The Empty Chair (20 page)

After settling, I gave her a précis
of where we left off. She excitedly dove in.

As it turned out, there would
be
no satsang, for
 . . .

. . . the Great Guru was dead.

Pretty dramatic, huh?

At the end of that first day, we learned he had shuffled off this earthly plane just a few weeks prior—around the same time that our earthly,
private
plane was being diverted to Algiers. Needless to say, word of his demise had never reached us. This was a century before the Internet, when news traveled at a more civilized pace . . . though I do believe that as renowned as he was, if the Great Guru died
today
it would still be likely that his death might slip through more than a handful of news cycles. His was the kind of passing that obits generally reserve for retired diplomats, African bishops and former child stars, i.e., ones that can be reported later than sooner. (Scratch former child stars—enquiring minds want to know!) That his life and teachings would eventually be widely written about and even popularized was never in doubt. Time has born that out.
6

Adamant that at any moment the saint would take his rightful seat, Kura and I were oblivious to having stumbled upon what was essentially a vigil. Meanwhile, I watched from my maypole aerie; sitting before the Master's empty chair, my lover's childlike anticipation lent him a radioactive
energy. Now you may think I'm setting the stage for a dais of eulogizers—after all, I've just told you the
siddha
was dead. I said “vigil” too but if it
was
, then what—
whom
—was everyone waiting for?

This is where the American comes in.

Kura's belated words on the phone, some 30 years after we met—“I've found him”—are the basis of the story I'm telling you. Understood. But before I can properly introduce the American, I need to talk about the American's
teacher
.

It was 1997—27 years since I last saw—
left
him—in Bombay. There I was in my zillion-dollar apartment, minding my own business, hangin' with the gargoyles . . . remember? I get the call from Grandmaster Flash and suddenly I'm on my way to Delhi.
Whoosh.
While
airborne in my cashmere cabin, rope-a-doped on Seroquel, I start to retrieve all this—
data
—everything I'm telling you now—I'm busy
downloading
because I haven't thought about
any
of it in absolute ages
.
I mean not really, not deeply
,
maybe
never.
Strange or funny or bullshitty as that may sound. But it's true. There I am on the jet, cramming for my exam—filling in the potholes of a life that sometimes,
most
of the time, didn't feel like my own. Because in that chunk of years after I left him there in dear ol'
Mumbai
—from 1970 to 1997—well, dysthymic depression, shitty chemicals and general lovelornness ruled the roost, and sealed off
so
many rooms—all the bric-a-brac and most of the furnishings were in the lost and found. So now I'm eight miles high, on my way to Delhi, freshening up my frontal lobe . . . bear with me, honey, because I want you to be as
prepared
as I can make you before we touch down—and we
will
,
and
soon
, I promise! I promise we're landing in Delhi soon! I just want you to be able to give Kura your
full attention
when you finally meet him
.
Because if I don't talk about what I'm
about
to, it'd just be
rude
—like blowing off the first act of a play and just bringing you at intermission.
[sings]
“Eight miles high! When you touch down . . . you'll find that—it's stranger than known . . .” The Byrds! Roger McGuinn! O my God! Get my granny glasses!

All right, I herewith present: Queenie's
A Brief History of the Great Guru.

Are you with me, bubba?

By the late-'60s, the enlightened tobacconist had achieved a level of fame commensurate with Ramana Maharshi and was informally admitted into the League of Superheroes of Nondualism. His followers—or shall I say far-flung legions of the desperate, the curious and the dilettantish, not to mention the usual pastiche of pop stars, paupers and spiritual tourists—traveled at great expense to be in his presence. He was genuinely delighted to greet them (the
rishi
could be downright chatty) though to call him gregarious would be naïve. Still, the question remained: Why was he so relentless in his public teachings
if his philosophy defined quote-unquote enlightenment as a state of being that was not only impossible to earn or solicit but one that could only
“
happen”? (Or not.) He was known to say that a fly was as likely to land on shit as it was on honey, meaning, the
rara avis
of satori found its way to the shoulders of vagrants and birdwatchers alike. It was his view (“My
concept
,” as he used to emphasize) that all the meditation, chanting and scripture studying in the world meant nothing,
including
a trek to Bombay to sit at the feet of the Master. Because all was predetermined.

At the end of the day, I suppose the Great Guru gave satsang simply because he enjoyed
it. Such enjoyment was “already written,” and part of his nature.
He was in full agreement with the
Bhagavad Gita
,
which advised that action was the thing, not the fruit of one's action. He was also fond of telling disciples he was busy “fishing.” “I am looking for that big fish,” he'd say, a waggish glint in his eye.
“The one that swims faster and deeper than the rest.” This cryptic declaration never failed to make him giggle; if his dentures fell out, he laughed even harder with what he called his
“beggar's mouth.” By this remark, one could wrongly infer he was trolling for a successor, but a proper saint has no interest in the tropes of lineage and continuity. Indeed, it might be said that a common thread among enlightened men was a certitude that none of their students had ever understood a word they uttered.

The loneliness of the long-distance bodhisattva . . .

In 1963, the Great Guru's fishing pole received an enormous tug on the line.

