He was patient. I was audacious enough to believe I was the center of his universe. (I came to learn I was partially right.) But Kura had enough expertise with the suicidal character to know that, as much as I loved him, it would be risky to apply too much pressure. So he played it pianissimo. Sometimes he read to me from the Book in bed, before we made love — or after. Probably during! I think I was maybe a little jealous of that guru but I was also puzzled. If the holy tobacconist was alive and well (which he was), why hadn’t Kura made the trek to Bombay?
One day I blurted out as much, point-blank. He winced and made a funny-face, as if he’d been waiting for someone to ask the painfully obvious.
“Because I’m a fucking dilettante.”
Was he being serious?
“Do you think he’s going to judge you?” I asked.
He went rigid — I’d found a weak spot. Oh, I was haughty… a spoiled, haughty, entitled bitch on two wheels.
“Well, if he does, he’s an asshole, Kura. And not worthy of your time.”
I thought I’d get a medal for rushing to his defense.
“Don’t be a stupid girl!” he roared. “This man does not judge… this man is not even a man!” He literally foamed at the mouth. “And don’t ever use that word for the siddha, I won’t have it! Save it for your ridiculous friends — save it for the men who wish to take you off this earth, or the parents you dishonor with each breath, those who gave you life! Why don’t you look in the mirror and fling that word at what you see there, like a monkey throwing shit! But never in connection with the Great Guru… And learn not to speak of things you know nothing of.”
Well, I couldn’t — speak — for about five days.
I got truly frightened. Because as close as we’d become, his coruscating rage demonstrated for the first time that it was possible for him to say goodbye without looking back. That he had that in him. Which might sound naïve; but perhaps you know a little about the power that a young and beautiful girl can hold over a man. Or the power she sometimes thinks she has… On the last day of my silent retreat, I apologized. I don’t think I’d ever done that before, not to anyone. I remember stealing into the den where he was reading beside the fire and telling him how sorry I was. He didn’t look at me. Then I dropped to my knees and clutched his ankles, hair hanging down while my forehead brushed the floor. We’d been together about ten months and finally I thanked him for everything he’d done. (I wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the note I’d composed at the Drake but that couldn’t have been a proper thank-you.) I thanked him for all that he was and all he’d become to me. I thanked him for saving my life and looking after me while I healed, thanked him for daring to bring a crass, selfish, obstinate girl (underage!) to Paris at such great expense and even greater risk. I thanked him for protecting me, for teaching me—
I thanked him for loving me.
He bent down to lift me up. I was crying. We embraced and then he made tea. We drank it in silence; he’d learned how to make a perfect cup of English tea from his mum.
“Do you want to know why I haven’t visited the Great Guru?”
His voice was deep, with sparkly, dancing notes. A cognac voice. Something inside him went still, beyond my reach. His mood and tone were elegiac.
“The reason I’ve not gone to visit the Great Guru in Bombay is — would you like to hear the truth? The reason I’ve not gone is… because he is the only man I’ve ever been afraid of in my life. The instant he lays eyes on me, he will know. It shall all be over! And where will that leave me, darling Queen? Where! And what then?”
So of course I got on that plane when he called — to Delhi. I’m afraid that’s the best segue I can manage at the moment. It’s hard getting back into it after a break.
Tell me, Bruce, how badly am I fucking up? Have I “come a cropper,” as Kura used to say? I probably could be telling the story much better. But you can change things around later, no? With the editing? You can sand down the rough edges… I’ll pick up steam — you’ll see. I’ll try to be more articulate. You don’t know how much I’ve been reading [her old journals]! There’s so much freakin’ material. You know what I can do? I actually can try to — I’ll try to do a little more editing in my head. Edit the thoughts before they come out my mouth… O? You think that’s a mistake? I don’t mean edit-edit, I’m not too good at that. I just mean be a little more mindful.
Anyway, we’ll see. We shall see, said the blind man. To the deaf girl…
The Roller arrived at 7:30 with yours truly toddling out half-an-hour later, just as the sage predicted. Following Kura’s script, a chauffeur in full livery smoked a morning cigarette whilst leaning against that fleshy part between bonnet and withers. Once I came into view, he flicked his butt to the curb and snapped to attention. We barreled down 110th Street and the sheer movement coupled with the ineffable mystery of wholly unexpected adventure shot little sunbeams through the clouds of my depression. Travel has always been my drug. The stubborn gloominess shifted, like items in an overhead bin. In my experience, moroseness grows in direct correlation with the time spent gazing at one’s own navel — and shrinks upon fixing one’s gaze on another’s. I was already thinking about Kura and our imminent reunion, which further brought me out of myself.
We drove straight onto the field. It was a big plane, maybe too big. (I know my doctors and I know my jets.) Not gauche, but gosh! — pure Kura. Two pilots and a “hostess” waved from the top of the stairs. I felt like I was entering an old photograph of some starlet having her moment; I got butterflies climbing the airway.
I retired to my cocoon-ready cashmere bed straightaway, the cabin ringed with orchids. (I never did see that elusive doctor, until we landed.) She brought tea then left me alone. I nestled in to ruminate. Taking off, I thumbed the nubs of my two fingers and something about the whole situation made me laugh out loud… I never thought about the cause or effect of my mutilation anymore — I’d been running from those memories for 30 years. The ruined hand of a cowardly witch. I was closing in on my fiftieth year: twitchy, witchy, barren and bitchy, out of season and out of swords. I wondered how many flatfoots he put on my tail, anyway. They call that “intel,” don’t they? “Show intel”… show ’n’ tell. Well now I’m just getting silly. (I should cut back on the wine during these sessions.) Do you remember? That he said he knew something no one else did? That my heart had been broken by a woman? O Bruce, my heart has been breaking for 11 years! She thought I’d betrayed her — then vanished. But I didn’t. Betray her. Not even for a minute. Though I do believe I know how she got that deadly idea… a horrible, terrible misunderstanding. If I can just tell her the truth of what happened, maybe all can be forgiven. I’ve been searching for her ever since.5 I told you I was getting close. Every day, a little closer. I’m not on this bus for my health. I told you what I’m doing, you know what I’m searching for. I’m searching for her—