The Empty Chair

by Bruce Wagner

  “Do you mean to say you’ve achieved enlightenment?” said Kura, shaken and wild-eyed. “That you’re an enlightened man?” The American smiled obscurely, agitating Kura even more. “I asked you a question, sir! Did you? Did you or did you not achieve enlightenment!”

  There was something so utterly sad and ludicrous about the ultimatum.

  “What I am saying,” said the rishi, “is that now I am empty.” He was quiet for some moments, allowing the echo of profundity to die away. “But the important thing to recognize is that I should never have seen the rays of chiti, nor would the veil have lifted . . . shakti could not have awakened and the words ‘I am that’ would have remained a mere riddle had I not acquired a second guru. Of course, the teacher is always there—it is the seeker who is in the way. What they say is true: When you are ready, the guru will find you. I’ll tell you a concept that is almost impossible to grasp: at the moment one finds one’s guru, one becomes truly lost . . . until one finds another! For it is only the second guru that allows you to make sense of the first.”

  I will never be able to adequately describe what I saw when I glanced at Kura’s face. An immemorial darkness, something primeval . . . his features dissolved before me, one set replacing another, from the fragile fear of a neurotic city dweller to the monolithic indifference of an Easter Island moai. I blinked hard until Kura reverted to his angry, nonplussed self. That the man who had conned him now dared to blithely lecture on the supreme importance of finding a follow-up bullshitter added insult to injury.

  “This guru of yours, this Guru Number 2,” he spat venomously. “I suppose he’s long dead . . .”

  “Why, no!” said the American. “He’s very much alive.”

  “Then where is he?” he demanded, more tantrum than query. “Where is he! And tell me who is he!”

  “Would you like to meet him? He’s in festive spirits, I can assure.”

  “He’s here?—”

  “O yes! In this very room.”

  Kura fussed in his seat, wary of being played for sport.

  “Is that right?” he said, with noxious disdain. “Well, I don’t see him.”

  Kura stood. He slowly moved in the direction pointed by our host, squinting into the habitat’s dim recesses. I think he was in the throes of some sort of hysteria.

  “I say I see nothing!”

  “My old friend, that you see nothing is not my affair. He’s right in front of your face.”

  “There’s nothing but a chair.”

  “Correct,” said the American. “Nothing—and everything! Allow me to be more clear. The chair does not contain the emanations of the guru, nor does it aspire to: It is the guru himself.”

  The Hermit sank to his knees in front of the simple throne, prostrating himself. Now cross-legged, he looked up at the chair. “It took my entire life to find what was never missing . . .” He turned to Kura with such love—I know it’s corny, Bruce, but to this day I swear the fragrance of roses blew straight through me. “And it is all because of you.”

  He wasn’t done speaking though stopped short, as if knowing his guest’s next move. The American’s heart was open, his smile benevolent.

  But I could not have predicted what happened next.

  Kura bolted from the cave in a silent scream.

  Mountaineers say the descent is more dangerous than the climb, which definitely applied to our return trip. We suffered four-legged and four-speeded calamities; when night fell, the driver announced it was unsafe to continue. We stayed over at an inn. Any thoughts I might have previously entertained of Kura whisking me to Paris for a little post–egg hunt R and R were pretty much dashed by the impenetrable pall that had settled over him. He went incommunicado. I knew better than to try to draw him out.

  Thirty-six hours later, I was greatly relieved to be ensconced in the First Lady—Maharanee?—wing of the Presidential Suite. I called to ask if he wanted supper, suggesting we do a little recap over room service. (I already knew the answer.) After a long soak I made notes in my trusty Smythson, expanding on them when I got back to New York.

  I was nodding off when the phone rang. Someone in the posse said to be packed and ready at 10 a.m. I’d never unpacked so when morning came there wasn’t much to do but order up a carafe of lattes and chocolate croissants for extra protein. I took a constitutional around the perimeter of the hotel in the forlorn hope that my bowels might want to start a conversation; they were quiet as a grave.

