For the Love of the Guru 5

Chela Mahananda decided to go sightseeing around Cagayan. It was morning. The hit would be on the next day, anyway. And he had seen the place where he would make the hit, the comfort room behind the Atrium stage.

He took off before any of the other chelas could come to his hotel and decided to take a walk around Divisoria. As he walked down the long segmented park that divided the city in olden days, a feeling came over him. It was as if he had been here before countless times.

Maybe in an earlier reincarnation. he thought as he neared Xavier University. He felt somewhat hungry and remembered that he hadn't eaten breakfast, so he entered a small restaurant managed by a fat middle-aged man who was seated near the door. The man looked and smiled at him with a certain familiarity.

As Mahananda seated himself and ordered coffee, as he hadn't made up his mind on what to eat, the man got up and approached him.

"Glad to see you back," he said. "Where have you been all these years?"

"I'm sorry," said Mahananda, puzzled. "I don't understand."

The man chuckled, shaking his head. "You don't remember me?" he asked. "You used to come here a lot and hang out, get some coffee and read newspapers."

"I think you must've mistaken me for another person," said Mahananda. "This is my first time here. You don't know who I am."

The man was taken aback. "Sure I do," he said after a moment's pausing. "You're Maximilian Ong."

Mahananda was annoyed, but he didn't want to offend this gentleman who obviously meant no harm. He rose and put the money for the coffee down on the table.

"Keep the change," he said. "Sorry to bother you."

He walked out the door, leaving the man puzzled and wide-eyed.

As he walked in the direction of the Philippine Veterans' Bank (yes, it was still there and functioning properly,) he ran into two younger men who were aghast to see him.

"Maximilian!" one gasped.

"You're back!" said the other.

Mahananda was even more irked. He took a step back. "What?" he said. "What are you talking about?"

"Where have you been?" asked the first.

"What will your dad say when he hears about this?"

"It's not what you think!" Mahananda blurted. He turned around and saw the man coming out of the restaurant. He turned again, elbowed the two boys aside and dashed past them.

"We have to tell Uncle Eric," said the second.

"No," said the first. "Let's go to Uncle Peter."

Maximilian Ong? Mahananda thought. No way! He's in another ashram! What, do I look like him?

He ran into his hotel and straight into his room. He locked the door and flung himself into bed.

What are they talking about? he thought. It was getting tense. Do I look like Maximilian Ong? I know he became a sannyasin, bit I don't know where he is. We were all required to forget who we were and leave our pasts behind so I have no way of knowing where he could be or if we met, I wouldn't recognize him.

He decided to go out later. The idea of being called Maximilian Ong intrigued him so he decided to look it up in an internet cafe.

A knock was heard on the door of the cardinal's office. "Uncle Peter!" said a familiar voice excitedly.

The cardinal rose, put down his teacup, walked across the room and opened the door. In came his two nephews Paul and Andrew, sons of his younger brother Oliver.

"What is it, boys?" the cardinal asked, noticing the excited and astonished looks on their faces.

"Uncle Peter," said Paul, "you're not going to believe this!"

"It's Maximilian," added Andrew. "He's back!"

"What?" the cardinal started.

Late in the afternoon, Mahananda walked into an internet cafe after making sure nobody was around to mistake him for Maximilian Ong. But some people in the internet cafe looked at him as though he was somebody popular.

As he looked at the computer screen to look for an image of Maximilian Ong on the search engine, he was met with a shock. The face of Maximilian Ong was his.

Am I?

For the Love of the Guru 4

The taxi arrived at the hotel, which was located in Divisoria, and the bespectacled young man disembarked. As he entered the hotel's lobby, he was met by two sannaysins, one male, one female, and three non-sannyasin members of the holy order. They greeted him warmly and some of the members of the welcoming committee looked at him with a certain degree of familiarity. They checked him in as Adaggio P. Conti and accompanied him to his room. They avoided talking about the order until the bellboy left.

"How are things going on here, Chela Kriya?" asked the new arrival as he closed the door behind the departing bellboy.

