The Empty Chair

by Bruce Wagner

  For the next few days, the American went about his business on Mogul Lane. Millions of rupees had rained down since the Great Guru’s death. All dana needed to be carefully logged and accounted for; such scrupulousness seemed more important now than ever. He was glad the “books” were in order, no small thanks to his past efforts. The Kitchen Cabinet toadies continued to unnerve, sneakily lobbying for his surrender to promotion to chairman—though he knew they were simply doing the widow’s bidding. The American cauterized the wounds in his heart with his contempt for her sleazy proposition. He knew it was only a matter of time before she cornered him again yet whenever he mentally composed a vicious response to her entreaties, he pulled up short. “What am I doing? After all, this is the woman my beloved teacher chose to marry. The union the Source smiled upon!”

  Soon he was back in the den. And this time, the widow wasn’t fucking around.

  “The situation grows very dire. I think you do not have a full understanding of what is at stake! As you Americans say, let me lay it out for you. Through intermediaries, the member of a very powerful family has expressed keen interest in buying the shop—lock, stock and kaboom—for a sum even you would not believe if I told it to you straight to your face. It seems this family member, who shall remain nameless, was a devotee who did not emerge from the closet as a devotee until after Baba’s death . . . for this, I was given no reason. So be it. This family member is, at the current moment, working through the most arcane of municipal channels—apparently, the family to which he belongs has a raft of local politicians firmly in pocket. The intermediaries of whom I speak have roundly expressed this family member’s wish, should he succeed in his efforts to become said property’s owner, to transform the entire block into a spiritual amusement park—your guru’s tobacco shop being the tour’s crowning terminus! But I was told by the intermediary not to worry. You see, the intermediary has virtually guaranteed that the family member has given his word: my husband’s ‘boutique’ shall be strictly maintained up to ‘current museum standards.’ Why, the intermediary even suggested the siddha’s chair be placed on display behind bulletproof glass!

  “My American friend, I won’t say the money isn’t tempting. No. I am not so foolish to make such a proclamation. As you know, Baba did not care a whit about it, money’s merely a tool. The princely sum—kingly!—offered by this intermediary person would allow me to set up house very nicely, in a neighborhood even more pleasant than this. Because here there are no trees and I have been missing them since I was a girl. I am no martyr. I refuse to cling to appearances!—‘Guru Ma, widow of the Great Guru,’ and so forth. If I accept his monies, quite a bit would be left over to service the impoverished. More than quite a bit, so more’s the pity. Make no mistake: I am your guru’s widow but rest insured I have no qualms standing upon the neck of ceremony! Because when I am naughty, it does occur that an ‘Advaita Museum’ might even cause Baba a few grand guffaws! But herein lies the problem, my American friend: this arguably grotesque proposal only stands up for limited engagement—I am hearing the political bosses are already working hard for the intermediary’s money. And if they succeed, there is a distinct chance I shall have but no choice in the matter. The offer shall expire . . . and I shall be forced to sell for a song!

  “An interesting alternative reared its hind legs not just three hours ago—I tell you, things are flying fast and furious! It seems a man of shady origin expressed the desire to buy us out for the sole purpose of providing a place for his harlot daughter to bed down. The pair came to see me. The air is not yet clear of their stink; not even the fattest of Baba’s cigars could conceal the rank smell of flesh and greed left in their trail. This seedy character had the amazing gall to say he was not merely an acolyte of Baba but an Advaita scholar to boot! He took me aside to confess it was his sincere hope that whichever ‘essences’ of the venerable saint remained—the hissing pronunciation of the word was revolting!—that whichever essences were left behind might have a ‘salutary effect’ upon the disease-ridden prostitute he calls his daughter. ‘Dear sir, spend your money in buying a clinic instead! One with a good supply of penicillin!’ I held my tongue. Meanwhile, the mini-skirted rodent paced the room as we spoke, looking this way and that, like a decorator who stepped in shite. To put an end to our whispering, which she didn’t like at all, the strumpet sashayed over—hardly dressed at all, my friend!—and began prattling on about Oxford and Cambridge! Sheer lunacy! She spoke more nonsense than her father. And how she turned on the slutty charm. As if I was her next conquest!

