Walking Wisdom

by Gotham Chopra

  I myself was never a serious night owl. But the way Michael depicted it as his source of creativity made it sound so attractive that I converted myself into someone who also would wander the darkness in search of inspiration.

  To that extent, with the three of us all together—Papa, Michael, and me—this night had the makings of a serious night session. Whereas the relationship between Michael and me had evolved over the years into a pretty familiar friendship, Papa and Michael’s was more nuanced. Michael regarded him differently than even many of Papa’s other celebrity friends and followers. To him, Papa was not just a friend, and even more than just a teacher and mentor. It wasn’t as simple as Papa being a father figure to him either, because it ran even deeper than that. I’d learned over the years that guru was a dangerous word around Westerners because of all the New Age and woo-woo connotations that it spurred, and yet its true definition was the most accurate way of describing the way in which Michael regarded Papa.

  In the Eastern wisdom traditions, not just every student, but every man, woman, and child has a guru. One of my favorite myths growing up was about the great god Lord Rama, who finds himself existentially burdened and wanders into the forest in search of someone to offer him guidance. At one point he comes across an old sage named Vashishta and says he’d like Vashishta to teach him the ways of the world. Vashishta is surprised and laughs. “But you are a god, what can I possibly teach you?”

  Rama kneels by the sage’s feet and replies, “Even God needs a guru.”

  There’s a devotion, respect, and love unlike any other that defines the relationship between a protégé and his guru. It runs deeper than familial bonds and it transcends that of teacher and student. It’s not just the wisdom the guru imparts to his follower, not just words or lessons or insights. Often it’s just their being in each other’s presence that satisfies them both. Because that’s the key—it’s a symbiotic relationship. Just like the protégé draws fulfillment from the guru, likewise the guru gets something out of his protégé. Papa had thousands, maybe even millions of followers and fans, and yet he too got something special and totally unique from Michael. It wasn’t his celebrity—Papa knew Michael was creatively brilliant, but his was the generation of Elvis and the Beatles and to some extent he believed in Michael’s stardom only because I and the rest of popular culture affirmed it to him. It wasn’t even Michael’s friendship, which was loyal and ironclad. It was in fact a certain elusive quality of trust and respect that bound them.

  As much as I loved my father, and as I grew up recognized and respected what he had contributed to the world and the way in which people regarded him for it, I knew in many ways that I would never have the same relationship with him that he and Michael had. My relationship with Papa would always be cluttered by context and circumstance, by the burden of emotion and too much familiarity. Michael and Papa’s bond had a purity we could never have. And I was okay with that. In fact, I felt fortunate to just be around it from time to time, playing the third wheel to their holy bond. That night in particular as we settled down in the library, Cleo still eyeing Michael with her tail wagging excitedly and him reciprocating with a slightly less suspicious stare, I sensed we were in for something unusual.

  OVER THE YEARS, Cleo had refined the way in which she reacted to anyone outside of family. With very few exceptions she’d barked relentlessly and snarled at anyone who came within twenty feet of our house. In the days and weeks that followed Michael’s death, as countless television producers, reporters, and an occasional paparazzo showed up outside, Cleo let them have it.

  It wasn’t such a bad thing. In fact, we figured that Cleo was as good a deterrent as anything. It was next to impossible to conduct a conversation while she yapped and snarled, so I just shrugged and pointed helplessly to my nutty dog. Most got the message and after a few days gave up and called my father’s office to get one of us on their shows to talk about our late friend Michael Jackson.

