They’re late, Guru Saj thinks, drumming his fingers on the conference table, and then clears his throat for the hundredth time. He would expect the delay from Imam Zahid but not from Father Kelly, who is as punctual as a timekeeping yogi. Father is the one who requested this emergency meeting, anyway, and yet he keeps the great spiritual leader of the great Hindu temple of great Kamakhya waiting. This younger generation has no respect for anyone. Father Kelly might not be exactly young, but in the eyes of 78-year-old Guru Saj, they are just kids, all of them. Except for Hakham Abba, who sits across the conference table. Nobody knows exactly how old he is. With no trace of color left in his all-white beard, the skinny Jewish rabbi could easily be between 80 to 180 years old.
Hakham Abba is the only other person in the Hilton’s spacious conference room with a seating capacity of 35 people. Although he doesn’t represent any sizable population of religious people, Hakham Abba is almost always invited to such meetings, especially when it is organized by Father Kelly. Father always sucks up to Hakham Abba; not clear why. Perhaps it is out of respect for the elderly. But then Guru Saj is an elder too. Where is the love for Guru Saj? Those Abrahamic religions have never taken the ones outside their circle seriously. Arrogant ignorants.
Although he doesn’t feel thirsty, just to make the waiting less boring, Guru Saj unscrews the cap on the plastic bottle and pours some water into the glass before him. While watching Hakham Abba from the corner of his eyes, he lifts his Imperial mustache that guards his lips and then takes a sip.
Although there is a glass and a bottle at each seat, Hakham Abba is not touching his. With his head tilted down, he makes no move or any sound.
Guru Saj wonders whether he is awake or taking one of his famous micro-naps. He thinks of putting that to the test by yelling, ‘Mazel tov.’ Depending on how Hakham would wake up, it could be quite funny, but also a bit juvenile. Sigh! When you are older, you don’t get to play anymore, Guru Saj thinks, remembering the better days of his life when he was just a disciple in Ramana Ashram. Plus, Guru Saj doesn’t look forward to sharing another awkward moment with Hakham when their gazes would cross, and then, having nothing to say to each other, they both would avert their eyes. None of them cares about each other. Isn’t that the basis of a great friendship?
Father Kelly enters with a big shameless smile on his face and a big bottle of wine in his hand. “Oh, Hakham Abba, Guru Saj.”
“Teats,” Hakham Abba snaps, jolting out of his nap.
“Was it with E A or I?” Guru Saj says, putting on a serious face as if he is asking a theological question from the Torah.
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” Guru Saj sneers. “Both are equally good.”
“Huh?”
Facing Hakham Abba, Father Kelly says, “You’re here already!” pretending to be surprised. Is that supposed to be an apology for being late?
“I’ve been here since a long time ago,” Hakham Abba says, drawing together his bushy eyebrows.
“Nice Rolex!” Guru Saj gestures to the wristwatch on Father Kelly’s hand.
“Thank you.”
“You should look at it once in a while.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of the delay,” Father Kelly says the closest thing to an apology that can be squeezed out of him. “But it took time to find a Kosher wine.”
“Wasn’t the Kosher thing only for the meat?” Guru Saj asks.
“No. We have rules for everything,” Hakham Abba says, pride rippling into his voice.
“Everything?” Guru Saj asks with a smirk.
“Every…thing.”
“Beautiful,” Guru Saj says, nodding. “I’m truly jealous.”
Hakham Abba nods too, apparently not getting the sarcasm in Guru Saj’s comment.
“The more the better, I always say when it comes to rules and laws,” Father Kelly says, flattering Hakham Abba as he always does.
He must owe a high-interest loan to Hakham Abba, Guru Saj thinks about the only possible explanation for Father Kelly’s endless flattery.
Like a triumphant chevalier, Father Kelly puts the wine on the table as if it is the treasure he has brought back from the Crusades. He takes a small Bible out of the pocket of his cassock. And a corkscrew after that. Dropping the Bible back into his pocket, he sits near Hakham Abba—as expected—at the edge of the long conference table. Taking his sweet time, he twists the worm into the cork with so much care and precision as if he is a neurosurgeon performing open brain surgery.
“So…shall we start?” Guru Saj complains as he runs out of patience.
The wine pops when Father pulls out the cork. “Imam Zahid must show up any minute now,” he says, and closing his eyes, he takes a sniff of the wine as if he smells heaven in a bottle. “God, I hate it when people are late.”
“Yeah, me too,” Guru Saj says and raises his empty glass, curious to see what Father Kelly’s heaven tastes like.
