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TAKE ME FOR A RIDE
Coming Of Age In A Destructive Cult
by Mark E. Laxer
1993 Outer Rim Press
Copyright 1993 by Mark E. Laxer
mlaxer@cap.gwu.edu

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TAKE ME FOR A RIDE
Coming Of Age In A Destructive Cult
by Mark E. Laxer
Copyright 1993 by Mark E. Laxer 
mlaxer@cap.gwu.edu


September, 1994  [Etext #162]


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TAKE ME FOR A RIDE
     Coming Of Age In A Destructive Cult
by Mark E. Laxer
Copyright 1993 by Mark E. Laxer 

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TAKE ME FOR A RIDE
Coming Of Age In A Destructive Cult
by Mark E. Laxer
Copyright 1993 by Mark E. Laxer 
mlaxer@cap.gwu.edu






Take Me For A Ride

* * *

     One flew east,
     One flew west,
     One flew over the
               cuckoo's nest.

                   --Childhood nursery rhyme
                     quoted in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest
                     by Ken Kesey


     Fly me over the cuckoo's nest,
     To your *golden* side,
     I don't care if you're the cuckoo--
     Take me for a ride...

                   --Agni

TAKE ME FOR A RIDE Coming Of Age In A Destructive Cult

by Mark E. Laxer

1993 Outer Rim Press Copyright 1993 by Mark E. Laxer

No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written
permission from the publisher, unless the intent is to benefit humankind.

For *physical* book order information, or to contribute to Laxer's
legal defense fund :( and write-another-book fund :)

write:
Outer Rim Press
4431 Lehigh Road, #221
College Park, MD 20740
USA 
mlaxer@cap.gwu.edu

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Simon & Schuster,
Inc., for permission to reprint an excerpt from Gandhi: 
A Memoir by William Shirer.  Copyright (c) 1979 by William Shirer.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:  93-085777

ISBN 0-9638108-3-9

Initially printed and posted in the United States of America

To Patsy Sims--inspired teacher, intriguing storyteller,
intrepid journalist.

Author's Note

Names in the following story have been changed, except for those
already mentioned in the press.

Contents

1.    Bicycle Ride--Walden
2.    Zapped!
3.    The Joining
4.    The Community
5.    Bicycle Ride--Lenox
6.    The Garden
7.    Money Mantra
8.    Fast Leader
9.    Off The Map
10.   Bicycle Ride--Utica
11.   Displaced
12.   Thwarted Escape
13.   Breakdown
14.   Bicycle Ride--St. Ignes
15.   The Enchanted Taco
16.   Ride To Heaven
17.   On High
18.   Where's My Tribe?
19.   I'm Okay
20.   The Last Supper
21.   Bicycle Ride--The Continental Divide
    Epilogue

Appendix A:    Excerpts From WOOF!
Appendix B:    Excerpts From "Welcome To Lakshmi"
Appendix C:    Excerpts From "Sophisticated Sexuality"
Appendix D:    Excerpts From Rama's Ads and Brochures




1.  Bicycle Ride--Walden


After I left Rama's inner circle in 1985, I occasionally bicycled
to Walden Pond, where I read about Thoreau's experiment with
self-reliance. My seven years in the cult of Rama--Dr. Frederick Lenz,
who was known early on as Atmananda--had deeply shaken my confidence. 
Atmananda often assured me that I was possessed by Negative Forces,
that I was barely able to function in the real world, and that I
was fortunate he did not drop me off at a mental institution. 
I met him in 1978, when I was seventeen.

Thoreau helped me recall a time, before Atmananda, when I was strong
and self-reliant. I had been an avid cyclist.  Pedaling thousands
of miles each year helped strengthen both my legs and self-esteem.
Throughout my teenage years bicycling and self-confidence were
inextricably linked, and I grew to believe I could ride anywhere,
under any conditions.  I tried to approach life with a similar gusto,
which may explain why, in 1979, Atmananda invited me to move with him
to southern California to start a spiritual centre.  From 1979 to 1981,
I lived with him by the cliffs of La Jolla where I witnessed his
rise to power.  Today, in 1993, he controls the minds of several
hundred computer consultants, businessmen, doctors, and lawyers. 
Each year he extracts from them roughly ten million dollars.

As I gazed at Walden Pond in search of calm, the wind spawned new waves,
and the surface swelled with complexity.  I recalled what Atmananda
had said after I returned from a five-day bike trip in California. 
He announced in front of other disciples that my aura was dark. 
He also said that I had been attacked by nocturnal,
mountain-dwelling Entities which "cause neurosis and psychosis,
obliterate lifetimes of spiritual evolution, and can possess
your soul."

Atmananda's Entity-prevention program included studying with a
fully enlightened teacher, meditating regularly, and avoiding
solitary excursions into nature.  Yet in the spring of 1986,
nearly one year after I left him, I reminded myself that I would
rather be possessed in my world than potentially perfect in his. 
I planned to pedal across America not with an exorcist, but with
a puppy.

On May 31, 1986, as warm, moist air pushed pockets of fog over Walden Pond,
I lifted the four-month-old Siberian husky, Nunatak, into the
doggie-carrier. The carrier rested on top of the bicycle trailer,
attached to the frame of my 12-speed. Strong headwinds soon strained
my muscles, shook the lush canopy of foliage, and pelted me with
large drops of rain.  As I began the journey west, the front tire
raced through puddles while my mind raced through painful memories
and questions.  How had my years with Atmananda affected me?  Why was
it so difficult to leave him?  What was it about my past that led me to him?




2.  Zapped!


"Lights," said my father and for a moment, except for the
phosphorescent hands of the clock on the wall, the room went black. 
With a flip of a switch, he suddenly reappeared:  a tall,
thin man with thick glasses, standing beside the glowing enlarger. 
As a child I sat for hours under a dim yellow light,
mesmerized by images appearing on paper submerged in trays filled
with smelly liquid.  Yellow, my father taught me, has no apparent
effect on the light-sensitive specks coating photographic paper.

The unorthodox images which leapt from the walls of our house seemed
as eerie as the darkroom experience itself:  there was a photograph
of a llama's head as viewed through a distorting fish-eye lens,
there was a photograph of a shredded poster of a man's face,
and there were many abstract photos which seemed to defy description. 
My father, a production manager at a New York publishing company,
perhaps saw the world in a different light than his peers.

My mother was an elementary school teacher with black hair and
sometimes kind, sometimes intense eyes.  A generous and caring woman,
she put her career on hold for more than a decade to raise a family. 
She met my father in upstate New York on a hike sponsored by an
outing club.

When I was fourteen, I sensed that my father was growing tired,
detached, and depressed, but I did not understand why.  He expressed
abstractions better than emotions, and found it difficult to vent
the angers and frustrations which had accumulated from work and from home.

Nor did I understand that my mother freely gave to me what she,
in her youth, had sorely missed:  love.  Oblivious to the magnitude
of her workload--she taught full-time and was pursuing a Master's degree--
I grew angry with her as a teenager partly because she seemed
insecure and overbearing, and partly because she expected me,
my brother, and my father to help keep the house clean in the way
that she wanted.

Despite my family's love for the outdoors, for our dog,
and for one another, the emotional fabric that bound us together
often seemed on the verge of ripping apart.  And the problems
only intensified as my brother and I grew older.

Two-and-a-half-years my elder, my brother was an avid backpacker
and rock climber with jet-black hair, Gandhi glasses, and a gentle
but determined disposition.  He too felt that something in our family
was "out of whack," and we occasionally discussed what we would
do when we left home.  But unlike me, he had no one to buffer him
from my parents who, I was starting to discover, were only human.

I was a sensitive child.  I was so sensitive that the sounds of someone
chewing made me upset.  I was a light sleeper.  I was also a slob,
a knee-jerk rebel, and something of a nerd when it came to doing
things like making friends with girls.  Nonetheless, I decided
that I could work out whatever I needed to work out in a healthier
environment than at home; the countdown to the last day of high school,
after which I planned to set out on my own, began when I was
around fifteen.  Meanwhile, I read a lot and spent time with friends,
some of whom also enjoyed hiking and bicycling.

In the summer of 1976, when I was sixteen, I bicycled from the White
Mountains of New Hampshire to Boston with people from an outing club. 
One morning, as I watched my traveling companions prepare their daily dose
of hallucinogens, I realized that I wanted to be part of their fellowship. 
The desire, however, was checked by a gut-level impulse to avoid drugs,
so Jim, a sinewy guy stooped over a pot of boiling morning glory seeds,
turned me on instead to The Teachings of Don Juan:  A Yaqui Way
of Knowledge.  This was a popular account of Carlos Castaneda's
purported apprenticeship with Yaqui Indian medicine man Juan Matus,
or Don Juan.

