Bruce Wagner - The Empty Chair

And what about the chair? The widow ordered it to be left exactly where it was found. The American would stare at it before drifting off, almost against his will, his imagination at play in the shifting chiaroscuro. If he squinted just right, he could trick himself into seeing a seated figure; with another sleight of eye, the chair vanished altogether…

Though sometimes a chair was just a chair — the saddest realization of all.

During this in-between time he thought about the future but the farthest he got was trying to envision a life without his teacher. The prospect took the wind out of him.

Not long after, the widow invited him into the den where her husband used to meditate and sing morning devotionals. She got right down to troubling business.

“ You must take the chair! 7 It is your time. God willed it — even you cannot challenge the events of that morning. They were preordained. And who is there better than you for the job? If you know, do tell. You must listen. Twas you who sat at Baba’s feet for years. Twas you who helped spread his teachings wide and far — you know them cold! Your body is knowing them too, not just your mind. This you cannot challenge! What I am saying, you have an obligation. You have a duty. That is what I am saying. He that is immortal loved you. He invited you to the far corners of his heart, and other places, where no one has traveled, not even myself! I beg you to consider! There are many good reasons to take the chair other than those I enumerated. The ones I am giving you now are the best reasons, the most obvious , for they are rooted in simplicity and common sense. But I contest there are many others , and some among them which are more than quite pressing. Surely, you are naïve to what I’m referring? I am telling you first to consider —then reconsider. You must take the chair! Now, good. Go! We shall talk again.”

That night the American slept at home.

You must take the chair!

He wanted to talk back, but what could he say?

You must take the chair!

It was like being warned by a gypsy or getting advice from a consigliere in a cheap mob drama… she made him feel like a hoodlum. And in that room, no less, that room of prayer, his father’s room! He found himself fantasizing about leaving Bombay, something that never crossed his mind until now. He hadn’t yet visited Benares; it was said all men must go to Benares at least once in their lives. To die in Benares meant to escape the cycle of suffering and rebirth and gain direct admittance to nirvana. A vision of himself in that ancient city grabbed hold.

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!