  I liked to think that Cleo’s ferociousness toward the producers, reporters, and photographers outside the house was in response to the bond that she had built with Michael after their initially dodgy encounter years ago, that her frustration with them and their vulture-like behavior was some sort of loyalty to him. But I knew it wasn’t true. Over the last year or so—except in the very rarest of circumstances—she had largely lost her ability to truly differentiate between friendly or unfriendly. Candice and I knew the writing was on the wall. Cleo was an old dog and the fact that she could barely see, smell, or hear anymore had made her generally suspicious and unfriendly toward anyone who didn’t take the time to really bond with her. Candice and I didn’t talk about it much, but as with most things with Cleo, we were on the same wavelength: It was our responsibility to make her comfortable with her reduced senses and the smaller world that she inhabited as a result. We needed to be the ones to keep her away from situations where she flared and became alarmed or anxious. We needed to be the ones to let her age gracefully, away from the din and madness of the world at large.

  As with everything else in the family though, Tara noticed this shift in Cleo and wanted to know what was up. “Why does Cleo bark so much?” she asked over dinner one night. “And at everyone?”

  I was trying to figure out how to explain dementia to an eight-year-old when Papa interjected. “Because she’s nonjudgmental.”

  “What does that mean?” Tara asked Papa.

  Papa answered, “Cleo treats everyone the same. She doesn’t judge people based on whether they are black or white, male or female, friend or foe. She barks at everyone equally—as loud as she possibly can.”

  Tara laughed along with her grandfather.

  That was for sure: Cleo was very much beyond the ordinary duality of the universe. Sinner or saint, divine or diabolical, cowboys or Indians, Republicans or Democrats—she was pretty much a bitch in every sense of the word to all of them. She didn’t really differentiate between those that others often polarized, putting at opposite ends of the spectrum so they would be able to make sense of the world around them. Israelis and Palestinians? All the same to Cleo. Hindus and Muslims? Same stock, different day. Leftists and Rightists? Different expressions of the same thing as far as Cleo was concerned. Come one, come all. Everyone got the same response from her: Woof!

  “We should all see the world like Cleo,” Papa pressed on to Tara. “Not judge people because of the names that describe them or the reputations they come with.”

  Papa took Tara into his lap and spoke to her seriously. “Cleo reacts to people once she gets to know them, based on the way they treat her, not because of what she heard from someone else about them or what she read in a magazine.

  “If everyone on the planet treated everyone else like that, we’d probably live in a better, more peaceful world,” he concluded.

  Tara slid from Papa’s lap and walked toward Cleo, who stood by the window still snarling at the unsuspecting pedestrian outside. Tara lowered herself onto a knee and petted Cleo affectionately. “It’s okay, Cleo,” Tara reassured her.

  Tara turned to Mallika. “If we ever get a dog, I hope Cleo teaches it everything she knows.”

  At that point Candice, Mallika, Sumant, and I shared a knowing glance. We loved Cleo, but she wasn’t exactly the mentor type.

  “Well, you know . . .” I faded out.

  Just then the phone rang. It was a producer for Larry King Live requesting either my father or me to come on the show that night to talk more about MJ. That’s what it had come to. Take a Chopra, any Chopra, to talk about Michael Jackson. Apparently we drew ratings. Whereas Papa had been fashioned the new sheriff in town, calling to task all physicians who casually prescribed various drugs to patients who helplessly requested them, I had cornered a much softer niche. Not just son of anymore, I was now known as the friend of, helping to showcase a different side of MJ.

  Wait a second, it seemed to have dawned on many all of a sudden—including the countless in the media who had covered Mi
chael’s every move for so many years—there was a shred of humanity in the man. In death, finally he had become a real person, not just the inaccessible iconic celluloid celebrity tainted by scandals and weirdness.

  I agreed to go on the show. In my own way, I was grateful for the opportunity to bring some relatability to my friend, even in his death. It was my own way of honoring him, helping to shatter some of the judgments that had been made about him. I liked prompting people to question things that they had read or heard about Michael Jackson. I shared stories about Michael as a friend and confidant, as a jokester or opinionated film critic. I talked about what a terrible basketball player he was, but also what a fantastic sketch artist he was. It alternately humanized him and made him more mysterious. He would have liked that.

  Later that evening, it happened again at the CNN studio when I made an offhand comment about Michael recently having gotten a puppy for his kids.