From the cover of the book peered a menacing and surreal painting
of a crow.

"But a crow isn't always a crow," said Jim softly, paraphrasing Don
Juan as he stirred the seeds.  "Sometimes it's a powerful sorcerer
in disguise."

Intrigued by the paradox of the crow, I plowed through The Teachings of Don
Juan and through Castaneda's A Separate Reality and Journey To Ixtlan. 
At summer's end, still drugless and clueless as to whether crows
were birds or sorcerers, I left Boston clutching a Castaneda book.

Back in New York, I chose to see the world less through the eyes
of an eleventh grader taking honors physics and history,
and more through the eyes of a sorcerer's apprentice. 
I incorporated into my daily routine Don Juan's recommendations. 
As an exercise in humility, I spoke aloud to plants.  To *see* beyond
society's description of reality, I tried to stop my thoughts. 
To expand my awareness beyond the confines of the waking state,
I sought to wake within a dream.

My interest in what lay beyond the scope of traditional reality led
to an interest in what lay beyond the scope of traditional education,
and, that fall, I thought about switching to a public experimental
high school founded in the late '60s.  I firmly believed that I
would thrive in a world without grades, attendance taking, tests,
and requirements.  In January, 1977, with the guidance of my brother,
I managed to persuade my reluctant parents to let me join.

I chose to continue taking physics and history at the traditional school;
other subjects I took at the non-traditional school where,
in a creative writing class, I wrote:



                  Teachers force us to perceive,
                  The surface world of reason:
                  "A tree is but a pole with leaves,
                  Whose habits change each season."



I thrived within a self-designed, academically rigorous educational program,
but experienced no breakthroughs in my search for Hidden Realms
of Perception until the following summer.  The experience came when I
was working ten-hour days and five-and-a-half day weeks on a farm
in southern New Hampshire.  In my spare time, I was designing
and building an electricity-producing windmill, which ended up
towering some twenty feet above Onyx, one of the tallest cows. 
Farm-crew members sometimes walked out to the hay fields to get high. 
One night, after smoking marijuana, I fell asleep and later saw,
above where I lay, a cow, its head swaying gently to and fro. 
Though I thought I was awake it was but a dream, for when I woke
from "waking," the cow had disappeared.  This experience led me
to believe that like Mr. Castaneda's mentor, I could consciously
direct my actions within the context of a dream.

Back in New York, I became editor-in-chief of the high school newspaper. 
I soon learned that I had a knack for inspiring and for managing
a team.  I was well regarded by my teachers and by my peers,
and I had many friends.  I could have continued my studies at
a prestigious university, but I longed for a mystical quest. 
I dreamt that I walked silently across a vast desert plain.  I longed
to experience that which lay beyond the surface world of reason. 
I dreamt that I flew over desert chaparral into an infinite orange horizon. 
I longed for a wisdom that was secret, magical, ancient.  I decided
to hitchhike, alone, to the Sonoran Desert in Mexico to find
a mystical teacher, a *brujo*, who was just like Don Juan.  I planned
to leave on the day after high school graduation.

Meanwhile, I continued to read the Castaneda books and to experiment
with consciousness.  One time I attempted to raise my right arm
without consciously lifting it.  I wanted it to levitate on its own. 
I soon felt a tingling in the arm, but it did not rise.  Finally, I lifted
it on purpose.  Then, as part of the experiment, I suggested to myself
that the arm remain lifted.  As long as I repeated the suggestion,
the arm remained where it was.  Afterwards, I could not recall
how long the state of mind had lasted.

My brother shared with me an interest in rising above the limitations
of home, school, religion, society, and reality.  By the time
I turned him on to the Castaneda books, he had already studied
Einstein's special theory of relativity and The Tao Of Physics. 
In the spring of 1978, when he was studying physics at the State
University of New York at Stony Brook, he told me that he had met
an English professor who was an expert on the Castaneda books. 
He knew that my quest for a teacher would begin in roughly two months,
when I would graduate from high school.  He wanted to help me. 
He suggested that I attend the Castaneda expert's free lecture series on
meditation in Manhattan.

I wondered why a Castaneda expert would live on Long Island rather
than in a remote desert in Mexico, but my brother's enthusiasm
was sincere.  "Besides," I thought as we rode the train into the city,
"anything I learn now will only help me on the journey."

We arrived at a building on 33rd Street.  A rickety elevator took
us to the third floor, where the sweet and spicy aroma of incense
wafted through the air.  I saw a row of sneakers by the elevator
door and wondered if they had been responsible for the incense. 
After placing our sneakers in line with the others, we walked past
a sign which read "Yoga Life Perfection."  A young woman with long,
black hair and a playful, impish grin sold books and incense in
the hallway.  She recognized my brother and smiled at us.  She wore
a sari.

We entered a medium-sized room where a smoldering stick
of incense and two unlit candles rested on a table up front. 
Two young women stood together near the back of the room. 
One had long brown hair and dreamy eyes.  The other had a face
and figure like a model.  Their faces were flushed and aglow. 
They also wore saris.

"Too bad I'm not gonna be sticking around New York," I thought,
gazing at them.

In the audience sat two women in their sixties, dressed entirely
in black.  They sat near a man in his thirties, with the frame
of a metal pyramid resting squarely on his head.

We sat by the two sari-clad women.  They were clearly excited
about something.  They used words like inspiration, aspiration,
concentration, visualization, meditation, reincarnation, and perfection. 
My brother, too, seemed excited, as if something extraordinary
and wonderful were about to occur.  With each passing minute,
I found myself growing more curious, more impatient, and more excited. 
Fifteen minutes after the talk was scheduled to begin, the women
in saris stopped talking and looked up.

I looked up too and saw a tall man with a projecting nose and
lush locks.  His long strides seemed synchronized with his arms,
which swung like perfectly conflicting pendulums; this motion
seemed to propel him into the room.  He sat on the table facing
the audience, folded his legs in the pretzel-like posture seen
in Buddha statues, and introduced himself as Dr. Frederick Lenz. 
He explained that he had another name:  Atmananda.  Then he lit
the candles and asked us to drop our preconceived notions because,
"meditation is beyond thought."

"Thought is like a car," he said in a smooth, charming voice. 
"You can drive it to California.  But if you want to cross the ocean,
you will need an alternate means of transportation.  If you want
to cross the sea of consciousness, you will need meditation."

Though his metaphors were new to me, they seemed to point
the way beyond the surface world of reason.  He used words
like guru, avatar, warrior, power, power spots, personal power,
moments of power, spiritual power, psychic power, ecstasy, enlightenment,
cosmic love, transcendental, supreme, Nirvana, and the Infinite. 
When he said it was time to meditate, I was surprised
that he had been speaking for over forty minutes.  It had seemed like five.

"Now extend your index fingers and close your eyes," Atmananda instructed.

I squinted to see if anyone else was peeking.  From what I could tell,
the twenty or so people obeyed him.

"Now say 'me' out loud and touch your chest."

My "me" was muffled by the group's "me".

"You are not only pointing to your chest," Atmananda explained,
"but to your heart chakra, one of seven psychic energy centers
associated with the subtle body.  Concentrating on a chakra is an easy
way to begin crossing the sea of consciousness."

So we sat there, drifting, and though I tried to stop my thoughts
and feel the throbbing pulse of my heart chakra, I found myself
checking out the women in saris.

"Very good," he said after about five minutes.  Then he suggested
that we sit back, relax, and ask questions.

There was something hauntingly familiar about this confident,
well-spoken, young professor.  Perhaps it was the way his chin
jutted forward, the rich timbre of his voice, or his seeming
interest in helping people that reminded me of the cartoon character
Dudley-Do-Right. I felt drawn to him.  I found myself staring into
his full moon, gripping eyes.  I found myself seeking his attention.

"Can a person be healed by meditating?"  I asked, only partly
concerned that I had a cold.

He locked my attention with those eyes...I felt slightly dizzy...it
was not unpleasant...it felt as though I were floating...my vision
blurred...things went fuzzy and white...it appeared as though it
were snowing...

