by Bruce Wagner
I’ve been telling this story as straightforward as I can but it’s convoluted by nature. Shall we do a timeline?
That last scene (hope you enjoyed) occurred roughly a month after the Great Guru’s death and some 48 hours before Kura found his place at the foot of the chair—a position, by the way, he would occupy for seven years. (As it happened, his apprenticeship to the American lasted precisely as long as the latter’s under the Great Guru.) Now we circle back to a question: When Kura and I first arrived at Mogul Lane just what the hell was going on? With that insane and glittering mob?
You see, mornings had become especially difficult since Baba’s death. As the hubbub of bereavement began to recede, the void once filled by satsang became a continuous reminder of the Great Guru’s absence. By unspoken rule, the lobby was off-limits between 9:30 and 11 when he would have held forth; its use as a walk-through vestibule or nostalgic loitering place felt disrespectful. There was a new wrinkle—devotees still gathered outside as they used to, only much earlier. Occasionally the satsang-less queue outgrew the sidewalk, snaking into the street with dangerous nonchalance. The police delicately brought this “hazard” to the attention of a Cabineteer, who brought it to the widow, who brought it to the American, who was only annoyed by the bureaucrats’ bogus distress. As far as he was concerned, the whole of India was a hazard. That was when he made a brilliant decision to open the doors to the Master’s house for what he privately referred to as “ghost satsang.”
They filed in like it was a cathedral, festive young voices abruptly stilled by the humble oratorium. Attendees, lost in prayer and self-reflection, were so quiet the unexpected sight of them invariably startled this or that auntie passing through on official business. The American was touched by their earnestness. Now and then he found himself discreetly joining the throng near the shop’s entrance. It was more séance than satsang but if he shut his eyes the presence of his beloved teacher could most definitely be felt. At a few minutes before eleven, when the Great Guru would have begun closing hymns, the voices began to whisper, a chorus of throats gargling with sutras before joining in song as one. It gave him gooseflesh. Naturally, they asked after the Great Guru’s books and tapes. The American put a disciple in charge, a solitary Norwegian woman who moved to Bombay fourteen years earlier so she might give her life to the saint. Each morning she laid everything out.
And so it happened that all appeared unchanged, except for the absence of he who once presided—though it must be said that the empty chair, dramatically indifferent in its thing-in-itself-ness, proved a worthy stand-in for its vanished occupant.
Word of ghost satsang spread. In time, the early morning pilgrims (whom the American wryly dubbed tobacconistas) were joined by the simply curious. The shop began to groan under the weight of lurid mythology. Pop-up folklore had it that the Great Guru’s emanations radiated from the chair but were only visible to those of strongest faith. Another claim promised visitors to the shrine a spectacular rise in income, if not an outright windfall within the year. It wasn’t long before the infirm of body (there were already plenty infirm of mind!) hobbled and rolled onto Tobacco Road. The rich sent servants to keep their places in the queue in order to secure a coveted spot near the empty chair. The widow took the American aside, pointing out the pony-tailed thuggee she’d warned him about. By the time the dangerous guru reached the door, the shop was filled to capacity. He implored to be let in but was sent gloomily packing. “Good riddance!” she said, adding that he’d merely come “to case the job.”
A command performance limned by an understudy (the chair) nonetheless became the hottest ticket in Bombay. In lieu of demanding VIP treatment, local politicians made a great convivial show of waiting on line. As elections loomed it was important to demonstrate they were men of the people, if not for the people. Once inside, the burdens of municipal business fell away, allowing a pause for prayer not less than three minutes nor more than five. These enterprising gentlemen made the most of their time, shedding tears for “our Baba” and receiving imaginary blessings. On taking leave, they cavalierly waved away constituents’ offerings of handkerchiefs to wipe wet eyes blinking above wetter cheeks. The same politicos soon found themselves on the horns of a dilemma. Three aficionados—one Canadian and two Englishwomen—were fatally struck by cabs in as many weeks. Even worse, a cow was hit, and perished. (Not a good omen.) Pickpockets were rife as rats. Initially thrilled by the Great Guru’s promisingly lucrative afterlife, vendors began to fight amongst themselves over choice sidewalk billets, the closer to the tobacconist’s the better. Mogul Lane became the up-and-coming destination for tourists led by irreligious guides. These scruffy docents spoke into microphones as they drove, delivering nonsensical lectures about the concepts of the Great Guru, his rumored wealth, the speculation he’d been poisoned and whatnot. They delved into the spiritual, in cocksure possession of an hermetic knowledge of the liminal, subliminal and sublime. Meanwhile, the governor was harassing the mayor to bust things up—to restore the neighborhood to relative sanity and let sleeping gurus lie.