“Thank God we have a luscious wine to make the waiting less painful,” Father Kelly says and, ignoring Guru Saj’s outstretched hand, leans toward Hakham Abba to pour some wine for him first. Kiss-ass. May Kali, the angry Hindu God, pay a visit to the rude people who have no respect for the elderly and always suck up to Hakham Abba instead. Tathastu (Amen).
The bottle’s lip is barely tilted down when Hakham puts his hand on the glass, his heavy gaze still resting on the table.
“It’s Kosher,” Father Kelly says, his hurt voice sounding slightly squeaky. His lips are half-puckered, which means either a sulky pout or an aborted kiss. Both are well-deserving.
“Not if it is handled by a non-Sabbath-observant Jew,” Hakham Abba responds firmly with an uncompromising tone, still not bothering to lift his gaze from the table.
Father Kelly is frozen for about three or four long seconds. When the embarrassment of the moment sinks in, he pulls himself together, raises his eyebrows, and leans back. While sucking air through his clenched teeth, he moves his glass by the slightest fraction of an inch and starts pouring wine for himself. “I gotta say, Hakham, it’s really, really admirable that you’re keeping a multi-thousand-year-old tradition alive. Really.” With the twisted expression on his face indicating a partly restrained anger, he chugs half the glass. “Ahh,” he says, letting out an exaggerated sigh.
“It must taste good,” Guru Saj says, still holding out his glass.
“Oh, my goodness,” Father Kelly says. “I didn’t see you.” Why is that not a surprise? And since when does ‘my goodness’ serve as an apology? Whatever happened to ‘Sorry’ or the good, old ‘Pardon me?’
Guru Saj lets this one slide, given that Karma was quick this time in punishing Father Kelly.
Barely standing up from his chair, Father leans in and pours wine for Guru Saj. “Say when.”
Dressed in his classic white shirt, Imam Zahid rushes in—his big paunch before him. “Sorry I’m late,” he says and sits next to Father Kelly.
Father Kelly stops pouring wine and leans back.
“When did I say when?” Guru Saj sneers.
Father Kelly reacts with a slight smile.
Imam Zahid lets out a deep breath. “My apology, but there was a matter that had to be dealt with urgently.”
Guru Saj tears a sheet from the tissue box, leans forward, and offers it to Imam Zahid.
Squinting his eyes, Imam Zahid stares at the tissue.
“You have some urgent ketchup on your shirt,” Guru Saj says, taking joy in making fun of the sinner who has kept them waiting.
Lowering his embarrassed gaze, Imam Zahid takes the tissue and wipes the ketchup off his white shirt.
“Care for a drink?” Guru Saj asks Imam Zahid, not quite done with teasing him yet.
“Is it non-alcoholic?”
“No, but it is not handled by a Sabbath-observant Jew, if it helps.”
“It…doesn’t,” Imam Zahid responds, obviously puzzled by Guru Saj’s smirk. “But, ah…thanks anyway.”
“Alright,” Father Kelly interrupts the tasteful humor, “I think we have the majority now.”
“Since when does four constitute a majority?” Guru Saj complains, upset about the eternal arrogance of Abrahamic religions, which take other religions as a joke.
“Population-wise, I meant,” Father Kelly snaps, his agitation showing in his voice. “Shall we start, Guru Saj?” he asks, his tone confrontational.
“Yes, we shall.” Guru Saj leans in. “Tell us, Father, how can we help you handle your problem?”
Father Kelly sneers nervously. “With all due respect, Guru Saj, I believe this is our problem.”
“Well, it grows off your temple, I mean church, doesn’t it?”
“Lots of his followers are actually ex-Hindus. So, excuse me if I—”
“Gentlemen,” Imam Zahid yells, his hands wide open and stretched out like a referee breaking the fight between two boxers. “I think we all can agree that the peace of our equilibrium is being severely disturbed. It is in the best interest of all of us to save our youth from this corruption. No matter where it started from and who mishandled it”—gesturing to Father Kelly—“it is now everybody’s problem.”
Wrinkling his nose, Father Kelly shows his dislike of the subtle insinuation. “I mean,” he jumps in, “if you…ah…we let this cult grow, then before the devil knows, they will be growing like mushrooms everywhere.” With his eyebrows drawn together, he bangs his fist on the table and shouts, “A parasite…is what it is, I’m telling ya. A parasite.”
“Alright, alright,” Guru Saj leans back. “We hear ya. We have a problem. What is your suggestion now?” He gestures to Father Kelly and, with that, three pairs of impatient eyes turn and lock on Father.