"Am I having a vision?"  I wondered and immediately the "snow" vanished. 
Just then Atmananda seemed unreal, like a superhero from a cosmic
comic-strip that had been cut, enlarged, and inserted into the room. 
When he smiled at me, I had the uncanny sense that he knew what I
had felt and seen.  Then he left, flanked by the women in saris.




3.  The Joining


In the days following Atmananda's talk, I longed to know if my vision
of the "snow" had been a mystical experience, an optical illusion,
or a figment of my imagination.  Graduation was only weeks away. 
I assumed that Atmananda would help me solve the mystery, and I counted
the days until his next public lecture.

I did not tell my friends much about Atmananda.  They seemed content,
even after reading the Castaneda books, to view the world through a
rational framework.  In contrast, I grew excited about the possibility
of transcending the world of reason altogether.  They were proud
of their letters of acceptance from the Harvards and the Princetons. 
I was proud of my letter of acceptance from The School Of Mysticism. 
My letter arrived in the form of brilliant white specks which swirled
about me like snow.

Nor did I tell my parents, who represented discord, anxiety,
and manipulation--the opposite of what Atmananda seemed to stand for.

Instead, I spoke with my brother.  He and I were close. 
I wanted to be just like him.  He used words such as disciples,
selfless-service, humanity, humility, purity, soul, soul-mate,
past-lives, karma, fast track, and cosmic evolution.  He got
excited when he talked about Atmananda.  He told me that he too
had experienced perceptual distortion during Atmananda's talks. 
We returned to "Yoga Life Perfection."

About thirty minutes after the talk was scheduled to begin,
Atmananda strode through the door.  He wore a light brown suit.

"Anne," he said, "did you bring the Transcendental?"

The sari-clad woman who had sold incense at the last lecture
placed a frame on the table beside Atmananda.  The Transcendental
was a photograph of Atmananda's Indian guru, Chinmoy.  But it
was so underexposed that it seemed not a picture of a guru,
but rather a mug-shot of a ghost with high cheekbones. 
It reminded me of one of the experimental images which had emerged
from my father's darkroom.

"The Transcendental portrays Guru in his highest
transcendental consciousness," my brother told me.

Atmananda scanned the audience, mostly women in their sixties. 
Then he began to lecture, not on meditation, but on reincarnation,
which he had done many times before.

"Maya, or illusion, eclipses the original perfection of the soul,"
he said.  "The soul reincarnates over thousands of lessons known
as lifetimes."

I could not recall learning about reincarnation at Hebrew school.

"As the soul evolves, it transcends desire and attachment,
which is the root of all suffering.  Finally, enlightenment occurs."

Unaware that he was borrowing Hindu and Buddhist doctrine, and intrigued
but not convinced that in a future life I would attain enlightenment,
I kept one eye on Atmananda and the other on Anne.

"Everything can be classified according to its level of
spiritual evolution.  Rocks and minerals are very primitive,
whereas plants have more developed auras.  After thousands of years,
the soul seeks an animal incarnation.  Except in rare instances,
enlightenment occurs through the human form only."

I grinned and wiggled my thumbs, figuring I was already ahead
of the game.

"Humans in their early incarnations are responsible for many of
the world's problems.  But evolved people are not better than others. 
Are college students any better than third graders?"

This diffused my concern that Atmananda's line of reasoning justified
the formation of an evolved elite.

"Karma is a cosmic feedback mechanism triggered by past actions. 
In a universe governed by karma, few experiences are coincidental."

I supposed a lottery winner could have been a generous philanthropist
in a past life.  But remembering the various times I had been
robbed while growing up in New York, I doubted that I had spent
incarnations as a mugger.  Still, I liked his contention that it
was karma's role not to punish, but to educate.

"After thousands of human incarnations, you become ready to study with
an enlightened teacher.  You may suddenly notice a teacher's poster. 
You may have seen the poster many times before--only this time
something *clicks*."

I looked at the Transcendental and wondered if the Guru, who looked
like he badly needed sleep, could make something in me *click*.

Atmananda turned toward me, as if in response to my newest doubt,
and said, "An enlightened teacher can take a person through thousands
of lives in just one lifetime."

"What's the rush?"  I thought.

"The sooner you attain enlightenment, the sooner you can help
others transcend this world of pain and suffering."

"How did he do that?"  I wondered, unsure if he were addressing
typical doubts, or if he were actually reading my mind.

Atmananda continued to look at me.  I found myself gazing,
without blinking, into his eyes...I began to feel as if I were
floating... somewhere far away I sensed my body breathing...I
heard "bzzzzzzzz" droning on and on and on...

He turned away, and I returned to normal consciousness.

"Holy cow," I thought.  "He did it again!"  Suddenly, I imagined
that he was a sorcerer and I, his apprentice.  I forgot about Anne
and carefully followed his words.

"Advanced seekers say that after they attain enlightenment they
will return to earth to help others.  But most of them end up
choosing eternal ecstasy instead."

I vowed to come back and help the downtrodden.

"It is even rarer for fully enlightened souls to return," he said,
pointing out that his Guru was fully enlightened.

Fully enlightened souls, Atmananda explained, were aware
of those who meditated sincerely on their photograph. 
Atmananda then instructed us to meditate on the Transcendental. 
After about ten minutes of silence he asked, "Who saw the light
around Guru?"

One woman shot up her hand.  Then another.  I admitted to myself
that I thought I saw the photo glow.

"Guru flooded you with light from another world," he explained. 
Then, inviting the audience to experience the "advanced" side of
self-discovery, he told us about Chinmoy's free weekly meditations
at St. Paul's Chapel, Columbia University.

By this time, in keeping with Atmananda's suggestions,
my brother had applied to study with Chinmoy.  He was accepted. 
He lived near the State University of New York at Stony Brook,
near the eight or so Chinmoy disciples, near Atmananda.  When I asked
him to take me to his Guru, he said that he would.

We met at our parents' home.  He wore all white clothes. 
"White symbolizes purity--the spiritual quality men need to develop most,"
he explained, quoting Chinmoy.  "Wearing white only adds one or two
percent more purity to your consciousness, but every bit helps."

My mother came into the room and looked at my brother.

"Uh-oh," I thought.  I felt bad for my mother.  She typically
had to deal with me and my brother on her own.  Perhaps in
anticipation of an ulcer condition, my father tended to avoid
so-called family discussions.  "If only she would leave us alone,"
I figured, "she would not get so bent out of shape."

I also felt bad for my brother.  Everything he did, it seemed,
aggravated my parents.  "They should support him in his spiritual quest,"
I decided.

Now my mother looked upset.  I did not know it then, but she was
not upset that her sons were interested in yoga.  In her youth she
had satisfied a similar interest in the East by taking a course on
Gandhi's philosophy.  She grew concerned, however, when she realized
that we were intensely focusing on one person--on a living guru.

"Where are you boys going?" she asked.

"It's okay, Mom," I replied, assuming my role as mediator. 
"We're just going to a talk on relaxation and meditation--you know,
stuff like that."  I had already told her about Chinmoy and Atmananda
("Mom, I think I found a teacher right here in New York!"). But she
wanted to know more.  She looked hurt.

"You're upset about relaxation and meditation?"  I said, trying my
best to reason with her.  "This is nothing, Mom.  What are you
going to say when I hitchhike to Mexico to study with a *brujo*?"

The silence that ensued bore with it all the weight
of a mother's love, hope, and fear for her sons.

We said good-bye and rode to the city.

"I mean, I have to lead my own life," I thought, and focused
on my parents' shortcomings to offset pangs of guilt.

Manhattan's ivy-league citadel of the intellect seemed an unlikely
spot for people to be led beyond thought.  But then, finding a
guru with an enlightened soul uptown seemed no less likely than
meeting a sorcerer with a Ph.D. downtown.  We switched at Grand
Central Station to an uptown train and emerged at 125th Street. 
The clatter of subway cars gave way to traffic noise which faded once
we entered the Columbia University campus.  Soon we ascended steps
to St. Paul's Chapel.  Ahead of us were men with closely cropped
hair wearing all white clothes.  With hair clenched in braids,
the sari-wrapped women walked apart from the men--who were not looking
at them.  At the top of the stairs, dressed in a red tennis outfit,
stood Atmananda.

"Hi, Atmananda," said my brother, looking up.

With folded arms, Atmananda looked down and said, "Hello, Dan."

"You remember my kid brother?"

"Hello, kid brother."

Atmananda and I were roughly the same height, yet as disciples
flocked by him he seemed much taller.  I was again struck by
his piercing eyes, sharp nose, and thick crown of brown hair. 
With such a countenance of nobility, he could have passed as a high
Roman senator or Greek god.