  I was in the lobby uncharacteristically early, befitting a depressed person in a faraway place waiting to go home to die. My eye fell on the elevator just as Kura and his retinue emerged. My main man wore a blue serge suit and a heartbreakingly sportive pompadour. He’d paid scrupulous attention to his toilet—his way, I suppose, of ending the sentence or at least dotting the “i” in Delhi. We chitchatted on the drive to the airport and I even wrung a few smiles out of him. I actually started to wonder if he would whisk me away, to destinations unknown.

  The convoy rolled onto the tarmac but none of the posse approached the Bentley when it parked, as if knowing in advance to allow us our privacy. We stayed in the car.

  “Queenie, I cannot tell you what your being here has meant. And I know I shan’t be able to process it—any of it—for some time. I was going to ask you to come to Paris . . . what a time we would have had! But now that’s impossible. This has been a strenuous trip and I hardly wish to send you back in worse shape than you arrived. So I’ve opened up my appartements in the Marais; my staff awaits you. An itinerary has already been customized for your pleasure, with an emphasis on the off-the-beaten-track and taboo. You shall want for nothing. If the idea of Paris—without your Kura!—does not appeal, the plane will take you anywhere you wish: Kyoto, Patagonia, Lindos . . . but you must promise to forgive my heavy-handed mood. You know how it pains me to be a terrible host.”

  “You’re going back to see him?”

  “Yes. I’m going back.”

  Had he asked me to accompany him I would have without hesitation but I knew Kura well enough to understand his speech was a farewell. I was honored to have served my purpose. He was on his own now, just as he wished.

  I returned to New York and my griffin friends straightaway.

  On the plane, I dawdled with completing the crossword of his plan. (He hadn’t shared, I hadn’t asked.) I was never good at puzzles but was good at tossing them aside, unfinished. Which is what I did . . . After a few months, my depression lifted, or at least became manageable. I went on about my life with the necessary delusion most of us share that we’re captains of our destinies, when truth be told we have no more power over our fates than falling leaves do over a tree.

  I’m not exactly sure why Kura wasn’t in my head much after that strange sojourn, not substantially anyway—and I didn’t feel guilty about it, either. Maybe Delhi was my second guru, because it helped make sense of that long-ago time in Bombay. I’m not sure exactly how I felt. Though I do remember I didn’t cry when I learned he was dead.

  Wow—we’re nearly at the end. I think all in all it’s been a good experience. (I hope it has, for you!) Just to puke everything out . . . that doesn’t sound so wonderful though, huh? But you know I think it really does help put things in order. I mean, not that there was a dire need. At least I don’t think there was. Who knows. So often these tremendous—things happen in one’s life, and one never stops to take their measure or look at patterns—you know, ‘the figure in the carpet.’ Anyway, I just wanted to thank you, Bruce, for being such a good listener and for being so patient with my silly tangents . . .

  Now of course I wasn’t there for this last part I’m going to tell you so when I speak of things only Kura could have been privy to—his direct experience—I’ll be channeling from his diaries. He bequeathed me the lot; I’ve been cribbing from them for much of what we’ve already covered. Details were taken from a note
book he kept in the last six months of his life so I guess I’ll be paraphrasing more than usual.

  In the moment he ran from the cave, Kura was convinced that his former teacher was stark raving mad. And yet by the time we arrived at the plush sanctuary of our Delhi hotel, he found himself in the grip of a converse idée fixe: What if the American was sober as a judge? Could it be that he was in the exaltedly cockamamie tradition of those legendary sadhus who attained “crazy wisdom”? Like the saints of Mahamudra who appeared as drunks and village idiots, so might the Hermit prance about his cave talking to enlightened furniture. It was a sliver in Kura’s foot that had to come out.

  The entourage began its return to the village immediately after leaving me at the airport. There was no mention in his journal of any sherpa-led procession up the foothills. Still, I laughed (and my heart broke for the 4,000th time) as I pictured him with deflated hair in his fancy suit, creased and soiled by flop sweat, balancing atop a burro—stubborn mules all!—an exhausted Quixote tilting against Eternity.

