“Perhaps now you’ll see more clearly the fix I was in when my guru — Guru among gurus! — left this world. And I am speaking apart from having lost the light of my life. I spent seven years pruning the garden of Self (does that sound familiar?), watched over by that holiest of horticulturists. He stood behind me, steadfast, demonstrating how to yank the very weeds that were destined to choke me. There is no doubt I was his most careful student, which made matters worse. To my guru, I was a lamb he was shepherding home; to the others, I was the ‘golden boy’—quite literally, with my yellow hair! Which didn’t help at all! — but tarnished gold. The ugly American who like a parasite had wormed his way into Father’s heart. Because of me, there were whispers he’d gone senile. As the years passed, the rancor toward me softened and eventually, I came to be treated as Mogul Lane’s favorite son. But I knew better, for in the Great Guru’s world there can be no favorites. Mindful of his warning, I took this whole teacher’s pet business as a challenge. One more prideful weed to be pulled out by the root…
“I never took the Great Guru for granted. The more I drank from his cup, the deeper came my understanding that the man was truly empty. He had achieved an optimal state of insuperable focus and discipline of purpose. In those difficult weeks that followed the cremation, a comment of his came back to haunt me. ‘The Universe always tests a man with that which he fears most.’ At the time, it was just a casual remark over breakfast; only later did I realize he spoke directly to me. For years, I’d fought to expunge all vestiges of self-importance, that labor in the garden nonsense I spoke of. And just when I thought I was ‘getting somewhere’ (a phrase of ill portent, to be sure), they offered to make me pope. I would be the ‘next’ Great Guru, no strings attached! At first, the decision was easy. Because I’d already vanquished my ego, remember? O yes! Or so I thought. My humility was a source of great pride, something to inwardly boast about. I was resolute. No amount of logic or flattery could tempt me to assume the post. In fact, my refusal was proof in the pudding of my advanced state… do you see my point? After a while, I gained enough awareness to view the conundrum for what it was: Father’s brilliant parting shot, a teaching that hadn’t been possible to imbue until he drew his final breath… and created a vacancy! Really quite wondrous, an exquisite maneuver, don’t you think? In the end, the most formidable lesson of all. The irony was that while my impulse had been to flee — hadn’t he told me to run? — an invisible force kept me tethered. Was it ego? Or was it my guru’s alternate voice, urging me ‘to face the demon in battle’? The dilemma drove me half-mad. Monday I resolved to leave, Tuesday to stay, and so forth. The Universe always tests a man with that which he fears most. My very essence was caught in a Chinese finger trap. The more I squirmed, the tighter the tourniquet!
“Almost a month passed. I lost 30 pounds. I kept no food down; my hair fell out; I was always cross. Everyone thought I’d become ill, can you recall? Acute ambivalence was killing me. Then I dreamt I was at the foot of my guru’s chair, in agony. I longed for commiseration but no words came. The question Why? hung telepathically in the air. He answered, out loud: Why not? He told me that by impersonating a guru, I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘the worst that can happen is the realization that you’re a shitty guru. And so what? Then you can run.’
“The vision came just hours before my first satsang — your first too, no? Your first in Bombay? Father always admired the bold stroke and I knew it was time… the weeks of struggle were over. He once said that it was best to live this life with the threat of a sword hanging over one’s head. My task would be to keep the sword of egotism suspended by serving all sentient beings. His retort—‘Why not?’—was the only mantra that made sense. Perhaps this dream bookended the other, the one where my guru ran alongside those murderous horses. The latter, a vision of my teacher’s death; the former, a rebirth on Mogul Lane. My own…
“I summoned all my courage and entered the shop to the awaiting crowd. It was packed to the gills, no? I carefully picked my way through. I was no longer in my body — it felt like something had seized control and was walking me toward my beloved’s chair. To this day, I have no idea what anyone could have possibly been thinking when I turned to face them… My own mind could not have been emptier. And so it all began.
“At the end of satsang, I fought to remember who and where I was. I was like Kipling’s Kim, disoriented from fever at the end of that great novel. ‘I am Kim. I am Kim. But what is “Kim”?’ I did have a small sense of relief from a vague feeling it hadn’t been a complete disaster. Then I was shaken from my reverie by 100,000 volts! A yogi can experience his death quite distinctly during advanced meditation. It is instructive to watch one’s soul depart one’s body… which is precisely what occurred, but because I was no yogi as yet, it was the most painful and disturbing sensation! I heard a great death rattle from my very bones. An earthquake opened up a void, a bottomless pit into which I tumbled for seven torturous years. And you, dear Kura — dear teacher—were the instrument that destroyed me, yet allowed me to live!”
I didn’t think it possible for Kura to pay the American any more attention than he’d been giving but with this last remark, that was what happened. As if to break the tension, the guru gestured to some shaded tree stumps whose surfaces had been made suitable for guests. To my relief, Kura sat. The American remained standing. He had 20 years on his former student though looked younger and less fragile by the minute. The telling of his story energized him.
“Do you remember the moment you touched my feet, that very first time? Think back! Meditate on the moment and you just might capture my face, enshrined in the fossilized resin of memory. At the exact moment of their tender caress, the weight of your hands stung like all the hornets of the world! Those hands, oh my teacher, kindled a fire that became a holocaust. In that instant, I knew: I had made a grievous mistake. Instead of sitting in Father’s chair, I should have run, run, run! For at the touch of your hand, the merciful earth did unmercifully break asunder…
“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!