"Guru couldn't make it this week," he said.  "Why don't you go
in and meditate, and pick up on Guru's vibes?"

My brother and I went inside.  High above us on the massive chapel
dome were paintings of angels.  Perhaps it was the distant angels,
the two hundred or more silent disciples, and the rising scent
of sandalwood incense, that made me feel foreign and small. 
We meditated for about five minutes and left.

Outside, Atmananda was speaking with a man in white, when it struck
me that he was wearing red.  "A non-conformist within a group
of non-conformists!" I thought.

He nodded to us but continued talking.

I walked by and noticed his name tag.  Directly beneath "ATMANANDA"
glimmered a sticker from AAA and this warning:  "Fasten Your Seat Belt."

That night, in the Castaneda books, I read how ordinary events
were often portentous omens.  I wondered if there was a significant
message hidden in the Guru's absence.  I wondered, too, if I
was supposed to meditate with this Guru before hitchhiking west.

The following week, I ventured with my brother to another of
Atmananda's lectures.  We also returned to meditate with Chinmoy. 
When we arrived at Columbia, disciples were arranging flowers,
lighting incense, and otherwise darting about in preparation
for their master's presence.  Chinmoy apparently was on his way. 
Several minutes later a short, stocky Indian entered the chapel. 
He had a shiny head, a hooked nose, and high cheek bones.  He was draped
in a light-blue dhoti, the male version of a sari.  He walked slowly
toward the front.  He sat in a big blue chair, opened his eyes wide,
and blinked a couple of times.

Disciples in the audience sat with their hands folded, as if they
were praying to him.

"Are they praying to him?"  I asked my brother.

"No," he whispered.  "They are aspiring to the Infinite in him."

The Guru sipped from a glass which he held with his pinky pointing out.

"Well," I thought.  "As long as they aren't praying to him."

Suddenly Chinmoy belted out, "Aummm. 
Auuummmmmm.  Auuummmmmmmmmmmm."  After five
minutes of meditation, the Guru folded his hands and bowed to the audience.

My brother whispered, "He is offering his meditation to the Infinite
in us."

"That about evens the score," I thought, feeling better about
the whole business of guru worship.

Chinmoy signaled a disciple who placed a box of oranges before him. 
He stood behind it and nodded to the audience, which began forming
a line.

At first I thought he was just giving out oranges.  But by filling
the fruits with spiritual light, my brother explained, the Guru
was really giving darshan.

One by one, the disciples looked into Chinmoy's eyes with
out-stretched hands.  When they received the darshan they touched
the orange to their heart chakra, bowed, and walked reverentially
back to the benches.

When it came my turn, I approached slowly so that people
would think I was spiritual.  "When Guru flickers his eyes,"
I recalled my brother telling me, "he is entering the perfect
awareness of Nirvakalpa Samadhi."  I looked up.  Chinmoy smiled,
flickered his eyes, and pulled from the box...nothing! He had run
out of oranges.

"An omen!"  I thought.  I was unsure, though, what the delay
exactly meant.  Nonetheless, I decided to take advantage of the situation. 
I focused my gaze on Chinmoy.  Soon everything in the chapel, except for
his shiny face, seemed to disappear.  Then, borrowing a technique
from the Castaneda books, I squinted and crossed my eyes until Chinmoy
transformed into swirls of shimmering light.  "Wow!"  I thought. 
For a moment, the distorted image before me reminded me of the Transcendental.

When Chinmoy came back into focus, he shot a glance at the side
of the chapel.  A disciple brought him a fresh crate.  After the
second flickering, I took the orange with both hands, touched it
to my heart chakra, and bowed.  I walked away feeling grateful. 
A wave of joy washed over me.  I saw the disciples, including my brother
and Atmananda, gazing lovingly at Chinmoy.  I felt touched by a power
which seemed greater and more romantic than that of the world of reason. 
"How many people get a gift from a *fully* enlightened guru?" 
I wondered.

"Don't just stare at it," my brother reproved, explaining that
oranges were poor retainers of Spiritual Light.  "Eat it!"

Moments later, the Guru announced in a lilting voice,
"Atmananda, pleeeez bring."

Atmananda led the five or six potential initiates to the front
of the chapel.  He had found, inspired, and persuaded them through
his lectures.  While Atmananda watched the Guru initiate them,
he did not return to his seat.  Instead, he remained in front,
several feet away.

Chinmoy rapidly oscillated his eyes at the new recruits.  His eyes were
still flickering when he placed his hand on each of their foreheads. 
When his eyes returned to normal, he flashed a smile at Atmananda,
at the new disciples, and at the rest of the audience.  Then he left
the chapel in a flurry of whites and saris.

As I watched him leave, I felt secure that he and Atmananda knew a lot
about the unknown.  I glanced across the room at the disciples. 
I realized that I wanted to be part of their fellowship.

My brother and I found Atmananda outside, addressing a group
of Stony Brook Chinmoy disciples.

"Do you want to go with us to Au Natural?" he asked us.

At that moment I would have gone with him anywhere, partly because I
was not keen on going home, and partly because he was so compelling. 
There was something about him that felt nurturing yet electric,
casual yet happening.

"Yes!" we chimed.

Atmananda organized rides, gave directions, warned us about
potholes and drunk drivers, and suggested that we maintain
a meditative consciousness, lest we lose the Guru's light. 
Then he led us away from the other Chinmoy disciples, from the chapel,
from the campus, and onto the streets.

I watched the blur of city lights from the back of Atmananda's Saab,
which hurtled through the streets at a velocity close to that of a
New York taxi.  He skillfully avoided potholes and drunk drivers. 
He told my brother of his plan to have Stony Brook disciples advertise
his free public lectures by placing posters in Manhattan.  I relaxed,
believing he was in control.

At Au Natural, a yogurt shop, Atmananda introduced me to the Stony
Brook disciples.  There were Anne, Dana, and Suzanne, the sari-clad
women from his lectures.  There was Tom, a dark-haired young
man who was as tall as Atmananda and who seemed easygoing. 
There was Sal, a balding young man who seemed intense.  There were
other Chinmoy disciples milling around, but the Stony Brook group
stuck together.

I expected the conversation would be spiritual, seeing as how we
had just meditated with a fully enlightened guru.  To my surprise,
Atmananda and Tom recalled an episode from The Twilight Zone.

"And he totally disappeared."

"Into the fifth dimension."

"Yeah, he really got zapped."

That night, when I got home, I wondered if Atmananda should have been
more meditative.  But I recalled that Don Juan often acted absurd,
funny, and irreverent.  He did so to balance the utter seriousness
of The Path, as well as to shake up Castaneda's pre-conceived
notions of what it meant to be a seeker.  "Besides," I thought,
quoting Atmananda, "who says spirituality can't be fun?"

The following week, I wondered if Chinmoy would accept me as his disciple. 
I asked my brother what my odds were.

"If you are drawn to Guru," he said, "the chances are you have studied
with him in past lives.  But if he sees that he's not the right
teacher for you, he'll guide you inwardly to the right one."

I wanted to believe what my brother and Atmananda had been telling me. 
I wanted to believe that the Guru installed disciple-specific,
invisible channels through which peace, light, and bliss could,
if the disciple were receptive, inwardly flow.  Yet I was not sold
on the theory of reincarnation.  Nor was I convinced that Atmananda
was fully accurate when he claimed that Chinmoy was the Cosmic Boatman,
an avatar [incarnation of a Hindu deity], and the most advanced soul
ever to have incarnated anywhere in the entire universe.

"Why would the messiah live in Jamaica, Queens?"  I wondered. 
But then I felt bad.  After all, the Buddha and Christ probably didn't
live in such fancy neighborhoods either.  I also realized that my doubts
were based on the premise of rationality, the very nature of which
Atmananda had taught me was limited, flawed, and often destructive. 
"I suppose Chinmoy *could* be the Cosmic Boatman," I told myself
as part of a compromise.

Days later, after one of Atmananda's public lectures, I grew curious
about my earlier vision of the snow.  I asked Atmananda to explain.

"Your third eye chakra is opening up a bit," he explained
matter-of-factly. "You are seeing into another world.  It is not
unusual to have this type of experience if you have meditated in past lives."

"Thanks, Atmananda!"  I said.

"Sure, kid," he said, suggesting that I sit back and enjoy the process.