  As they reached the meadow, he became seized by that awful ambivalence endemic to those wounded by love. One moment, he was enthralled by the possibility that the American had annihilated the Self and ascended Mount Sumeru; the next, he gloated bitterly at the prospect of the man having lost his mind.

  By the time he approached the cave he was numb . . .

  He called out and received no answer. He walked to the entrance and raised his voice in greeting. He paused before moving a few feet inside the doorless door.

  And there he stood, letting his eyes adjust, as before.

  The elder greeted him with undimmed ardor, though his easy smile was at odds with what he soon disclosed.

  “You must tell me something,” Kura beseeched, without so much as a hello. “You must tell me now.”

  “Certainly! Yes! Of course!” he replied. The haunted look in the eye of his importunate visitor was plain to see.

  “The Hermit—the American—that man who’s lived in the cave all these years . . . you know him well, is that correct? He said that when he came here, you were the first person he met, and you showed him—what I mean is, that you must know him rather well . . .”

  The smile on the elder’s face was stuck; his jaw made involuntary movements, as if words were being roughly incubated.

  “I went to see him just now at the cave but he wasn’t there! Look: I need you to—I want you . . . I’d be very appreciative if you’d give me your opinion about something. If you’d clear something up. It’s rather urgent . . . or seems to have become so, anyway. [This last said more to himself.] You must weigh your words carefully! I say this, because . . . because my life may depend on it.” He looked warily toward the ground, as if the abyss his teacher once described was soon to crack open the earth where they stood. “Is this man—this American saint, as you call him—is he—well, is he in his right mind? The question being: do you have any reason whatsoever to believe he is a lunatic? Senile? Sir! You strike me as a man with a level head, and a fair judge of others . . . so much so, I’d think twice before asking you for a similar ruling on myself! But sir, if you will—I beg of you to answer my question with as much honesty and forthrightness as you can bring to bear.” A pause. “I have come to ask: Is he insane?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” shouted the elder in jubilation. “Without equivocation!” His smile became most natural again as it gave birth to a litter of words, the entire face assuming an expression of “all-consuming love.” (Kura’s written phrase, not mine.) “The Hermit of Dashir Cave was the purest, most formidable of all the rishis God in His unfathomable grace has ever privileged me to honor with prayer. My friend, I have brushed up against holy men for some 50-odd years! You ask if he was in his right mind. The simplest answer I can give is that he was beyond all notion of sanity or madness, and exists14 far outside Time. When he came to our modest village to ask for a place he might lay his head, I could do nothing but rejoice! In my greed, I took his arrival as an augur of great tidings—which it was!—a celestial sign that our humble community might benefit from his presence. And we did, greatly so. Many miracles happened while he was among us, miracles I shall never attempt to describe, at the risk of becoming conceited or even idolatrous. (There is also the fear that by giving them voice, they may come undone.) Kind friend and guest, your question has flooded me with memories . . . and unspeakable sadness as well. But I cannot afford those luxuries at this time. For now I must oversee his burial in the sky.”

  The husband and wife seesawed—as he rose to leave (without adieu), she gently fell, proffering lentils. But the soliloquy rendered Kura dumb; famished as he was, he couldn’t touch the bowl. “Burial in the sky” had been plainly spoken, yet eluded comprehension. When Kura finally gathered enough wits to ask, the wife confirmed that indeed the Hermit was dead.

  A whole set of new emotions washed over him, if they were emotions at all. He felt surreal, bungling, disjointed.

  “My husband was the last to see him. He stopped by the cave with a basket of food I’d prepared for the three of you—we had no idea your visit would be so short! You and your wife had only just left; the Hermit invited him in and began to speak . . . not at all the norm. Rarely did the holy man chatterbox. He preferred to meditate while his guests, mostly villagers of course, shared their hopes and loves, dreams and fears. He never gave advice nor was it solicited. Talking to him was its own reward, often resulting in great benefit. When my husband returned, he informed me of your departure and said that he’d spent a long time with the guru, just listening. I asked what was discussed but he was reticent to divulge, which wasn’t like him at all. You’ve seen how garrulous he can be—my husband positively delights in chatterboxing! The only thing he divulged was that the Hermit spoke of you in a most affectionate and animated way, almost breathless, as if ‘running out of time’—those were the precise words my husband used. And that he gave no indication whatsoever of feeling ill, to the contrary! My husband said that his spirit blazed brighter than ever.”

