Now of course I wasn’t there for this last part I’m going to tell you so when I speak of things only Kura could have been privy to — his direct experience — I’ll be channeling from his diaries. He bequeathed me the lot; I’ve been cribbing from them for much of what we’ve already covered. Details were taken from a notebook he kept in the last six months of his life so I guess I’ll be paraphrasing more than usual.
In the moment he ran from the cave, Kura was convinced that his former teacher was stark raving mad. And yet by the time we arrived at the plush sanctuary of our Delhi hotel, he found himself in the grip of a converse idée fixe: What if the American was sober as a judge? Could it be that he was in the exaltedly cockamamie tradition of those legendary sadhus who attained “crazy wisdom”? Like the saints of Mahamudra who appeared as drunks and village idiots, so might the Hermit prance about his cave talking to enlightened furniture. It was a sliver in Kura’s foot that had to come out.
The entourage began its return to the village immediately after leaving me at the airport. There was no mention in his journal of any sherpa-led procession up the foothills. Still, I laughed (and my heart broke for the 4,000th time) as I pictured him with deflated hair in his fancy suit, creased and soiled by flop sweat, balancing atop a burro — stubborn mules all! — an exhausted Quixote tilting against Eternity.
As they reached the meadow, he became seized by that awful ambivalence endemic to those wounded by love. One moment, he was enthralled by the possibility that the American had annihilated the Self and ascended Mount Sumeru; the next, he gloated bitterly at the prospect of the man having lost his mind.
By the time he approached the cave he was numb…
He called out and received no answer. He walked to the entrance and raised his voice in greeting. He paused before moving a few feet inside the doorless door.
And there he stood, letting his eyes adjust, as before.
The elder greeted him with undimmed ardor, though his easy smile was at odds with what he soon disclosed.
“You must tell me something,” Kura beseeched, without so much as a hello. “You must tell me now.”
“Certainly! Yes! Of course!” he replied. The haunted look in the eye of his importunate visitor was plain to see.
“The Hermit — the American—that man who’s lived in the cave all these years… you know him well, is that correct? He said that when he came here, you were the first person he met, and you showed him — what I mean is, that you must know him rather well…”
The smile on the elder’s face was stuck; his jaw made involuntary movements, as if words were being roughly incubated.
“I went to see him just now at the cave but he wasn’t there! Look: I need you to — I want you… I’d be very appreciative if you’d give me your opinion about something. If you’d clear something up. It’s rather urgent… or seems to have become so, anyway. [This last said more to himself.] You must weigh your words carefully! I say this, because… because my life may depend on it.” He looked warily toward the ground, as if the abyss his teacher once described was soon to crack open the earth where they stood. “Is this man—this American saint, as you call him — is he — well, is he in his right mind? The question being: do you have any reason whatsoever to believe he is a lunatic? Senile? Sir! You strike me as a man with a level head, and a fair judge of others… so much so, I’d think twice before asking you for a similar ruling on myself! But sir, if you will—I beg of you to answer my question with as much honesty and forthrightness as you can bring to bear.” A pause. “I have come to ask: Is he insane?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” shouted the elder in jubilation. “Without equivocation!” His smile became most natural again as it gave birth to a litter of words, the entire face assuming an expression of “all-consuming love.” (Kura’s written phrase, not mine.) “The Hermit of Dashir Cave was the purest, most formidable of all the rishis God in His unfathomable grace has ever privileged me to honor with prayer. My friend, I have brushed up against holy men for some 50-odd years! You ask if he was in his right mind. The simplest answer I can give is that he was beyond all notion of sanity or madness, and exists14 far outside Time. When he came to our modest village to ask for a place he might lay his head, I could do nothing but rejoice! In my greed, I took his arrival as an augur of great tidings — which it was! — a celestial sign that our humble community might benefit from his presence. And we did, greatly so. Many miracles happened while he was among us, miracles I shall never attempt to describe, at the risk of becoming conceited or even idolatrous. (There is also the fear that by giving them voice, they may come undone.) Kind friend and guest, your question has flooded me with memories… and unspeakable sadness as well. But I cannot afford those luxuries at this time. For now I must oversee his burial in the sky.”
The husband and wife seesawed — as he rose to leave (without adieu), she gently fell, proffering lentils. But the soliloquy rendered Kura dumb; famished as he was, he couldn’t touch the bowl. “Burial in the sky” had been plainly spoken, yet eluded comprehension. When Kura finally gathered enough wits to ask, the wife confirmed that indeed the Hermit was dead.
A whole set of new emotions washed over him, if they were emotions at all. He felt surreal, bungling, disjointed.
“My husband was the last to see him. He stopped by the cave with a basket of food I’d prepared for the three of you — we had no idea your visit would be so short! You and your wife had only just left; the Hermit invited him in and began to speak… not at all the norm. Rarely did the holy man chatterbox. He preferred to meditate while his guests, mostly villagers of course, shared their hopes and loves, dreams and fears. He never gave advice nor was it solicited. Talking to him was its own reward, often resulting in great benefit. When my husband returned, he informed me of your departure and said that he’d spent a long time with the guru, just listening. I asked what was discussed but he was reticent to divulge, which wasn’t like him at all. You’ve seen how garrulous he can be — my husband positively delights in chatterboxing! The only thing he divulged was that the Hermit spoke of you in a most affectionate and animated way, almost breathless, as if ‘running out of time’—those were the precise words my husband used. And that he gave no indication whatsoever of feeling ill, to the contrary! My husband said that his spirit blazed brighter than ever.”
At first blush, the news was more than Kura could bear. He’d been left behind by the American before, and now it had happened all over again! This time, though, came the cruelest twist. This time, the old man tweaked Kura’s nose before rubbing it in shit. He sprung to his feet, ignoring her attempts to restrain him. No! He would not stay for the freakin’ burial in the sky, whatever that was — he just wanted out, to put as many miles between him and that ogre as humanly possible. As he power-walked down those wretched foothills — those glorified mounds of dirt he’d grown to fear and detest — a raw anger displaced the spurious optimism of the last handful of hours. In his fury, a hundred yards or so down the path, he almost knocked a small boy off the road. It was the elder’s grandson, bent under the weight of the burden that was strapped to his back.