  “You might ask my motive for inviting them in. And I’ll tell you . . . I agreed to rendezvous for one reason, and one reason only: I was intensely curious to lay an eye on the man who had doubled the offer made by the aforementioned intermediary, which in itself was a king’s ransom! To make things even more interesting, no one at the banks or newspapers had ever heard of him!

  “But these stories amuse. I’m quite certain these fools can be handled. What I am next going to tell you is an animal of a different stripe. It is far more pertinent, as it involves your personal welfare. So you must listen very carefully . . .

  “You are aware you’ve always been envied, true? From the beginning! O yes . . . I know this sort of question makes you uncomfortable, you must not answer, there is no need. It’s rhetoric. You see, the personal trait of yours Baba admired most was that you made no investment in the spiritual world. He extolled very much that part of you which would not feel betrayed if one day he were to close up shop . . . that would not feel fleeced or cheated of his rightful profits. O he used to tell me this about you with a gleaming eye—yours is an attitude not the norm, I insure! Because in the end, all seekers desire for a profitable enterprise, a pay-off, a dividend! They want to be in the black . . . You yourself have seen the type of person who is attracted to Baba and his teachings. Cast-offs of the Earth—as it should be. You were one too, no? A somewhat broken man when first you arrived, I recall . . . ashrams are filled with the miserable, the tragic, the befuddled. But let me say: the courage that gets them here, and watches over them on their long journeys, the dogged single-mindedness of purpose is also the very thing that makes them available for nobler pursuits. Other than saving their own hides, which of course is a natural inclination. Do you know what I’m saying, sir? Here’s what I’m saying. There are certain amongst them—amongst the so-called advanced echelon who’ve been here a while—there are certain amongst them who have their eye—have had their eye, for years now!—on the guru’s chair. O you would be surprised at who fancies himself a candidate. Sergei, of course . . . he’s always been outgunning for you. And Ludmilla! Ludmilla from Romania! Barely with Baba for three years, but who knows . . . lady siddhas are suddenly in vogue. She might just be voted into that chair by popular demand.

  “The plotting is worthy of Shakespeare! And you, my American friend, have been spared—for the moment. Because you are top seed! It’s all sport, I liken it to tennis that way—did you know Baba and me used to travel to Wimbledon? We did, oh yes, when Baba taught at Oxford. There are many elimination matches before sudden death . . . but this should not concern you, not unduly. Like my ‘window shoppers,’ pretenders to the throne may be handled.

  “You have other problems, friend, believe in me!

  “I know you are a worldly man. You have guts, and would never have gotten so close to Baba if that weren’t the case, he simply would not have allowed it. The stars would not have let it happen. Yet I must tell you: about some things, you are stunningly naïve. You spent years under the protectorship of your munificent guru. You stared only into his light—precisely as it should have been—which made you blind to other influences at work. But you have that protection no more! Bombay is a metropolis of saints and sadhus, my friend, but it is also a city of rogues, of thuggees . . . many so-called holy men are one and the same! They are indistinguishable! There are networks of gurus in rule of whole sectors, each wi
th the iron hand of a warlord! Swami mafiosi . . . and these are dangerous men, not simply because of the counterfeit nature of their teachings. Many have followers who know nothing of their greed and violent ways and hold them in their hearts with the innocence of children! With the same loving regard as did you your precious guru . . . These criminals give satsang, sit cross-legged on great stages groaning with flowers. It is not manna one smells in the air, but manure! They hold forth to the limpets, the lampreys and the sheep in stolen words pried from Baba’s mouth—cribbed from his books—your books!—rolling the pirated phrases ’round in shit like pigs in mud till the sentences fit their mercenary temperament or whatever the mood of the morning.