"Very bad, Chela Mahananda," the male sannyasin replied. "No new members. Our free seminars turn up zero attendance. There are fewer and fewer members attending our convocations. Many are going over to the Buddhists and Daoists."

"It's very bad indeed," concluded Mahananda, setting his bag on the bed to open it. "So, you have the weapon?"

He didn't bring any weapons, obviously, because he would be seized by airport officials if he did. Instead, it was arranged  that the ashram of Cagayan would provide the weapon.

One of the non-sannyasin members, an elderly individual, approached and dropped a handbag onto the bed. Mahananda opened it. Inside was a .45 cal. pistol and silencer. "We hope that you will be able to save us from the evil monster Eric Ong, Chela Mahananda," he said.

Mahananda pulled the gun out and inspected it as the non-sannyasin member continued, "We have constantly prayed, meditated and radiated over this gun. The Cosmic will strike down Eric Ong with this weapon and you will be the agent of its vengeance."

Mahananda inspected the two clips that came with the gun. "This is the only way we can show compassion to our enemy," he murmured.

Not far away, at the cathedral, Cardinal Zhang was in his office. The work for the day had been done and there was now plenty of free time. The cardinal thought, then, that some calligraphy, which was one of his passions, was in order. Accordingly, he took a large sheet of paper and set it on his desk together with his personal jade seal. He used this seal when doing watercolor paintings and calligraphy and, occasionally, when he wrote documents in Chinese.

He ground an ink stick on his inkstone and poured water to prepare the ink. Outside, in the garden behind the archbishop's office, Father Lorenzo Guevarra was heard with his violin playing Soirees a Saint Petersburg. He was usually there in the afternoons if he didn't have anything to do.

From the kitchen came Sister Catherine Hayashi with a tray bearing the cardinal's afternoon tea.

The cardinal thought for a moment, closed his eyes and cleared his mind. Opening his eyes, he took his brush and dipped it into the ink and began to write. He was working on the word "Tian" (Heaven) when he suddenly made a mistake.

At the same time, Father Lorenzo hit a wrong note. At the same time, Sister Cathy tripped, spilling the tea.

"Oh my," she remarked, getting on her knees to clean the mess. "It's a good thing Cardinal Zhang's never seen this tea set before. I'll just get him the usual one, then."

Father Lorenzo stared at his violin, wondering how he came to hit that note.

The cardinal felt a strange chill. He shuddered. "Suddenly, I feel the approach of a murderous intent," he said to himself.

For the Love of the Guru 3

The young man picked his luggage from the conveyor and fell in line with the rest of the arrivals. As he approached the immigration booth, he handed his passport over to the officer in charge. It was mandatory for filipinos from the non-EOGC territories to bring their passports and pass through immigration. The EOGC was very suspicious of people coming in from the non-EOGC territories that it subjected them to international standard checks upon arrival. Once in, a non-EOGC Filipino was permitted to stay for thirty days. Any period longer required the issuance of the EOGC's very own visa.

The immigration officer took the passport and opened it. She read the name Adaggio Pineco Conti. "So, Mr. Conti," she asked pleasantly, "what brings you to the EOGC territories?"

"Oh, I'm here to perform," he replied with a smile. "It'll be at the Limketkai Atrium during the convention."

Indeed, Cagayan de Oro was hosting the All-Asian Businessmens' Convention. It would be a month long with numerous activities taking place in the city's malls, school campuses, parks and convention centers. Eric Ong himself would be delivering a keynote speech at the Limketkai Atrium and preside over several activities at his own Mindanao Financial Center.

She looked at him from head to toe. He seemed harmless enough: gray and red baseball cap, black jacket, while t-shirt, blue shorts, glasses and sneakers. He carried a backpack, a bag and what looked like a case for a musical instrument. Perhaps he was one of those contestants at the talent show that would be held at Limketkai in four days' time.

Satisfied, she stamped his passport and returned it to him. "Welcome to the City of Golden Friendship, sir," she said with a smile.