Except for occasional doubts, I had been enjoying the process. 
I enjoyed hanging out with the Stony Brook disciples.  They were
not only fellow seekers, but they seemed to have a good time. 
Atmananda, in particular, was fun to be around.  He sometimes made me
feel important and powerful.  I enjoyed his lectures, during which he
quoted The Bhagavad-Gita, The Bible, Jonathan Livingston Seagull,
Star Wars, Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, Thoreau, Roethke, and Carlos Castaneda. 
One time he even recited my favorite passage from the Castaneda books,
the one about traveling on paths that have heart.

Now convinced that I had found a home in Atmananda's world,
I decided to seek initiation from Chinmoy.

My mother knew that my involvement with the group was intensifying. 
She had been trying to get me to talk to the rabbi.

"Why should I talk to the rabbi?"  I responded.

"Will you at least listen to what he has to say?"

But I had been listening to the rabbi since my bar mitzvah
four years ago and, frankly, I was not impressed.  A kind
and sometimes humorous man with a keen intellect, the rabbi
represented a religion which seemed less mystical than social. 
He struck me as being extremely reasonable, if not a little dull. 
In all the years I studied, sang, and prayed in his congregation,
not once, as I recall, did he capture my imagination.

"I don't want to talk to the rabbi," I had replied.

Now I told my mother that I wanted to become a disciple.

She grew quiet and pale.

I told her that I had had mystical experiences while meditating
with Chinmoy.  I did not tell her, nor did I acknowledge, that the
mystical experiences mostly occurred after I crossed or squinted
my eyes, or after I gazed at Chinmoy for two minutes or more. 
I told her that Chinmoy was an enlightened guru, and that I
respected him greatly.  I did not tell her, nor did I acknowledge,
that my respect--my reverence--was shaped largely by Atmananda
and the other disciples.

I was convinced by these reasons.  So was my brother.  My parents
were not.

"Mark, would you please talk to the rabbi?"

I finally agreed to go.

When my brother, my mother, and I entered the book-filled office,
the rabbi's expression, accentuated by a bulbous nose and glasses,
was anything but humorous.

"Hello, Mrs. Laxer," he said.  "Hello, boys."

"Hello, rabbi."

He asked us if we were getting involved in another religion.

"No, rabbi," explained my brother.  "We are studying spiritual mysticism."

"We're just learning to meditate," I added.

"I see," he said.  He mentioned an obscure mystical sect within
the Jewish religion known as Cabalism.  But Judaism, he explained,
slowly, as though measuring each word, was based upon laws--
not direct mystical experience.  As he spoke, I recalled that Jewish
law had been passed down through the generations since the time
of Abraham and Isaac.  Chinmoy's teachings, I realized, also stemmed
from a tradition dating back thousands of years.  I found myself
picturing Chinmoy and Atmananda.  "They are such colorful characters,"
I thought.

I glanced at the rabbi.  He was saying something about the dangers
of mind control.  "The rabbi is so...plain," I decided. 
I felt certain that he had never read the Castaneda books.

My mother said little during the meeting.  She was hoping that
the rabbi would build for my brother and me a framework through
which we could view our mystical quest.  When the meeting was over,
I went home and stared at the underexposed Transcendental photo
of Chinmoy.

The next day I tried to meditate, but my mind dwelt on familiar thoughts: 
"As soon as I graduate, I'm going to leave my tired, depressed father. 
I'm going to leave my manipulative, demanding mother.  I'm going
to follow a path with heart, and things are going to get better."

Meanwhile, my mother had asked if she could attend one of the meetings
with the Guru.

"Sure," I replied.  I felt I had nothing to hide, and I secretly
hoped that she would wish me well on my journey.

Dressed in Western clothes, she went to St. Paul's Chapel that
Wednesday night and sat near the front.  She felt uncomfortable
being surrounded by a sea of whites and saris.  She saw disciples
praying to a short, Indian man dressed in robes.  Her stomach became
tense when the man placed his hand on the forehead of her youngest son.

I stood in front of the chapel, before Chinmoy, squinting.  In the
flickering of the Guru's eyes, I was initiated.  I bowed and turned,
and in the audience I saw my mother.  I quickly looked away. 
I saw myself less as the son of caring, creative, and slightly
mixed-up New York Jews, and more a disciple of the man Atmananda said
was perfect.

After initiation, I began to spend less time at home, where I often
heard things like:  "Artie, you talk to your son about what he
is getting involved in."

"Leave me alone!" my father replied, irritably.

"It's a *rotten* family!" my mother declared.

I happily spent time instead with my brother, Atmananda, and the
other Stony Brook Chinmoy disciples.

One time, while camping with my brother in a marsh near Stony Brook,
my calves began to itch.  I tried not to scratch what seemed to be
poison ivy, but must have done so in my sleep because by morning,
the rash had spread.

When I went home, my mother applied lotion to my skin.  The next day,
she asked if I was better.

"Yup," I said and left for school.  Confident that my skin would
heal on its own, I did not want to make a fuss over the red bumps
which now covered most of my body.  Yet later that day in writing
class I had to sto...p reading a poem becau...se I could no...t get
the words out, and my mother arrived and rushed me to the hospital. 
After a shot of adrenaline caused the puffy, quarter-sized blotches
to shrink, the doctor pointed out that had I not been treated in time,
I might have been suffocated by the growing bump in my throat.

"How odd to have a near-death experience so soon after my
spiritual initiation," I thought.  I asked the doctor what he
thought had nearly killed me.  "Perhaps you had an allergic reaction
to something you ate," he said.  But after various food groups were
one by one reintroduced into my diet, the cause of the hives remained hidden.

I asked Atmananda what he thought had nearly killed me.  "It is
no coincidence," he said mysteriously.  "Whenever you make genuine
spiritual progress, the Negative Forces in the universe try and hold
you back.  But don't worry.  When you are attacked by the Forces,
just think of Guru."

I did think of Guru.  I often doubted, though, that nefarious,
non-physical Entities from beyond the world of reason were getting
underneath my skin.  I recalled that Don Juan tricked Castaneda
into pursuing the path to knowledge, and wondered if Atmananda's
explanation was a ploy to maneuver me closer to Guru.  But because I
sought adventure, challenge, and entrance into the metaphysical worlds
of Don Juan, Obi-Wan-Kanobi, Chinmoy and Atmananda, I willfully
suspended my disbelief.  I also suspended my plans to hitchhike west. 
After reading a speech at my high school graduation, I said
good-bye to friends and family, and bought a one-way ticket east
to Stony Brook.




4.  The Community


"Hello...Atmananda?" said my brother into the phone.  Then he
winced and hung up.

"Well?"  I asked.

"I have to call him back," he replied sheepishly.

"How come?"

"He said I didn't have the right spirit."

He dialed again.  "Halllooooooo, Atmanaaaaaaanda!" he bellowed. 
This time, Atmananda gave him directions to the party.

Weeks before, Atmananda gave me permission to attend his parties--
provided that I did not "vibe" the women.

"Don't look at them as women," my brother had suggested,
quoting Chinmoy and Atmananda.  "Look at them as seekers. 
When you look at them as women, it hurts their evolution."

I assured him I would try.

After I moved to Stony Brook, I started going to Atmananda's
parties regularly.  At one party my brother and I arrived at
Tom's house, left our sneakers by the door, and went inside. 
Atmananda, Sal, Anne, Tom, and a few other disciples stood in the kitchen. 
They looked bewildered.  The air smelled charred.  Black, gooey gobs
darkened the floor.  Atmananda was not talking.  Something was wrong.

When Anne had lit the stove moments before, an explosion singed her
hair and propelled chocolate and marshmallow covered graham crackers
across the room.  Now, as we cleaned the mess, Atmananda began to speak.

"Guru protected us from the Negative Forces," he said in a rich,
lulling voice.

I told myself that the explosion had probably more to do with the gas
being left on than it did with Guru and the Forces.

"The Negative Forces want to hurt Guru's mission,"
Atmananda continued grimly.  "But they know not to challenge
an avatar directly.  Instead, they go after his disciples--
particularly those wide open to doubt."

For months I had grappled with the concept of Negative Forces. 
Perhaps they existed, I told myself, perhaps they did not. 
In either case, I did not take them seriously.  Now, though, I tried
to imagine what they looked like.  I pictured massive, menacing storm
clouds in a dark, foreboding sky.  I imagined the "clouds" were
aware of my current thoughts.  Suddenly the clouds seemed real. 
I felt jolted.  I looked around the room.  I sensed the disciples had
taken Atmananda's caveat seriously.  My stomach felt taut.  I thanked
Chinmoy silently.

