Bruce Wagner - The Empty Chair

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 jumped 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?