The expression on Father Kelly’s face relaxes under the spotlight of three other leaders. Letting out his breath, he slowly leans back in his seat. He moves his glass by the slightest fraction of an inch, takes a deep breath, and then moves the glass back to its original position. Peeking from the corner of his eyes, he rolls them from Hakham Abba to Imam Zahid, and then to Guru Saj. He must be hoping that by killing time, someone else would step in and offer a proposal.
Laying down his scorching glare at Father Kelly, Guru Saj gives no reaction, to make him as uncomfortable as possible.
Father Kelly slowly picks up the glass and slurps the wine while his eyes dart between the three angry men who are running out of patience.
Hakham Abba comes to Father Kelly’s rescue when he breaks the dragging wordless moment with the noise he makes to extract a pill from its blister pack. He is now the center of attention, and he doesn’t seem to give a damn.
As the elder of the group, Guru Saj should take the lead or this meeting will never end. “Boys. Don’t feel shy to venture an idea, any idea. And remember, no idea is a bad idea.”
“How about,” Father Kelly says, “we get the Senate to prosecute them?”
“That is a bad idea,” Guru Saj sighs.
“But you just said no idea is a bad idea,” Father Kelly complains.
“I take it back. I forgot you were here.”
“No, no, no,” Imam Zahid jumps in. “Not necessarily. Father might have a good point here. After all, what these people do is kind of un-American from certain angles.”
“One could even argue it’s modern communism,” Father Kelly shrugs his shoulders.
“Or fascism,” Imam Zahid says.
“Terrorism.”
“Nuclear bombs.”
“Oh, God.” Slapping his forehead, Guru Saj breaks the idiotic exchange between the two. “When are you geniuses going to finally learn your lesson? Did history teach you nothing? Prosecution of the masses didn’t work during Prohibition and McCarthyism, it is already failing on Marijuana, and it will certainly not work on freedom of religion.” Opening his clenched fists, he shows all ten fingers. Letting out his frustration, he yells, “You cannot stop tens of thousands of people by force. You just can’t.”
“How about only one?” Imam Zahid asks, showing number one with his index finger.
Willing himself to calm down, Guru Saj takes a deep breath and says, “This is where you explain yourself.”
“Taking a page from history—per Guru Saj’s advice—in some traditions”—he gestures to Hakham Abba who swallows his pill with a sip of water—“the false prophets would face the death penalty.”
“Yes,” Father Kelly says with excitement, almost jumping up off his chair.
“Didn’t the same thing happen to Jesus Christ?” Guru Saj asks Father Kelly, accompanying his rhetorical question with a have-some-integrity-for-god’s-sake look.
“No,” Hakham Abba shouts while angrily slamming his glass on the table, “The Romans did that.”
“Alright. Romans it is.” Guru Saj leans back, raising his hands in surrender.
Father Kelly sighs. “I’ve already talked to the Romans, I mean the mayor. He’s backed up by powerful people.”
“Who? The mayor?” Imam Zahid asks.
“No. Jesus. Jesus Freeman.”
“By whom?” Guru Saj asks anxiously.
“What by whom?” Father Kelly asks.
“Who is backing up this Jesus?”
“Ah, Wyatt Morgan.”
“The merry-go-round guy?!” Guru Saj squeaks, unable to soften his disbelief.
“Yep. That was my first reaction too. Apparently, his business has grown fast. Merry is not the only one who goes around for him now if you catch my drift,” Father Kelly sneers, twirling his index finger.
“Yeah,” Imam Zahid says, stroking his chin. “I heard his taxes cover half the city’s bills.”
“That is outrageous,” Father Kelly continues. “Many of the regulars of my church are squandering their money there.”
“Yeah, mine too,” Imam Zahid confirms. “If only they had spent the money for the mosque, I mean for a noble cause.”
The loud yawn of Hakham Abba captures everyone’s attention. Leaning on the conference table, he slowly gets up from his chair.
“The meeting is not adjourned yet, Hakham,” Father Kelly complains. “We still have a problem to solve.”
“Morgan is not a problem. He’s a solution.” Hakham puts on his Hoiche Hat, takes his cane that has been leaning against the edge of the table, and leaves.
“On behalf of everybody,” Guru Saj says loudly, “please do elaborate.”
“He is a pragmatic man,” Hakham Abba says over his shoulder as he is approaching the door, “governed by logic and reason. Offer him a good deal”—opening the door, he turns back toward the room—“and he’ll be your closest ally.” He disappears behind the closing door.
The inspired leaders of the three popular religions turn back from the closed door. They are all thinking the same thing, but exchanging glances, each waits for the other to go first.
“Well,” Father Kelly starts, “what if I—”
“Yeah, let’s do that,” Guru Saj nods.
“Bye-bye, Jesus,” Imam Zahid smiles.