  “Let me get to the point: there are two who need watching out for. They wish to collect Baba’s legacy as if it were some sort of payment due. There is a longhaired thuggee, a murderer, who is chauffeured here and there in a Rolls-Royce wearing silken pajamas. He actually believes he is our long-lost son! His attorney forced me to give a sample of my blood, it was of course no match but still he persists—such are the delusions! I am telling you, American friend, this is all very serious! The thuggee believes in all his diseased heart that I am Mommy and Baba was Daddy, the man has his flock of sheep believing it too! A murderer and a fool! As long as your guru was alive, they never came near. Naturally, these men had nothing to fear from Baba, but fear him they did. And let me inform you of something you seem not to know: they are now ready to take what they are most certain is theirs! Only a single thing still prevents them from storming the palace—a slender thread—because what ecstasy to at last be moguls of Mogul Lane, you better know it! It is the jewel in their crown! The only single thing that still prevents them from staking their claim is the very real hesitation in the face of those loyal masses who did rightfully worship our Baba. They are keenly aware those devoted masses are a sleeping giant best not awakened! Do you know what these cads fear most? Humiliation! Defeat! Loss of face. It would not bode well for their reputations, to be chased out on a rail! That would be a terrible misstep, serious enough to threaten their entire operation! General besmirchment and bloody turf wars would ensue.

  “I have one more thing to add. I know you are worldly enough to understand there is always a corker—a mad one, more barbaric than his brethren—there is always a lunatic looking to make his mark. The corker’s advantage—in tennis, this is called ‘add’—is recklessness. And I, my friend, through a skein of intelligence maintained by Baba loyalists, am now privy to the identity of our greatest threat . . .

  “This is the longest and shortest of what I am saying: You must sit in that chair. Swallow your stubborn pride and muddle through a month of satsang until you have sea legs! Accept the momentous responsibility of that which has fallen upon your shoulders by divine plan! If you continue to give weight to cautious indecision—which as you know has its roots in that distinctive American trait called neurosis—if you continue to fly in the face of your guru himself, you shall find there is a terrible price to pay. I tell you the guru-thuggees are out for blood! When your fanny hits that seat and not before shall you be safe and under new protectorship: that of the masses. Already, the guru-thuggees know who you are—oh yes! They have been boning you up for some time. Have you not seen them, hanging ’round outside your apartment? Of course you haven’t, why would you be looking? You’re blissfully unaware. Not a care in the world! A little baba in the woods . . . well they are not interested in your autograph, sir. We’ve all been looking, all but you! They know you were Baba’s favorite; they used to fear you. But each day they fear you less and less!

  “Let me be frank. We’re both well aware Baba had no fixed ideas on the topic of successorship per se; he was of a mind the whole business was poppycock. But it is imperative you approach any ideas you have about what your guru would have ‘wished’—you must approach any such fantasies of ‘knowing’ what actions he may or may not have taken if he were still with us—you must destroy this notion that something about you is so special that it is actually possible for you to apprehend his philosophies enough to speak for him—you must consider this entire line of thought to be purely chimerical. The certitude that accompanies, sponsors and endorses any thought, no matter how trivial that thought might be, must always be thoroughly examined and approached with great caution. And then that certitude must be vanquished. For the mind is the enemy, my American friend! Guard against arrogance! If a person ever imagines it possible to know the mind of his guru, that person has set himself on a course to Hell! To believe oneself privy to a pandit’s thoughts—if one may even call them ‘thoughts’—it seems to me that to call them anything is another presumption—to believe one can truly know the ‘mind’ of a living master, let alone a dead one, providing of course that the guru is authentic . . . that, my friend, is to enter perdition. A triumph of Mind and nothing else. This is not to say one can never have a feeling or energetic inkling . . . but to suddenly be in prideful possession of such inklings or feelings is as delusional as the belief one has full knowledge, for the mind interprets them in the same way. To have inklings about one’s guru’s intention is a meaningless obscenity! Far better to admit to knowing nothing! At least with the latter, one lays claim to an ethical morality. The guru is not your friend! To presume intimacy is the sheerest of vanity. This is not America! The guru is not your Daddy nor is he your bro’. He ain’t your ‘buddy’ either . . . You—all of us—are simply unfit to interpret the concepts of the Great Guru, who lived in Silence, who was—is—unknowable! Dare to indulge such presumptions and you are no better than the guru-thuggees! True, one feels an aching closeness to his teacher and misses him grievously when he is gone . . . that cannot nor should be denied. Yet in the shortest time, the mind transforms sorrow into the Cyclops of narcissism. You believe your hesitance to sit in the chair is indicative of humility, to ‘refuse the mantle,’ but the opposite is true! You’re wearing your obstinance like a peacock!