Atmananda had meanwhile flipped to a less somber mood.  "One of
the best ways to combat the Forces," he said, "is to have fun." 
So we went out to eat.

At an Italian restaurant during one party, Atmananda suddenly
slapped Sal on the back and, adopting the voice of the Godfather,
cried, "Heyyy Sal!  You plenty-fine kinda guy!"

"Sure I'm plenty-fine, but I'm also plenty-hungry!" Sal replied
with an equally zesty accent, but without slapping him back.

Atmananda then denounced Sal for rescuing a maiden who had been
held against her will in "a large vat of ravioli."

"What's wrong with that?"  I asked.

"Sal, tell the baby what'sa wrong with that."

Until now I had enjoyed their antics, but the transition from
being the editor-in-chief of my high school paper to "the baby"
felt awkward.  Yet at seventeen, I was the youngest in the group,
the average age of which was twenty-one. Atmananda was twenty-seven.
And I had learned from Chinmoy and Atmananda that humility was
the quintessential spiritual quality.  Besides, I loved the attention.

Sal replied that rescuing maidens was wrong because he should
have been at home meditating.

I looked again at Sal, a twenty-year-old with a large, creased forehead. 
He had studied computer engineering first at CalTech, and now
at Stony Brook.  He also studied guitar and drama.  He cradled
the eggplant parmigiano hero lovingly in his hands and closed his
eyes before each bite, as if bracing for the next dose of ecstasy.

"Observe the maestro chow hound," Atmananda announced.

We laughed.

Sal had apparently adjusted to his role as chow hound. 
He continued to eat as if nothing happened.

"If only Sal could focus on the Infinite rather than on the eggplant,"
Atmananda noted, "he would be the first among us to realize God."

It was fun eating out with Atmananda.  After dinner, we often
continued the fun and the fight against the Forces at the movies.

One time, Atmananda took us to Warlords of Atlantis.  He bought
five buckets of heavily buttered popcorn, Tabs, Cokes, diet Cokes,
boxes of licorice, Sno-caps, and Raisinetes.  Then, from the fourth row--
Atmananda claimed that four was a power number--we watched a film which,
at the time, seemed extraordinary.

Atmananda sat by the aisle of the nearly empty theatre.  He whispered
something to Sal, who told Tom, who told my brother, who told me: 
"Atlantis was once a real city."

"Atlantis was a real city," I told Anne, who told Dana, who told Suzanne. 
Meanwhile, juxtaposed at an intersection of transmigrating junk food,
I further divided my attention between monitoring what needed
to be passed, trying not to notice the women, and watching a man
on the screen discover a lost world of magic and conflict under the sea.

"We all had past lives in Atlantis."

"We had past lives there."  Pass the Raisinetes.  A hidden city
of magicians, seers, and warriors, where the laws of physics
do not apply.

"We were together then."

"We were together."  Pass the napkins.  Crystals have a non-physical power.

"Atlantis was destroyed by the greed of its inhabitants."

"Atlantis was destroyed by greedy people."

Afterwards, we drove back to Tom's and caught the last few minutes of The
Twilight Zone.  It was late.  I was getting sleepy.  Atmananda began
to repeat how Guru had saved us from stove-demolishing Entities. 
I entered a state of mind where I heard his words, but did not
scrutinize them.  Fifteen or twenty minutes later, he suggested
that we meditate on the Transcendental which Tom placed on a table
by the television.

In the months that followed, Atmananda accepted me into his inner circle
of friends.  But not every encounter with him, I quickly learned,
was a party.

* * *

One morning Atmananda emerged from his cottage in Stony Brook carrying
a thick stack of posters.  Bluejays, doves, sparrows, and chickadees
flocked around a feeder.  Sal, Paul, my brother, and I stood nearby. 
Atmananda approached, but the little birds remained.

"Ellaow," he said in a Cockney accent.

"Ellaow," we echoed.

"WHAT...is your name!" he demanded, quoting from the movie Monty
Python and the Holy Grail.

"Sir Waff-noid," offered Sal.

"WHAT...is your quest!"

"I seek the higher worlds."

"WHAT...were you thinking about last night at 11:30!"

Sal blushed.

"Alas, my lad," said Atmananda, patting him on the shoulder. 
"You won't reach the higher worlds thinking about that."

Atmananda showed us a poster.  It read:  "ECSTASY AS A WAY OF LIFE." 
Also printed were details about a free lecture series,
"With Atmananda-Dr. Frederick Lenz."  But before he sent us
to Manhattan, Atmananda inspired us, told us how to protect ourselves,
how to change.

"Guru's mission," he said in a pacifying voice, "is to bring peace,
light, and bliss into a world that is rapidly heading towards darkness."

I realized that it was largely through Atmananda's lectures, and through
his appearances on radio and television--including a recent appearance
on the Phil Donahue Show--that Chinmoy's mission was being spread. 
I felt important that I was a part of the operation.

"Your task is to see where to place the posters so that they
will be noticed by advanced seekers.  To do this you will need
to maintain a very high state of consciousness."

We nodded solemnly.

"If you run into religious fanatics, be polite but firm. 
Do not let them engage you in conversation."

We nodded again.

"By postering, you are helping Guru bring light into this world. 
But Negative Forces will sense this and will try to inject you
with doubts.  If you are attacked by the Forces, cry inwardly
to Guru."

I was not too worried about non-physical creatures on the prowl. 
I had a great deal of self-confidence, I assumed the Guru would
protect me, and I wasn't convinced that Atmananda's ghosts
were real.

"I see that many will be helped as a result of today's efforts--
provided that Sal can muster the willpower to work and not just eat,"
he said, smiling warmly.  "And don't forget to have a good time."

We meditated a moment.

"Guru put a special force on the posters," Atmananda said,
breaking the silence and handing the stack to my brother. 
Then he strutted around us in a "silly walk" which I recognized
from a Monty Python skit.

"Cheeriao."

"Cheeriao," we echoed, waddling down the driveway, imitating his imitation. 
On the way to the train station, his words reverberated in my mind: 
the path, spiritual, awareness, see, sea of consciousness,
dream-time, vibrations, energy, chakra, subtle, metaphysical,
pyschic, unseen forces, traps, Entities, light, and darkness. 
The language defined for me a world in which I chose at each moment
between good and evil.  Put that way, there was not much of a choice. 
I believed now that ours was a pure and noble quest, and that I was
a warrior of Truth, not a casualty of rhetoric.

On the train ride into the city, I sat next to Paul, a happy-go-lucky
Swede with blond hair, a broad grin, and a magnet-like attraction
for devices that were electronic.  We both were Stony Brook freshmen
who had learned about Chinmoy through Atmananda's lectures. 
We both sensed that there was something out there beyond the surface
world of reason.  We both intended to do something about it.

"What's the penguin doing on the tehlee?" he quipped, quoting from
Monty Python.  Green and grey scenes of Long Island sped by through
the train's window frame.

"The penguin on the tehlee," I squawked, "is about to blow up!"

"Tickets, tickets," announced the conductor.  "All tickets please!"

I remembered how, as a kid, I rode the trains without paying. 
I had stayed ahead of the ticket collector, gotten off when I
reached the front car, and then caught the next train... But
now I no longer believed in free rides.  It did not matter
that the Ultimate Destination could not, according to Atmananda,
be described using words.  I still felt that I should pay to get there. 
By postering I was not only paying for myself, but was affording
thousands the opportunity to be taken for a ride of their own. 
I handed the conductor my ticket.

My brother and Sal sat across from us.  Their backs were straight,
their eyes closed.  I too tried to meditate, but could not. 
Instead, I thought about my parents.  I had followed Atmananda's
suggestion and told them that I was studying spiritual mysticism. 
Nonetheless, they seemed convinced that their sons were getting
sucked into a cult.  I was sensitive to their reaction to me
and intentionally saw them less as the weeks went by.

I also thought about Chinmoy.  He had instructed followers to memorize
four of his disciple-published books.  I opened one and read,
"When you choose you lose."  Chinmoy, it seemed, believed that major
decisions should be left to the Supreme, his favorite word for what
Atmananda called the Infinite, which the Rabbi had referred to as God.

"Help, Guru!"  I thought, doubting I could memorize the numerous
aphorisms without divine intervention.

"Penn Station, Penn Station," came the reply.  "Last stop!"