While visiting a dentist in Miami, a blond, middle-aged gentleman picked up a
Reader's Digest
with a wealthy woman's account of her passage to India to meet a renowned “tobacconist saint.” He was intrigued. Gossip had it that for one week the American ruminated intensely on the article before tragedy intervened. Apparently, he was in the middle of an ugly divorce when his wife murdered their two young children. She attempted suicide but survived. During the trial, he left the States for good.

He was 48 years old when he landed in Bombay.

The Great Guru immediately noticed something different about the new arrival, a quality transcending the cold anarchies of grief. He knew he'd found a true adept, one whose self-realization
was foretold—satori
a priori
!—just as he, the Great Guru, was predestined to be his guide. But it would take some work. The American's behavior was erratic. He'd vanish for days, sometimes weeks without notice, before reappearing to claim his usual spot at the foot of the sadhu's chair. Sometimes after those mysterious layovers, he was disheveled and disoriented. The Great Guru would order the Kitchen Cabinet—those roly-poly sister-aunties—to bathe and feed the Big Fish, spruce up the aquarium if you will. Other times he alighted from his travels impeccably dressed in linen suit and tie, as if fresh from Hong Kong, Johannesburg, Genève. After months of obliviously submitting to his artful guru's grooming, the American at last steadied his course.

In the year it took for the arriviste to settle, the Great Guru's focus on him never wavered. The proprietary denizens of the inner circle dug in their heels, girding for the long haul, cynically reassuring themselves that teacher's pets came and went and the newbie would be no exception. Others laid down odds the American was “next in line” and began kowtowing early. Through it all, the old sage
cackled with delight. The idea of cultivating a
favorite
tickled his beggar's mouth pink,
because it was no longer possible for him to have a personal relationship with
anyone
he encountered along the journey. For he had ceased being a person.

None of which meant he wasn't delighted upon learning his
chela
was a racetrack bookie on the side, nor that the two couldn't regularly share a glass of whiskey in the cool, early evenings. Nor did it mean he wasn't grateful for the acumen the American lent to the fledgling publishing enterprise on Mogul Lane. It was the expat
who had suggested satsang be taped (it would have been reel-to-reel back then) and transcribed for wider dissemination. The Great Guru was enchanted by the idea and impishly rebuked his minions for not having thought of it first. How he enjoyed stirring the pot!

Sorry to interrupt myself but I probably haven't said enough to set the
scene. I know I'm all over the place . . . maybe you can clean it up when you—I really
do
think I should get a little into how things worked. Not that it was all that
mysterious, it's just that people really have no idea about what goes on in the life of an ashram. Mogul Lane wasn't really
an
ashram
, strictly speaking . . . I promise this won't take too long.

You see, the Great Guru had been a householder and family man. Two of his five children died; his wife and him had 12 grandchildren and a ton of great-grandkids between them. She was a piece of work. Her three sisters—the “aunties”—did all the cooking (hence, the “Kitchen Cabinet”) and had final say over any controversies that arose among the extended family, which occupied the two floors above the shop. All the tenants had been with “Baba” in excess of 40 years, loosely comprising what I've been calling the inner circle.
Mrs.
Great Guru kept a firm hand on the finances, which were robust on account of the steady stream of rupees donated each satsang day from attendees and local merchants; sent through the post, and so forth. A second ring of the inner circle looked after Baba's daily needs—laundry, grooming, medicines, that sort of thing. Last but not least was the outer ring of enthusiasts living in rooms scattered across the city, the typical patchwork of loners, zealots and malcontents who wash up on any
rishi
's shore. Each ring was needy in its own way, the wife and aunties being the scrappiest, most demanding of the lot. The Great Guru took pleasure in every skirmish he secretly set in motion—

Hold on a second!

It just occurred to me you might be wondering how the
fuck
I know so much about the Great Guru—
a man I never met
.

Okay: it's an informed pastiche.
Isn't that what life is anyway? And I'm really not being cute. Everything I'm telling you or am
about
to tell you was taken from notes
of my conversations with the American himself. Because remember, I spent four rock'em sock'em months on Mogul Lane before I fled; the Great Guru had been dead only a short while and the American talked about him non-stop. Talked to
me.
The rest I'm filling in from things Kura
said when we hooked up in Delhi—we are
getting
to Delhi, Bruce, I swear, don't you worry!—you know, things Kura told me as we headed to our momentous destination. Just
trust.
That everything I'm telling you—
everything
—has been drawn from my diaries and Kura's memory, and the so-called qualia
too—remember “qualia,” from school? (Maybe you weren't a philosophy freak)—sifted through contemporary consciousness with what
I
perceive to be
minor
embellishments, which in my opinion is a totally valid approach to telling a hopefully seamless tale, particularly one in which the narrator brings so much of her own life experience to bear. A story,
by the way
,
that I'm uniquely qualified to share, taking into consideration not only my intimate knowledge of a key player but the quantity and quality of a lifetime of “meetings with remarkable men” . . . Liken me, if you will, to a gifted translator who couldn't possibly give you the literal text (no one could) but
can
approximate the rhythm and flavor, the
moods
of the original, and the true or
truest
sense of what the poetry evoked. The mother tongue. I'm the mother tongue motherfuckah.

In other words, have faith.
I have no doubt you will. I can't imagine you've got a different strategy, doing this as long as you have.

Scheherazade sings for her supper.

Bathroom break, please?