Below me, the untouchables were being pushed, whisked and twirled into the street by fresh packs of snappily dressed cops. I’d seen many soldiers in the short time since we’d arrived but now it seemed like whole dragoons were being summoned to Tobacco Road. Jostled from multiple directions past women in glittering saris, the disenfranchised surged to the sidewalks where they received further prods from handsome householders in gold-embroidered sherwanis, the goal being not just to herd them from the shop’s entrance but to whirl them out of existence. In the midst of my surveillance, I saw a figure improbably squeeze through the bottleneck at the door of Satsang Central. Kura! The bouncers missed him completely, as they were busy hassling with a clutch of urchins that delighted in a game whose main objective was to make a big show of rushing the door and then swiftly retreating just in time to elude the authorities, a maneuver which scored the most points if finessed without being kicked, grabbed, molested or otherwise apprehended. The most adroit of these mischief-makers found time to brazenly ape the look and mood of the policeman who had given chase or whatever fancy onlookers expressed disdain. To escape capture, the dirtball scalawags took impressive, flying leaps into a mosh pit of their peers that extended into the street, ruffling a few feathers and unraveling more than a few dhotis of the hydra-footed gorgon of perfumed devotees waiting peaceably on line.
I redirected my gaze. The sun no longer reflected on the glass. The inside of the shop, a-brim with those awaiting satsang, was totally visible. To my astonishment, Kura had already reached his goaclass="underline" breathless and illumined, he stood before the Great Guru’s humble throne, beautifully surrendered. He brought the palms of his hands together in prayerful salutation, touched them to his forehead and crumpled into a lotus, neatly filling the spot that only seconds before barely contained the fidgety blob of an obese woman who, in a seizure of urgency, had decamped to answer nature’s karmically ill-timed call. Kura’s assured, brazen, somehow dignified arrival caused nary a stir. Befittingly, he now had the best seat in the house.
I will never forget that princely, boyish head swiveling, eyes trying to find my own. He squinted through the window, scanning at street level before remembering where he’d left me; his gaze lifted and caught me on my roost. A sunshine smile split open his face because he knew I’d bore affectionate witness to his mystic, acrobatic victory.
I still think now what I thought then — in spite of everything that was to happen, Kura had come home.
The next day, we ate a late lunch.
“Wasn’t that delicious? The chef’s from Morocco. Are you sure you had enough food?… I know it’s cold, Bruce, but I’d rather do this outside. They’ll bring heaters and it’ll get toasty right away, I promise — and some coffees and candies… Esme? Can you bring two cappuccinos? And a shitload of agave… some fruit and cheese? And those faboo little pastries? And more wine! Thank you, Es!”
After settling, I gave her a précis of where we left off. She excitedly dove in.
As it turned out, there would be no satsang, for…
… the Great Guru was dead.
Pretty dramatic, huh?
At the end of that first day, we learned he had shuffled off this earthly plane just a few weeks prior — around the same time that our earthly, private plane was being diverted to Algiers. Needless to say, word of his demise had never reached us. This was a century before the Internet, when news traveled at a more civilized pace… though I do believe that as renowned as he was, if the Great Guru died today it would still be likely that his death might slip through more than a handful of news cycles. His was the kind of passing that obits generally reserve for retired diplomats, African bishops and former child stars, i.e., ones that can be reported later than sooner. (Scratch former child stars — enquiring minds want to know!) That his life and teachings would eventually be widely written about and even popularized was never in doubt. Time has born that out.6
Adamant that at any moment the saint would take his rightful seat, Kura and I were oblivious to having stumbled upon what was essentially a vigil. Meanwhile, I watched from my maypole aerie; sitting before the Master’s empty chair, my lover’s childlike anticipation lent him a radioactive energy. Now you may think I’m setting the stage for a dais of eulogizers — after all, I’ve just told you the siddha was dead. I said “vigil” too but if it was, then what—whom—was everyone waiting for?
This is where the American comes in.
Kura’s belated words on the phone, some 30 years after we met—“I’ve found him”—are the basis of the story I’m telling you. Understood. But before I can properly introduce the American, I need to talk about the American’s teacher.
It was 1997—27 years since I last saw—left him — in Bombay. There I was in my zillion-dollar apartment, minding my own business, hangin’ with the gargoyles… remember? I get the call from Grandmaster Flash and suddenly I’m on my way to Delhi. Whoosh. While airborne in my cashmere cabin, rope-a-doped on Seroquel, I start to retrieve all this—data—everything I’m telling you now — I’m busy downloading because I haven’t thought about any of it in absolute ages. I mean not really, not deeply, maybe never. Strange or funny or bullshitty as that may sound. But it’s true. There I am on the jet, cramming for my exam — filling in the potholes of a life that sometimes, most of the time, didn’t feel like my own. Because in that chunk of years after I left him there in dear ol’ Mumbai—from 1970 to 1997—well, dysthymic depression, shitty chemicals and general lovelornness ruled the roost, and sealed off so many rooms — all the bric-a-brac and most of the furnishings were in the lost and found. So now I’m eight miles high, on my way to Delhi, freshening up my frontal lobe… bear with me, honey, because I want you to be as prepared as I can make you before we touch down — and we will, and soon, I promise! I promise we’re landing in Delhi soon! I just want you to be able to give Kura your full attention when you finally meet him. Because if I don’t talk about what I’m about to, it’d just be rude—like blowing off the first act of a play and just bringing you at intermission. [sings] “Eight miles high! When you touch down… you’ll find that — it’s stranger than known…” The Byrds! Roger McGuinn! O my God! Get my granny glasses!