Election time—a sticky wicket!
What, then, finally pushed the American into the widow’s camp and the chair itself? I think it was attrition as much as fate. Because it was my impression he was bully-proof. And I never thought him capable of abrogating his integrity by servicing a brand name legacy—nor could I envision the American plotting against those who might wish him harm. He was tired, he was grieving, he was noble, and had no fight in him. He just wanted to be left in peace. But instead of his teacher’s death providing a reflective respite, he suddenly found himself absurdly challenged. Aggressively so. It was a bitch of a conundrum . . . the whole business was wildly inconvenient. He kept reviewing the widow’s words. Whatever her flaws, stupidity wasn’t one of them. It was true that the American’s concept of his guru’s opposition to so-called successorship had hardened into dogma. The widow’s assertion that her husband had spent his life battling the perceptual policies and prejudices of man neatly overturned the American’s reasoning. She was right and he knew it. The old siddha wasn’t for or against anything, including someone taking out the chair for a spin. To see it any other way would mean that he’d wasted years at his guru’s feet. To sit or not to sit? became the burning question that his egotism, laziness and outright terror threatened to ignite into a conflagration. To answer it would take everything he had, everything he’d learned in the last seven years and more.
On just such a day, in the midst of a lot of Hindi hoopla, did Kura and I make our famous entrance—duly orchestrated by the Source. May the trickster gods rejoice!
Graduation Day for us all . . .
I can’t recall a word of the American’s first Q&A. (Though squawk boxes strung on the outside of the shop gave broadcast.) I think I already told you that, didn’t I? You know, I might be getting a little punchy—let’s stop soon and have supper?
O . . . there’s something I do remember that’s important not to forget.
When any satsang ends, not just the Great Guru’s, one “presses” the teacher’s feet in respect. An ancient gesture. Devotees jockey to get there first. You know, “If I touch the feet before all others, that makes me special.” The human being is stark raving mad, don’t you think? Absolutely wired for hierarchy, we do hierarchy in our sleep. Kura was in the catbird’s seat, or in front of it anyway. So he was the first. I had a perfect view from my pole . . . He prostrated himself then pressed his forehead to the floor. Remaining thus, he extended his arms for their short, deferential journey, that gentle, timeless laying on of hands. What happened next was as horrifying as it was baffling. The moment contact was made between Kura’s hands and the American’s feet, well, the man in the chair went rigid. I swear, his eyes shone with something that looked like apocalyptic dread. His mouth hung slack like an idiot’s and the rest of him—I’m not sure I can properly convey! He looked so startled and confused, like he’d jump
ed from his skin . . . then came that weird silence again, remember how I was saying that in the moments before he sat down there was this eerie silence? Well there it came, no one breathed, not a soul, that behind-the-snow-globe silence I thought I’d never hear again in my life. The collective breath hung in suspension as I went about my lightning lucubrations to explain the reaction: Had Kura pressed too hard? Was there something wrong with the man in the chair’s feet? (I say “man in the chair” and not “the American” because at this time you see we really had no idea who this simulacrum was or what was the meaning of it.) Was he about to have some sort of fit? A flurry of colorful thoughts followed: What the fuck am I doing in India? Kura doesn’t love me anymore, he never did . . . I want to go home now, how can I get home? But where is home?