  “You hesitate to sit because you have the notion that somehow your guru would not approve. But there is a fly in the anointment of your logic. My husband was neither politician nor strategist so how would it be possible for him to get lathered over this figment now causing you such distress? He is no Dear Abby in the sky. Because I know what you’re thinking, I know the beggar’s mind, you have the idea he would not approve of you taking the chair, or worse, that you’re not worthy. I say ‘worse’ because of the monstrous egotism involved in such a sentiment. Need I remind you what intrigued Father most was energy itself and how it manifests, which is precisely why the Source ‘arranged the dance,’ and why he was so tickled by your presence. And don’t forget! It is the same Source that designed the predicament you are in today! That is the cosmic joke, my American friend! Baba delighted in your energy, plain and simple. He knew that if your energy could be disciplined, contained and manipulated, you just might have what he called ‘the chance of a chance’ . . . to be liberated from the Wheel!

  “Look. There is no question you’re a charming fellow. You’ve been a careful, obedient student. You are a practical man as well, and know how to make yourself useful. But surely you cannot have thought he kept you around for your skills! Do you believe he considered you indispensable? The Wizard of Oz behind the drapes of the tobacco shop, riding in on his horse to save the hi-yo-silver day? That he wrung his hands and cried to the gods, ‘What would I do without him?’ No! He did not give a whit and a hoot about the books you made, the ponies you played, the women you consorted with, or anything else! Surely, you know this—and if you do not, I shall be quite surprised and disappointed. Though I’ve been surprised and disappointed before . . . but I am telling you now. Baba had no need of friends, favorites, cohorts. If you don’t know this, then you know less than nothing! He was no longer human that way. He certainly didn’t need followers . . . Your guru gave satsang out of filial piety to the Source whence he came. In weaker moments—human ones!—he allowed himself a small
, trembling excitation upon encountering those whose energy delighted him—such as you—with whom he might brush against the bodhisattva’s dream: to free all sentient beings from their cage of suffering. Usually the ones he felt an affinity toward never stayed too long on Mogul Lane. He never thought you’d stay but you did, and that was a bonus, a very unusual occurrence! That was why he kept you close, because your energy was familiar. Fraternal. Unrefined yet similar to his. And it tickled him that you never had a clue what was ‘in your wallet’!”

  The widow stood, signaling she was nearly done.

  “Each time you pressed Baba’s feet at satsang’s end, it was confirmed in the most captivating way. He would tell me your touch never failed to convey the ‘congeniality’ of your energetic configuration . . .

  “I warn you, dear friend, do not make this more complicated than it is! Take your place in the chair! Do not be bothered that most of them will have need to declare you were appointed by royal decree! Six puffs of smoke from the roof, from Baba’s favorite cigar! They shall see it through the crudest lens, they always do! Your challenge will be not to believe it, any of it! Making you feel special is not the devil’s work, it’s the mind’s. The mind will summon you to its bloody battlefield . . . a clarion call not easy to resist. To hell with how it will look. In time all will come ’round, I can assure—

  “Think it over, my American friend, I urge you! Carefully consider why you flee from your destiny. Your life is in certain danger! There isn’t much time and I shan’t come begging again. For all is predetermined! But mark my words, soon enough all will shout: ‘The Great Guru is dead, long live the Great Guru!’”