Adaggio P. Conti walked out of the arrivals area to the taxi lane. He would meet his contact in a designated hotel. Now he needed a taxi to get there. The clouds were gathering and a slight drizzle was to be expected. 

"What?!" shrieked the man in front of him. This man was screaming himself hoarse at his cellphone, complaining that his company's driver had not yet arrived. He looked like a corporate person; trench coat, briefcase and all. 

"What do you expect me to do?!" the man railed. "I gotta hurry! I don't wanna take a taxi. I-" he paused to listen for a few seconds.

"What am I gonna do?" he continued. "It's gonna rain here any moment!"

He slowly turned around. "I can't just call one of the janitorial vehicles; what do I look like to you, Maximilian Ong?"

The moment he turned to face Adaggio he shrieked again, this time startled. "S-s-s-s-sorry, sir," he mumbled. "I-i-i-i-i'll just take a taxi, okay?"

He leaped into the first cab that stopped by.

As a frightened Anselmo Sanchez slammed the back door of the taxi, told the driver to take him to his boarding house and breathed a sight of relief, a thought coursed through his mind. Was that who I thought it was?

He glanced around and saw the bespectacled man who was standing behind him take the next cab.

For the Love of the Guru 2

Getting to Cagayan would be a challenge. Sure, there were members of the holy order there, but they were a wavering lot. Eric Ong was once a member but he left. His son, Maximilian, had also joined, although he became a member independently of his father.

Mahananda learned that the younger Ong became successful and was now in an ashram in another part of the country. The father, on the other hand, became bent on destroying the holy order and worked in collusion with the city's resident Buddhists and Daoists as well as the Catholic Church to thin the order's ranks. 

Peter Cardinal Zhang Mingshi, the archbishop, was a friend of Eric Ong and committed his preaching against the holy order, denouncing it as a brainwashing cult. The Buddhists, too, didn't like the order. In their eyes, Swamiji had no right to do as he pleased because, as the city's Zen temple abbot claimed, being enlightened meant being more responsible and that true freedom didn't mean the freedom to do whatever one wanted. The Daoists despised the order and openly branded it as a money-making scam. What was most insidious was that they were even using former members against the holy order

Yes, coming to Cagayan would be a challenge. There were also the practical matters, such as the passport. Getting an EOGC passport for a person unknown in the controlled territories was impossible because every passport went through a check at every port of entry. The data in every passport was matched with the EOGC's massive database and consequently fakes could be spotted outright. A Philippine passport, then, would be required. It was easier to forge documents in the territories not under EOGC control.

A fake birth certificate was drawn up, along with other documents, as the holy order was very well-connected. The forgeries were necessary; after all, they were needed to accomplish a greater good: to eliminate the evil Eric Ong. With him out of the way, the cardinal, the Buddhists and Daoists would not be united and the order would be saved.

On the day the passport, procured through fraudulent documents, arrived, Chela Mahananda sang the praises of Swamiji, the cosmic and the masters. He now had a new identity. After picking up his luggage at the arrivals section in the airport, he handed his passport to the immigration officer. The officer opened the passport and read the name: Adaggio Pineco Conti.

For the Love of the Guru 1

"Only the guru can lead the sincere follower to God."

"The guru is that point on earth where God manifests."

"To attain God is to surrender to the guru."

"The guru has no ego."

"When you find the guru, serve him with total devotion."

"To love the guru is to experience true freedom."

"Only the guru has attained God, so it is only through him that God can be encountered."

The young sannyasin had already cast aside what had defined him. How long had it been? He had already forgotten. He had cast aside himself; he no longer knew who he once was. So much renunciation for someone so young; he didn't even remember how old he was. Even his name, he had forgotten. The only vestige of his past was his pair of glasses. These, he could not discard because their absence would hamper his eyesight.

Since the guru decreed that even keeping a diary was forbidden because living in the moment was more important that dwelling in the past, the sannyasin had already forgotten how long he had been in the ashram.