We left the train and were funneled onto the escalator by the crowd. 
Paul and my brother headed uptown on Third Avenue, while Sal and I
worked Second Avenue.  Dodging cars, bicycles, and more crowds,
we entered a supermarket and found the manager.

"Excuse me, sir," Sal said sweetly.  "We are sponsoring a workshop
on relaxation and were wondering if we could place this in your window."

"One of the posters is already outdated," I pointed out. 
"So we won't have to take up more of your window space."

The manager looked us over, glanced at the poster, and nodded.

"Thanks," we said and quickly placed two, back to back, visible to people
inside and out.  After several hours we had placed more than half the stack.

Postering with Sal boosted my confidence in asking favors
from strangers.  Soon, though, we decided to work opposite sides
of the street to increase our efficiency.  I found that by acting
polite and a bit shy, I could easily persuade store owners to say yes. 
The more I spread the word of Guru's mission, to people in stores
and on the street, the more I believed in it.  And the more I believed,
the more I wanted to spread the word of Guru's mission...

When Sal and I ran out of posters, we crossed over to Third Avenue,
met Paul and my brother, and caught the subway to Penn Station. 
I was tired from the postering.  I found the repetitive clatter
and vibrations of the train soothing.  I found it easy to meditate. 
I could have thought about how Atmananda had been teaching me
how-to-hunt-and-how-not-to-be-hunted. I could have thought about how
those who teach how-to-hunt-and-how-not-to-be-hunted can easily prey
upon those whom they teach.  I could have thought about how, by asking
Atmananda to take me beyond the world of reason, I was hunting him. 
I could have thought about how he was hunting me.  But I just sat there
and let my thoughts run free.

That year, Sal, Paul, Tom, my brother, and I placed thousands
of posters in Manhattan.  Working with Anne, Dana, and Suzanne,
we also distributed thousands of handouts on the Stony Brook campus. 
Sometimes we worked in sub-freezing temperatures.  Once Atmananda had us
glue posters on buildings in Manhattan in the middle of the night. 
I did not mind.  I tended to enjoy the effort, in part because I
believed we were doing some good, because we had plenty of time
to pursue other interests (in January, 1979, I began studying English
literature at Stony Brook), and because as hard as we worked,
we played.

* * *

"The Muppet Movie?"  I asked after another full day of postering. 
"Starring Kermit-the-Frog?"

"Trust me," Atmananda replied.

Trust was the bridge to Atmananda's world, a peculiar, improbable place
where it snowed inside buildings in Manhattan in the spring,
where invisible beings threatened a guru's mission by blowing
up stoves, and where people were hunters or hunted or both. 
It felt natural to trust a man who treated me with kindness,
who exuded an aura of competency and of vulnerability, and who seemed
wholeheartedly dedicated to the cause of self-improvement.

We met at a theatre where we ate popcorn and candy in the fourth row. 
I told Atmananda that the postering had gone well.  The lights faded
and the movie began.

A Hollywood agent on a fishing trip strikes up a conversation
with Kermit-the-Frog. The agent is impressed with him and suggests
that he move west, to Hollywood.

Though seemingly content in his East Coast swamp, Kermit is taken
by the agent's prediction that, as a movie star, he could make
millions of people happy.  "Make millions of people happy,"
echoes the starry-eyed muppet.

The scene reminded me of my former plan to hitchhike west on
a mystical quest.  The plan seemed less glamorous now because I
had already found a teacher and because of Atmananda's prediction. 
He often told me that had he not rescued me from that path I would
have been shot by bandits and tossed in a ditch.  Perhaps, though,
the former plan would have regained some momentum had I known about,
and had I analyzed, the problems currently fouling the air between
Chinmoy and Atmananda.

One problem was sex.  Chinmoy, who taught that higher consciousness
lay above the sweaty world of physical pleasure, often instructed
us to avoid members of the opposite sex whenever possible.

In contrast, Atmananda told me, "I once had several girlfriends
at the same time--each named Susan."

There was the problem of ego.  Chinmoy emphasized over and over
the importance of humility.

Atmananda often pointed out, to his inner circle of friends,
that in a past life he was Sir Thomas More.

There was the problem of cinema.  Guru prohibited the viewing
of sexually explicit or violent movies.

Atmananda had his own view, which was to see them.  As a result,
I got to see such films as Rocky Horror Picture Show, Dawn of the Dead,
and Apocalypse Now.

There was the problem of expression of individuality.  In an attempt
to merge with the Beyond, many disciples decorated their often
sparse homes with Guru's paintings, posters, and photographs.

In contrast, Atmananda's plushly carpeted, colorful cottage,
gave me the sense that he rearranged the space until the lines
connecting the physical and non-physical dimensions meshed nicely. 
By the front door, two ferns thrived beside an electronic synthesizer. 
By a stained-glass window hung a photograph of Atmananda with
a toucan on his shoulder.  "The toucan died," he once told me,
"but its soul is advanced and will soon take on a human incarnation." 
Multi-colored rug segments covered the stairs to the loft, where a
larger-than-life Transcendental stared down from the slanted ceiling,
directly over his bed.

And there was the problem that Stony Brook disciples learned
the language of spirituality and of dreams less from Chinmoy than Atmananda.

Able to speak at length about anything and nothing, Atmananda often did. 
For him, reality seemed to consist of an infinite number of levels
which were interconnected in obvious and in not so obvious ways.

"Words are used to describe these levels but are extremely limited,"
he explained.  Nonetheless, I often found myself tripping on his
words from the world of the bizarre to the world of the sensible,
and back again.  I became familiar with the diversity of his language
during his lectures and, perhaps more so, during his parties.

"Auuuuummmmmmmmmmmmm," he chanted after a twenty-five minute meditation
at the start of one party.  He slowly bowed and touched his forehead
to the floor which is where he sat, along with the rest of us. 
Then the Stony Brook disciples stoked the fireplace, set the tablecloth
on the floor, grated cheese, and emptied bags of tortilla chips. 
I watched the disciples work.  Only months had passed since
the exploding stove episode, and yet I felt close to them. 
There was Atmananda.  He was orchestrating the festivities. 
He had brought us all together.  There was my brother.  He looked happy. 
He did not seem to mind me tagging along.  There was Sal. 
His intense nature seemed balanced by a fabulous sense of humor. 
There was Tom, the tall, easygoing bass guitar player.  He would
soon receive a degree in history from Stony Brook.  He seemed to be
good friends with Atmananda.  And there was Paul.  He and I were
becoming friends.

Then there were the women.  According to Guru, I was not even supposed
to look them in the eye.  I tried to protect them from my wayward
sexual thoughts but sometimes, in my imagination, I did more than
just look.  Then I felt bad.  I was told that they would now have
to meditate extra hard to cleanse themselves of such "lower energy." 
I wished that we could be friends.  They seemed so nice.

Rachel, with light brown hair and perceptive eyes, was closer
in age to Atmananda than the rest of us.  She had completed
medical school in three years and become a disciple in 1978,
two months after attending Atmananda's lectures at the New School
for Social Research in Manhattan.

Dana, a one-time fashion model, had been an occupational therapy
major at Canada's McGill University.  She first met Atmananda while
interviewing him for the campus radio station.  After the interview,
which touched on Atmananda's book Lifetimes:  True Accounts
of Reincarnation, he invited her to visit him in Stony Brook. 
Shortly thereafter she left her boyfriend, family, school, and country. 
She moved to Stony Brook, just around the block from the charismatic
young meditation teacher and author.

Connie was a waitress with long dark braids, a Midwesterner's
friendliness, and a cheeky smile.

Suzanne had long brown hair and dreamy eyes.  She studied art
at the Parson's School of Design in Manhattan.

And Anne, with long, black hair and that playful, impish grin,
was studying to be a nurse.

I turned back to watch Atmananda.  "Don't think that spirituality is
divorced from the physical world," he was saying as he reached for a chip. 
"After you meditate a few years, you begin to see that Annam Brahma--
food is God."  He then set the chips-and-cheese-laden tray in the oven.

Sal observed intently, as though witnessing a ritual.

Soon Atmananda and Sal were delivering trays of crunchy nachos. 
I garnished mine with sour cream to alleviate the delicious,
consciousness -altering burn of the hot sauce.  As we ate,
I felt proud that I had managed to stop thinking about the women. 
Then I had to tell myself to be careful, lest my ego swell instead. 
Finally, I told myself to relax.  Which I did.  The food,
the crackling fireplace, and the medieval trumpet and recorder
music reminded me of something distant, intangible, and noble. 
My spirit soared.