  “Wait,” one of the producers noted during a commercial break, “I thought Michael was afraid of dogs. I swear I read that somewhere.”

  She probably had. Michael’s fear of dogs was well documented, attributed to the fact that his father had had violent fighting dogs when Michael was a kid. He had vividly described some of his memories of just how ferocious they were to Papa and me that night at Neverland years ago. Alas, what hadn’t been written about was his change of heart. I’m not going to speculate that Michael ever did get over his fear of dogs, but I can say that he did get a dog—several, if memory serves—over the years for his kids. And I like to think it was that night as well, and Cleo in particular, that had a lasting impression on him and for a brief time turned fear into friendship.

  “LET’S MEDITATE,” MY FATHER proposed as the four of us—me, him, Cleo (back on her leash), and MJ—sat down on the floor in Michael’s Neverland library.

  Come again? Papa—you want to meditate? Here, at Neverland?

  “Do meds”—Michael had a nickname for pretty much everything—“actually work?”

  Papa shrugged his shoulders as he crossed his legs and got comfortable. “I don’t know. What do you feel when you meditate?”

  Michael thought about it for a moment and then confessed: “Most of the time, I just have a lot of thoughts racing through my mind.”

  “That’s okay,” Papa reassured him.

  “But once in a while” Michael said, “I feel silence.”

  “Then yes, it’s working.” Papa smiled at him.

  “I like the silence.” Michael smiled back at us.

  In his case, it was easy to understand why. The silence was out beyond everything. Beyond success and failure. Beyond the love and adulation of celebrity and the need to be relevant and accepted. Beyond the taint of gossip columnists and rumor mongerers.

  Cleo seemed resigned to the fact that we weren’t going exploring the grounds anytime soon, so she made her customary loops and then plopped down beside me, safely positioned far enough from Michael so she couldn’t get at him. He stared at her curiously, reminded of her presence.

  “Does she do meds?” he joked.

  “She doesn’t need to,” my father replied. “She lives in the silence.”

  This time, both Michael and I stared at my father curiously.

  Never one to back down from a curious stare, Papa revved up. “Our essential state is one of innocence and infinite possibilities. Cleo isn’t influenced by outside factors. She doesn’t make judgments of people and situations based on what she’s heard around in the neighborhood or read in some blog. She’s genuinely curious of the world around her but doesn’t carry baggage around with her, uncluttered by memories of the past, free of expectations of the future.”

  I could tell from Michael’s expression that he remained unclear what Papa was saying.

  “In other words,” I interjected, “she’s willing to take you at your word, Michael. She’s not relying on what the National Enquirer has said about your past and has no secret agenda to impress you and become your best friend. She’s not interested in working with you, exploiting you, doing a duet with you, producing your next album, or agenting you.”

  “And you say she lives in LA? No way,” he laughed.

  Bittersweet, I thought to myself.

  “Nonjudgment is probably one of the most spiritual qualities and the hardest to master,” Papa carried on. “Because it forces us to surrender ourselves fully, relinquish the ghosts of our past and the weight of expectations of our futures. To judge people and things spontaneously, even those that we know or have some history with.

  “In doing so, we’re released from the bonds of our past. Beyond anger and guilt, fearless because we’re no longer constricted by the memories of sour experiences and relationships.” Papa had his mojo now.

  “Heavy stuff.” Michael nodded.

  Oh, wise Cleo. I ruffled the hair on her head.

  “So I don’t need to be afraid of the dog?” Michael referenced Cleo, who had rolled over, exposing her belly to me, her signal for me to go to town rubbing it.

  “Cleo.” Papa smiled, looking at me. “The dog’s name is Cleo.

  “Most people’s fear of dogs is linked to memories of bad experiences in their past,” Papa surmised. Quite clearly, the dogs of Michael’s past themselves—and the memories of them—were just the gateway to far more tortured memories woven into Michael’s conflicted and well-chronicled relationship with his father. That much was clear, even from the little he chose to reveal that night to Papa and me. Such usually is the case with the web of moments that make up our memories.