And as he surrendered his very identity, he experienced inexplicable bliss. His days were spent laboring in the most menial of tasks, swooning in happiness and bliss in his meditations and sitting as close as possible to the guru during the latter's satsangs. He even endured harsh words and treatment from the guru and the senior sannyasins.

Later, he graduated to collecting the donations from members who were not sannyasins, scolding errant members and even, treating those beneath him harshly in an effort to make them grow in love for the guru. As he progressed, he became one of the guru's trusted enforcers. He expelled those who fell short as those who were suspected of disloyalty. The guru could not be criticized. And even comments about his private life were dealt with harshly.

The sannyasin later, on the guru's orders or his own initiative, beat roughed up members -including other sannyasins further down the pecking order to help the grow, instill discipline and absolute obedience.

"If the guru tells you to steal, you must steal."

"If the guru tells you to kill, you must kill."

"The guru's morality is different from, and higher than, that of an ordinary human."

Yes, the guru was absolute. Swamiji, as he was called, made an announcement that Taijiquan was the property of the holy ashram. Therefore, those who wanted to learn in were prohibited from approaching any wushu instructor and required to come only to the ashramas.

Swamiji is absolute because he is God.

Because Swamiji is God, he can do whatever he wants.

If God is angry, Swamiji can save you.

If Swamiji is angry, not even God can save you.

Swamiji holds the key to liberation; you must trust only him.

A knock was heard on the door of the sannyasin's room. He stopped meditating and opened it. It was Pinkie, another sannyasin. That was a nickname that stuck.

"Chela," said Pinkie, "Swamiji wants to see you."

The sannyasin obediently stepped out, closed the door and followed Pinkie down the hall and up a flight of stairs to a room with a large door. Standing guard were two other sannyasins. Inside, one could make out the sounds of loud breathing, panting and moaning. One voice was a man's, the other, a woman's.

"Swamiji," said Pinkie in a subdued, somewhat pleading tone. "Chela Mahananda is here, as you requested."

Chela Mahananda... That was the new name Swamiji had given him. His old name had been cast aside for an unknown period of time.

The breathing and panting stopped. "Bring him in," said a raspy voice.

The door was opened and the sannyasin stepped into a large room that had a great canopied bed. Bottles of beer and gin lay on the floor; most were full while others still had their contents in them in varying degrees. Several pictures depicting Indian gurus with halos surrounding their heads. The room smelled of alcohol and highly pungent incense.

Chela Mahananda beheld a female sannyasin naked and lying face down on the bed. Like him, her head was shaved. Next to her, also naked and all covered in sweat, was seated the overweight figure of the master. He held a newly-lighted cigarette in his left hand while his right hand stroked the female sannyasi's bottom.

Chela Mahananda approached the bed, paid obeisance by putting his hands together as if in prayer and bowing his head and then sat on the floor

"Chela," said the master in a voice that reminded one of a duck's quacking. "You have proven yourself well. I remember how you helped that errant follower Padrino make his transition to a better life."

'Transition' was the ashram's way of saying 'death,' Indeed, Mahananda had helped several followers make transit already.

"Thank you, swamiji."

"Now, I have a new duty for you," the master continued. "You will go to Cagayan. There is someone outside our holy order whose transition must be made."

Cagayan. That place sounded familiar.

"He is the reason why Manila is a ghost town, with only a few people living in it. He destroyed many buildings. He has killed many people. He has destroyed the Philippines. He has insulted me, your beloved guru-"

That stung Chela Mahananda. His blood stirred and the thought of exterminating this horrid insignificant worm who dared tarnish his master's name welled up in him.

"And so, I tell you," said the master with his eyes fixed upward and his hands spread out. "You must send this evil man into transition so that in the next life, he shall have to work on the karma he has accumulated."

"I will send him through the cycle of death and rebirth to be reprimanded by the masters," declared Mahananda. "Who is this miserable wretch?"

The masted leaned to his left and picked up a brown envelope and tossed it to the floor.

Mahananda picked up the envelope and opened it. Out came a picture of Eric Ong.

"It shall be done, master."