Just then, a coquettishly simian grin bloomed on the fellow’s face as he sat bolt upright. He looked gemütlich and hyper-alert. This time though, the effect was radiantly comedic, his countenance Chaplinesque. He began to mime a convict sizzling in an electric chair, not scary but delightful, his ticcing, twitching face pelted by the most wonderful hailstorm of expressions that morphed from an obsequious smile to the rictus of a silent scream (and everything in-between) as if to deftly convey a mission statement to the tribe: “I am not the Great Guru! He cannot be replaced . . . Yet I ask you to fear nothing, you are still in his hands! Have patience, I beseech you! I beseech you to trust! It is impossible for energy to err, of that you can be certain! Mysterious forces have brought me to this chair! All is predetermined . . .”
Thus, at the tail end of his inauguration, as a fillip to the substantive, wittily learned, deeply satisfying nature of his responses to the audience’s questions, did the vaudevillian Vedic scrum swing from the sublime to the ridiculous then back again, celebrated by a communal roar of approbation. The American had gambled with antic play, the same his teacher had usually confined to the kitchen table. It was a brilliant stroke. The maneuver forced skeptical seekers to challenge their reactionary resistance to change. He was their saint now (at least in this moment, for mobs are notoriously fickle) and had gained more than a toehold on their ardor and respect, perhaps even on their fear . . . Many pairs of hands followed Kura’s. The American’s face became inscrutable while he received further benedictions, which seemed befitting. For he was the American no more.
He was the Great Guru.
As I said—this I know I did tell you—Kura remained on Mogul Lane and environs for seven years. During satsang he could always be found in the exact spot he alit upon that first morning. He became fluent in the same duties the American had been entrusted by his own teacher.
Me? I lasted about four months, four very long months—I was young, and bored with the company. The ashram diehards and devotees were either putzes or major dicks and that last category included women. I did some fooling around (I was an equal gender employer) but Kura didn’t seem to give a shit. He’d lost the urge. I tried not to take it personally. After the head-rush of Bombay wore off, I grew restive. He had enough sense to give me a long leash. He was too caught up in the annihilation of the Self to be bothered.
I went through a manic month of buying rare fabrics. I became addicted to the markets that sold them, whole cities unto themselves where transactions were conducted over dreamily aromatic tea in hidden rooms looking out on acres of silk, linen, cotton, muslin. I made day trips in search of obscure ayurvedic treatments, though what I really wanted was a massage that would never end—I wanted to massage my way to nirvana. The longer I stayed, the stranger my pursuits. I uncovered an infamous cult of sacred prostitutes who taught me their bittersweet songs. (That’s another story.) Day trips became overnights, overnights turned into weekends, weekends into extended stays. I actually loved India but discovered I didn’t enjoy traveling by myself, which was a new one because I so cherished and protected my autonomy. Now I see what I couldn’t see then: I was furious at the American for stealing my man. I could handle the abstinence part but not having him in bed with me was a bear. He insisted on sleeping alone, something having to do with his “subtle body.” I think I was probably going through withdrawal because sex with us was definitely a drug. I kept our suite at the Taj and Kura rented a disgusting little room much closer to Mogul Lane. Each time I returned from one of my forays, I fantasized he’d appear at the hotel to apologize for his behavior, and come to his senses by announcing we were leaving for Paris at once—or Morocco, Ibiza, Timbuktu—if I’d have him. (At this point in the fantasy, he was still down on his knees.) In reality, he was sullen and displeased. Which was immensely disconcerting to a wild child like myself who was accustomed to a man’s affections compounding in ratio to the amount of time I’d blown him off. I’d always heard that gurus were notorious for taking their students to bed, but my efforts to seduce the American were a dismal failure. Finally, I worked up the courage to tell Kura I wanted to go home. Wherever that was . . . the Marais I suppose. I didn’t get the reaction I’d hoped.