  Michael contemplated all of this for another few moments. “So you are saying that by getting over my fear of dogs, I’d be resolving my past with my father?”

  Whoa. Even Deepak dared not go there. “What I am saying, Michael, is that fear of anything can be a toxic emotion and one that can create great challenges in anyone’s life.

  “It’s hard to go into the past and deconstruct it. Not impossible, but very difficult. But the future is different. And like Cleo, we can all choose to be nonjudgmental from this moment forward. To react to things spontaneously and not impose judgments on them before they happen.”

  “I know what’s coming,” I interrupted Papa, confident I knew just what was coming.

  “Tell him, then.” Papa nodded.

  “See if you can go a day without complaining, criticizing, or condemning anything. It’s harder than it sounds,” I qualified for good measure.

  This has been one of my father’s favorite exercises since I was a kid. It was in fact an exercise in nonjudgment and a very tough one to comply with. Because while prejudging technically meant imposing an opinion, either good or bad, for most people, it almost always meant the latter—i.e., condemning, criticizing, or complaining about something.

  “I had dog-fighting growing up in my house,” Michael cracked, “and you had this?”

  Papa and I burst out laughing.

  “Cleo, you said?” Michael stared down at her.

  “Yeah.” I nodded, unsure by his tone but certain he was about to do something.

  He nodded and reached out hesitantly with his hand. Cleo detected it incoming and flipped over from her belly. I held on to her leash, making it rigid once more. Confidently, Michael held his hand beside her snout so she could sniff it, just like I had earlier unsuccessfully instructed him to. Cleo smelled it curiously and then, satisfied that he was friendly, started to lick his hand.

  “You can pet her now,” I whispered.

  And he did. In a few minutes, I had let go of the leash and Cleo moved toward him, snuggling up to his leg. He stared at me unsure what to do and he gestured down toward her. Cautiously, he continued petting her head and neck as she cozied up more to him. It was truly a revelation to all of us—Papa, Michael, and me—as we watched the two of them.

  And then Cleo made her move. She flipped onto her back, exposing her belly. This was, of course, her submissive move, a signal that she had fully accepted a new frien
d and expected to be rewarded for her graciousness She wanted the full rubdown. As she spread her legs and arched her belly upward, Michael’s eyes widened in disbelief. This was more than he bargained for.

  “Maybe she is an agent after all.” Papa laughed.

  SITTING IN THE GREENROOM at Larry King’s studio, waiting to have our makeup put on, Papa and I watched as a parade of Michael Jackson’s friends and colleagues passed through. There was no sign of letup as far as the media coverage was concerned in regard to Michael’s death. In fact, in death his legacy was only growing. I myself had already appeared on the show three or four times and my father’s presence alongside Larry in the last week or so was at least double that. In many ways we balanced each other. I was able to talk about the times Michael and I snuck into movie theaters just after the opening credits rolled and watched films like Batman (one of his favorites). Papa was able to take it further, talking about Michael’s existential angst and why Michael claimed to relate so well to a character like the Joker in Batman.

  By that time, however, even I felt things were petering out. There really wasn’t that much more to say, too many more stories to tell. While at first just talking about Michael, recalling some of the stories of the man out of the limelight, made me smile and feel good, a sadness was now setting in. As the stories lost their luster—by that time I had moved onto the B- and C-list ones—the realization only grew that my friend was gone and would not be coming back.

  “What are you going to talk about?” I asked Papa, figuring that we should get on the same page so we came across somewhat thoughtful on the broadcast.

  “It depends on what he asks, doesn’t it?” Papa shrugged, unconcerned.

  One thing I had learned in my limited media experience was that in the sound bite media, it actually didn’t really matter what the host asked. While someone like Papa may be able to get away with going off script, I liked the idea of wrapping my head around what I wanted to talk about, and pretty much running with it no matter the line of questioning.