Bruce Wagner - The Empty Chair

“In an ashram, arrogance arrives in bare feet. One hardly notices; it leaves its shoes at the door and insidiously walks in. Allow me to expand upon the theme. A fundamental method of a siddha is repetition. A true guru knows it is impossible to be understood by language alone; he finds ways around it, patiently working with what he has. A sadguru brings the word from the tip of the tongue to the throat, from the throat to the heart, from the heart to the navel. That is how he escorts you to Silence. During satsang, he may expound upon his own answer until the question is forgotten. He will repeat himself again and again but don’t be fooled! These redundancies are mantras, an extension of Silence itself — what is called ‘mantra yoga’—though to the ignorant it appears to be nothing more than a lack of imagination or even a functional dementia that must be patronized and indulged. The fact of the matter is, the endless reiterations of a siddha are painstakingly deliberate. The guru knows full well he must drill the seeker of truth with mantra like a woodpecker drills a dying tree! The guru watches over his students as the sergeant who supervises blindfolded troops while they practice breaking down and reassembling rifles. And so it is with the student learning the ABCs of Infinity. Anyone who has had the privilege of sitting with a most venerable Master for a week, a day, an hour — a minute! — will naturally be exposed to the repetition I speak of. God is the repetition; sound and language, the mantra; the mantra is the guru; the guru is God. The Great Guru, like a strong, kind father, demanded a soldier’s homework be done, for the war against the ego is no mere battle but a massacre. Just ask Krishna!

“When I was a boy, I was quicksilver in body and mind. I lorded my speed over fellow students, and family too. I was shameless! I wished to show my parents how dumb they were, how much better off they’d be if they looked to their son for the answers. My father was a poor reader so I read the newspaper aloud to him in a faster than normal tempo, to throw it in his face. My mother was bad with figures so I pored over her accounts and showed her all the places her calculations had been wrong. We have a lot in common, dear Kura, dear teacher. When I first arrived at Mogul Lane, like you I could find nowhere to sit other than at my guru’s feet. (The Source had arranged it thus.) After I’d been with him a few years, I grew restless during satsang. I became bored by those periods of repetition I spoke of. I’d heard it all before! I couldn’t discreetly take my leave because my position at his chair was too prominent. Instead, I played a little mental game to keep myself from falling asleep… a child’s game. Whenever a seeker asked a question, one I’d heard a thousand times before — the guru is not the only one who repeats himself! — I formulated a response, awarding myself points for varying degrees of accuracy. I made up little rules to keep it lively, but soon even the game was in danger of incurring my boredom and contempt.

“The compulsion continued for years, too petty and intermittent to take myself to task yet too consistent to ignore. I never spoke to my guru about it though wish I had, for only now do I know he could have arrested it as easily as a case of hiccups. It was nothing more than a neurotic figment of ‘the Fifth Column,’ hence unworthy of any attention that might validate it. To focus on the Mind was to feed it… this is what I told myself. If you can’t beat it, revel in it! I had platitudes and justifications galore. How smug! What hubris! It was my distorted belief that self-awareness alone provided amnesty. I basked in my advanced knowingness , rationalizing the game away as a juvenile travesty, a tool with which I might ‘hone’ myself.

“Year after year, I spent part of satsang predicting Father’s response to myriad questions. And I was often ‘in the ballpark,’ as they say… Now, I don’t want to give the impression I was completely out to lunch for his talks, not at all. I listened quite closely. Still, there was always that moment as we neared the end — around 10:30 or quarter to 11—when I grew bored: with the game, with India, with myself. My thoughts flew elsewhere, the guru and his acolytes a drone in my ear. I’d return to my body in the nick of time to fabricate an answer to some stupid query, by rote… but invariably, the moment came when my beloved’s response would be so far afield from the one I concocted, so wrenchingly poetic and outlandishly simple, so onionskin- unknowable , beautiful and direct that my body stiffened with shame like a boy caught stabbing snails with a butter knife. The game would quickly be retired. For a few days, anyway!

“Here is what happened on that fatal, fateful morning. During satsang, though disembodied, I somehow glanced down to take you in throughout. You were like a small anchor attached to the chair that kept me from floating away… and there was something else. Your initial disappointment was easy to read on your face. (For good reason — I later learned you had traveled a long distance to sit before the Great Guru and got me instead!) With your desperate eyes, in your hard-won spot at Father’s feet, I saw myself , from another time. Then, slowly but surely, my extemporaneous efforts seemed to win you over — floating near the roof, incognizant of my own words, guided by arrogance cunningly dressed in a humble kurta, I was still able to acknowledge your purity, your innocence, your yearning for Truth. I watched your hard features soften… and it mattered, you mattered. I actually believe you carried me through that abominable, terrifying hour — Sri Kura! Mahatma! Baba! — and that your attention formed the cornerstone of the edifice of illusion I built for myself — and others — on Mogul Lane. You gave me your heart. On that morning, everyone did. It was the Great Guru who was carrying us both… us all.

“When I finally peeled myself off the ceiling, I remembered the game I played during my teacher’s satsang. I looked at you and thought, What if he stays? What if the one who sits where I once sat stays ? And begins to play the game, just as I did? The corollary of that supposition hit me like a gust of foul air, for I could never be expected to surprise, to humble the seekers as the rishi had done. Eventually you would be able to mimic my recycled trove of responses — anyone with half a mind could! — my personalized plagiarisms of the Great Guru’s words — and win the game. Every time . Because it simply wasn’t possible for me to usher you or anyone into Silence. The Great Guru had already spoken to me from a dream and told me the worst possibility — discovering the ‘shitty guru within.’ But there was something worse: to know it and stay on! To remain in the chair with full knowledge of the fraud, spreading the vile gospel of Self. Because you see I liked the chair — that was the flaw — the kid with all the answers — all the marbles — sat in the chair and fell in love. It was love at first seat!

“That insight (to know and yet remain) lit the fuse, and the bomb detonated in the exact instant your hands touched my feet. Because that was the moment I realized I would never run — nor would I ever have the courage to ‘face the demon in battle.’ Nothing would stop me from wallowing in guru shittiness , no! The rewards were too amenable. That moment — the laying on of hands— your hands, Kuraji! — destroyed and healed me, sealing my Faustian pact with the Mind. Flesh touching flesh was key… if I was still capable of staying on at Mogul Lane under such grotesque circumstances, what else might I be capable of? In an instant, I became no more than a guru-thuggee — my worst imagined enemy, my assassin … Do you see my point? When you touched my feet, how it burned! Remember my reaction? Think! Think back! Can you? Turn back the page. Perhaps your friend Cassiopeia remembers — yes, she’s nodding her head. She sees. Return to that time with your mind’s eye, old friend, and you might catch me in a petit mal seizure of the eschatological variety. I recovered quickly; I told you that little boy was fast as quicksilver, especially when it came to saving his butt. I have always been a ‘trooper’— I pick myself up, dust myself off, start all over again —one of the qualities I share with my former countrymen. But at the moment I speak of I was like the actor who goes up on his lines then improvises with such alacrity that he earns a thunderous ovation. I covered over my torment with an elegant soft-shoe. And they lapped it up! Didn’t they, Cassiopeia?