One day, he showed up at the pool while I was doing my club sandwich thing. (I always order triple-deckers at hotel pools, it’s a Queenie tradition.) I was on a chaise longue fooling around with a rich kid whose parents had taken the train to Goa without him. Out of nowhere Kura grabbed my arm. The boy hightailed it—so blind was Kura’s anger I don’t even think he noticed. He began to shout about how he’d made a mistake bringing me there, how I was an albatross around his neck, that at long last he found what he’d been searching for and was hereby firing himself from the job of nanny . . . I kept a stiff upper lip, not easy under the circumstances. I said I was happy for him and didn’t need a nanny, thank you very much. I must have been talking through my tears but it wouldn’t have mattered. He wasn’t listening. He said he wasn’t going to waste his time on a spoiled little cunt doomed to perpetual adolescence and that I was “spitting at God,” flushing my only chance at self-liberation like so much shite down the toilet. In mid-tirade, he grabbed my hand by the wrist and raised it up as if to present its amputated fingers to the jury as Exhibit A. I recall a jolly waiter striding triumphantly toward us with my club, fries and sundae held high on a tray. When he saw what was going down, he neatly swiveled and departed. I was still seated and Kura was standing; he held my wrist so high that my shoulder flirted with dislocation. As hurtful as it was, and as poorly handled, I understood where Kura was coming from. His life had been dislocated too, in the most gorgeous way, and he’d generously wanted me to have the same experience. I had my doubts about his new relationship. At the time, I felt he was determined to meet a guru, any guru, it just turned out that the American was the handiest, with the best provenance. I never thought it would last—and believe me, when he crawled back to me I wasn’t planning on being there to pick up the karma. So I pretty much handled his rage-out, until he said something that wounded me to my core.
“Why didn’t I just let you die?”
O, Bruce! I think I did die—right then—died again—as I searched the eyes of my killer—my killer by default, or do I mean omission?—the killer I loved before knowing what love is—searched his eyes for a sign of mercy . . .
I held his gaze but none was forthcoming.
He came to my room while I was packing. I thought he was going to hit me. That’s how far from love we had come. He gave me $25,000 worth of francs and enough damp, stinky rupees to buy myself a soda at the airport. I went back to Paris and stayed at the George V for a month. I was not in good shape. Had a wicked parasite too, not to mention a few stowaway demons of lower caste.
That was the last I saw or heard of him until that day he called my apartment in New York, seven years ago. There are so many “sevens,” do you notice? Sevens and elevens . . . they really do seem to come up more than other numbers. O! Now I remember his last words to me in Bombay:
He said, “I shan’t be saving you again.”
I was dreaming of New York, in quiet conversation with a gargoyle, when th
e voice of a stewardess whispered, “We’re beginning our descent.”
I nudged the drape aside to look out the window.
The great orange dust cloud of Delhi lay before me.
We resumed the following day.
What happened next is a blur.
I debarked into those rioting molecules of shit, perfume, death and rebirth that belong not just to Delhi but every Indian necropolis. Two golf carts raced toward us on the tarmac, holding porters and customs officials—and Kura with two bodyguards! He hugged me and I almost fainted dead away. How my old lover looked! And my tear-streaked self watching him watch me, seeing how I looked! We took each other in, sizing up like tailors for our three-piece eternity suits—that magnificent ache that embraced all coming-togethers and coming-aparts, and touched the exquisite sorrow that is the shadow of existence itself.
His smile was big as a catcher’s mitt.
He looked strikingly presidential in his Muga silk threads. Arms intertwined, our whole beings clutched, fussed and melded as we rode to the hotel in the small motorcade. We hardly said a word. Kura had a flair for the grandiose; the other cars were carrying “muscle.” (And the elusive doctor.) I was tongue-tied except for the powerful, almost jokey urge to ask how the hell he made a living these days. But I didn’t, discretion being the better part of valor. However the saying goes.
We had dinner in one of those dark, gaudy, empty restaurants that tend to live on the ground floor of 5-star Indian hotels. Wait a while though . . . did we go to a private club? Why am I thinking of this particular club? Maybe that was Bangalore . . . or Bangkok. Or Chicago! Memory’s failing me . . . a club? I actually don’t think so—no, probably not. Though he kept the details mysterious, Kura implied we had quite a journey ahead and I doubt he’d have wanted to trek off-campus on the eve of our departure, because we were slated to leave the next day. Though it is possible, more than possible that we took our meal in his room. Or should I say rooms, in that they occupied the entire penthouse. The Presidential Suite, indeed.