  At first blush, the news was more than Kura could bear. He’d been left behind by the American before, and now it had happened all over again! This time, though, came the cruelest twist. This time, the old man tweaked Kura’s nose before rubbing it in shit. He sprung to his feet, ignoring her attempts to restrain him. No! He would not stay for the freakin’ burial in the sky, whatever that was—he just wanted out, to put as many miles between him and that ogre as humanly possible. As he power-walked down those wretched foothills—those glorified mounds of dirt he’d grown to fear and detest—a raw anger displaced the spurious optimism of the last handful of hours. In his fury, a hundred yards or so down the path, he almost knocked a small boy off the road. It was the elder’s grandson, bent under the weight of the burden that was strapped to his back.

  “What have you there?”

  The frightened boy held his ground.

  “I said, what do you have there?”

  In high dudgeon, Kura brutally spun the child around. Recognizing the cargo at once, he was stung afresh—it was the chair from the cave.

  “What do you mean to do with that?”

  “My grandfather told me to bring it to the school.”

  “Give it to me!” he commanded.

  “But my grandfather said that the Hermit—”

  “Devil take the Hermit!” Kura shouted. “I said give it here! Your grandfather promised it to me!” He puffed up with righteous temerity—the lie felt good and right and true. He undid the rope and pathetically wrenched the chair from the boy’s back in a brief tug-of-war. “I’ve earned this damned chair,” said Kura, drawing it to his chest in full possession then handing it off to the closest sherpa. “Now that’s the end of it!”

  The chair’s unlikely journey ended in the Paris office, where Kura took a few mugshots with his old Land Camera.

  Then he wrapped it in a mover’s blanket, flu
ng it in the closet and resolved never to see it again.

  In the ensuing year, he went through the motions. He became depressed, with fleeting thoughts of suicide. They put him on lithium and Prozac—this, that and the other. Sometimes he slept on the office couch. He dreamed of the chair on the other side of the wall.

  One day an unusual-looking envelope arrived in the company pouch addressed to “Sri. B. Moncrieff,” in an immodest calligraphic hand. No return address. The letter was included in the box of diaries I received a few months after he passed away. I’ll give us both a break and read from it directly . . .

  Queenie took the correspondence from her coat pocket with pseudo-dramatic flair. Someone poured more wine. She sniffed the glass then tasted, nodding approvingly to the server.

  Dusk had fallen. She read to me by the light of a beautiful lantern; the inky message bled through the rice paper, dancing among the woven threads.

  “My Dearest Kind Sir/SRI Bela Moncrieff,

  “I am earnest in hoping this note does most indeed find you most well! I meant to put pen to pencil many months ago and do ask your kind forgiveness as to complete failure on my behalf in that regard. While my village is a modest one and my duties toward it simple, various pressing concerns have the habit of being horses on the runway. Hereby (and ‘thereby’ too for good measure) not long after your leavetaking didst we villagers became unlucky recipients of a mighty monsoon that caused a great deal of mischief—you may be saddened to hear me declare the Dashir Cave is now no more. The threat of the Dengue, which arrived not long after the waters seceded, thankfully turned out false in its alarum. Yet in my heart I must confess to terrible remorse for the delay of this most serious missive. As months passed, the greater became my understanding of the crowning importance its enquoted words would hold for you; as they were uttered by the Hermit himself, who instructed they be conveyed forthwith and straightaway, at all cost. So you see I have no excuse nor have I defence. Again, I humbly ask your forgiveness, dear Sri, adding that sometimes a procrastinated man becomes a means unto himself.