black pants that were modern and popular for trekking. To Nicolas, however, the old man appeared to be of the age more familiar with silk ties, plus fours and argyle socks.
Arjuna 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 or type of approval. 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 then 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.
Along with floating colored lights as inspired beings, the old man 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 so cherished.
With a touch of bewilderment, he half-expected singers and musicians with flutes, accomplished maestros from the Gwalior gharana, accompanied by fetching hip-shake dancers, bedecked in their red-and-white saris, with their tinning bangles, and 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 with operatic flair, 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. By this way, Nicolas showcased the area’s luxurious grandeur, which included a sky dominated by blue.
Nicolas meant to promote the SOS message of clean environment, while the old man saw now in micro.
Near Arjuna was a banded, blue-flower cluster where a few clouds shadowed aplenty. From within this patch of blue poppies, brilliantly illumined and standing sprightly, facing him and facing away, and growing out inexplicably from a crackless stone, the old man's mind rose more above the material mundane.
As a rapt audience of one, Arjuna's meditation was now on one solitary blue leaf, with an eye to microsurgery.
The old man looked towards a patchwork of tall grass. The grass stood near the stone from which these flowers grew. Among the luminaries present, a butterfly fluttered about. It flew willingly near him. The butterfly generously gave this nature lover the opportunity to observe near at hand the fine art of flying.
The butterfly flew nearer the rock. It returned to float up close to him in this strange work-together the old man thought of simply as relation.
Arjuna watched as this flier flit from flower to flower, mysteriously springing out from a firmly embedded stone. And for a brief moment he marveled, wondering gladly, though not for the first time, how this one fine thing was indeed possible.
The old man felt not love for this poetic gathering of butterfly, rock, flower and his humble self, but the joyful anxiety, characterized as the will to do something in this world and make some difference.
Arjuna flouted more this norm, or strong feeling to give back. He considered worthwhile a miraculous strategy to serve, or at least put a smile on the faces of these citizen creatures for here, and O so tiny images of God.
Arjuna held out an upturned hand. He wanted to give a good landing place to this butterfly, and O so valiant flier.
Once this real was played out, Arjuna's sight ascended tens of thousands of kilometers, when he looked up just then, at the grand eternal expanse, or near-bottomless blue business that was this morning’s sky.
He peered lower, towards the current pantheon of telling points. Arjuna gazed at this mighty range’s seven snow-clad peaks, or constructed castle spree up in the crisp cool air, which looked prone also to long-term fits of melancholy.
Soon Arjuna's focus was back on, though not resting on the blue-flower cluster, or swath of blue poppies, standing up sprightly out of a solid stone. Nor was his focus on this magnificent 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 sudden, popped-up tuft a 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.
The old man watched this miracle of life grow. Arjuna saw it rise, struggle to mature, amid the elements and the ever-present life changes. He noticed next, in tiny details, the line patterns on the flower's insubstantial waxy petals. He leaned forward then to get a closer look. He did this to study better a water bubble that had miraculously formed on one fragile leaf.
To him, the reverse image that showed on the bubbles' face reflected well a delicate avant-garde, or work that is experimental.
The old man then felt the tinge of apprehension. Arjuna fretted some over the fate of this one flower, with the O so subtle gleam. He was concerned its alluring shine could be broken by so much as a scratch of a butterfly's foot.
Arjuna saw this flower achieve ripe old age. He looked on as this flower reached some peak. He felt blessed also, for having seen this beauty grow up, evolve amid all here and then age. The old man watched as this flower began to wilt. He observed neutrally, too, the flower bend low, onto the ground now, to die. "Yes," said Arjuna, in answer to the youth's original question. "What we resist persists in this vast 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, or love-for-love's-sake singers.
"Well," said Nicolas, fashioning to gain control of these pretty premises. And he was well on the look out 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 into his pack to rustle up an item to give this eager fellow. On finding it, he held the thing out for him to come take. "Here," the old man said. "Inside a course map is provided with descriptions of the holes you will encounter along the way, hole lengths, as well as directionals guiding you to them. Do you have a compass with you?" Arjuna asked casually.
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. "You may not need it but it is good to have just the same. Mostly, you will be heading north. Now I have written a few words for your play here. 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 then 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 Arjuna moved to sit more comfortably, the youth exercised a great show of fairness by opening his gifted course journal, there and then.
Consequently, Nicolas began reading to himself the old man’s written mantra for this very 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.
Chris Collins is the author of the short novel Valley of Flowers, which this story is a part. He has been previously published. Among others, his first short story was published then nominated for a 2002 Pushcart Prize. He lives in Thailand. He's can be found @CollChris on Twitter.