"The kid and I are going to write some songs for you,"
Atmananda announced.

I looked at him, perplexed.  After all, I was no longer "the baby"
but "the kid."

He motioned for me to follow him upstairs.

I immediately assumed that my brother would be right beside me when I
climbed those stairs:  him first and then me.  But he just sat there,
boosting my confidence with a faraway smile.

I nearly told Atmananda to write the song with my brother. 
Instead, I chose instead to go with the flow.  I climbed.

"If you are going to study English," Atmananda told me, "you might as
well get used to putting together words."  He grinned mischievously. 
"Let's write songs about Sal."

At first, he was the driving force behind the creative process;
I merely smiled at each of his ideas.  Later, though, I came
up with a few lines of my own, which seemed to blend with his,
and after about forty-five minutes we marched triumphantly downstairs
and sang together.



                    Soul of Sal
                    (sung to the tune of O Sole Mio)


                    Ohhhh, soul of Sal,
                    Aspire tonight.
                    Don't be a shmuck-o,
                    Manifest Light.
                    Tomorrow--may be too late,
                    Now is never,
                    My gazpacho, she cannot 'a wait.

                    Now is the right time,
                    The food delight time,
                    So open up 'a you mouth,
                    And face the south.

                    Tomorrow--may be too late,
                    Now is never,
                    My gazpacho, she cannot 'a wait.



We sang and danced around Sal, who tried to maintain a dignified
countenance but who ended up laughing along with the rest of us. 
Then Rachel made cinnamon-spiced, hot apple cider and we sat around
the fire sipping the brew.  Later, Atmananda sang a revised version
of I Don Quixote from Man of La Mancha:



                 Hear me heathens and wizards
                 and servants of sin,
                 All your dastardly doings are past,
                 For a holy endeavor is now to begin,

                 I am I Atmananda--the humble and pure!
                 My destiny calls and I go,
                 And the wild winds of fortune
                 shall carry me onward,
                 Oh whither soever they blow.


                 Whither soever they blow,
                 Onward to glory I go!



After the performance, Atmananda said that the level of our consciousness
was dropping, so he had us meditate for about twenty minutes. 
Then he said, "We are going to play The Game."

"What game?"  I asked, feeling bolder after having performed with him.

"Part of The Game," he replied cryptically, "is to figure out
what The Game is."

"The Game is The Intuition Game," said Sal.  "You want
us to intuit something."

"Right."

I wondered if Sal could read Atmananda's mind.

"Some of you think that you can read my mind," Atmananda said,
peering at Sal.  "But you can read only those thoughts that I make
available to you."

Sal had intuited that we had to intuit something but we still did
not know what it was.

"Is it about the past?" asked Anne.

"When you intuit The Truth you get an answer, not a question,"
Atmananda stated.

"It's about the future," stated Dana.

"Right."

"You want us to look into the future," she continued.

He nodded.

"I see you traveling around the world giving lectures," she predicted.

"Many seekers will become disciples as a result of your talks,"
offered Tom.

"Guru will be happy with us," suggested Anne.

"We're going to put up a lot of posters," I added.

Atmananda said that we had done well but were forgetting
something important.

We looked at him expectantly.

Then, in his Kermit-the-Frog voice, he said, "We're going to make
millions of people happy."

"Make millions of people happy," I echoed.

Chinmoy seemed willing to look the other way when Atmananda,
his chief recruiter, disregarded his etiquette on sex, ego, cinema,
individuality, and language.  But his patience ran out in 1979,
when a Queens disciple informed him that Atmananda was "playing guru." 
Actually, it had been several months since Atmananda had made it
a practice to scan the audience during the meditation part of his talks,
as if he were channeling Divine Light.  But now Chinmoy saw the light,
and Atmananda was in immediate danger of being kicked out of the Centre.

When Atmananda learned of his predicament, he had an idea. 
Fond of temperate climates, he had been wanting for years to move back
to his birthplace, sunny southern California.  This dream had recently
reasserted itself in his mind as the number of people attending
his talks gradually dwindled, which he attributed to a diminishing
interest in spirituality in the New York metropolitan area. 
But suddenly the idea of starting a Chinmoy Centre in a distant city
seemed less of a dream than a necessity.  He wrote Guru a letter
asking if he could move to San Diego.

Chinmoy consented.

Weeks later, the phone rang.  It was Atmananda.

I offered to find my brother.

"No," he said, "I want to speak with you.  Why don't you come over?"

He lived about a quarter of a mile from my apartment in Stony Brook. 
I jogged down Cedar Street and knocked on his door.

"Hi, kid.  Make yourself at home."  He offered me a yogurt.

I accepted.

He told me that he was starting a Centre for Guru in La Jolla, California. 
Then, in an enchantingly anesthetizing voice, he explained that southern
California rested upon a mystical power spot around which had congregated
the nation's largest population of spiritual seekers.  "Would you like to go?"

I realized that San Diego--San Diego!--was driving distance
to the Sonoran Desert and to UCLA--Castaneda's frequent haunts! 
I remembered Atmananda telling me that California boasted many lovely,
friendly women!  I realized that such a move would distance me
from my parents, who continued to worry that I was in a cult! 
I also realized that such a move would distance me from Guru. 
But I now believed that the Light would reach me in whichever state
I inhabited.  Besides, I sensed that without Atmananda as a buffer,
Chinmoy's highly regimented brand of spirituality would be difficult,
if not impossible, for me to conform to.

And what a buffer Atmananda was!  I pictured him striding about
with his chin jutting forward, exuding that aura of confidence;
joking and singing, inspiring and enlivening us; challenging our
intellects with the known and unknowable; framing and reframing the way
in which we viewed the world; and generating mystical experiences--
not on his own, of course, but with the Guru's Spiritual Light.

"Yes!"  I replied, without considering the feelings of my brother,
who continued to support me in my quest with a faraway smile. 
I was proud that Atmananda had chosen me to be part of his team. 
I did not know, however, that he had embellished stories in his
book Lifetimes.  Nor did I know that he had told the San Francisco
Examiner that he never experienced a past life remembrance. 
Nor did I know that he had once asked a girlfriend to slip
out the window when another appeared at the door. 
Nor that he had recently been in deep trouble with Chinmoy. 
Nor that during the height of the controversy, he had admitted
to Tom that he might leave the Centre before Chinmoy kicked
him out.

"What would you do if you left?"  Tom had asked him.

"I'd move to California and teach meditation," Atmananda replied.

On August 30, 1979, Atmananda, Dana, Rachel, Connie, and I left
the ground in a jet bound for San Diego.  In the excitement
of packing and leaving, I had forgotten my wallet and daypack
back at my brother's. Now, without money or ID, I watched
rays of light play off darkening clouds and thought about the frog.




5.  Bicycle Ride--Lenox


The weather had cleared since I had started pedaling west from Walden
Pond five days before, but headwinds continued to press both the
doggie-carrier and bicycle-trailer as if I were tugging a parachute. 
Contributing little to the weight of the rig was a book by William
Shirer on Mahatma Gandhi.  Disillusioned, but not yet ready to live
without heroes, I actively sought a replacement for Atmananda.

I rode over the mountains of western Massachusetts and rolled
into the town of Lenox.  There a woman noticed the oddness
of my entourage and asked, "What exactly is going on?"

"I am bicycling across America with my dog," I replied.

Ten minutes later she was interviewing me in a nearby cafe. 
She was a reporter for the Berkshire Eagle, and, as I answered
her questions, I thought about how I would answer when she asked
me "why?"  I realized it was more than a love for bicycling,
more than a longing for adventure, and more than a desire
to strengthen my self-confidence that propelled me west. 
I wanted time to think about Atmananda's thousands of lessons,
some of which I sensed were valid and some of which I knew were not.

There was another reason:  I wanted to do something distinctly
*me*. Bicycling across a continent against the prevailing winds
with all my possessions and a Siberian husky--that was *me*.

"Why?" she asked later.

I tempered my answer with the knowledge that I was being interviewed
by a journalist and not a shrink.  At one point I told her that I
was traveling with a book on Gandhi.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

While reading the book I felt proud that Gandhi had been deeply
influenced by Thoreau's essay "Civil Disobedience," proud that a
thinker and experimenter from the United States had had an effect
on one from India whose thoughts and experiments affected humankind. 
But it was more than pride which attracted me to Shirer's Gandhi: 
A Memoir.  Gandhi's dream of helping the masses reminded me of
Atmananda's seeming interest in making millions of people happy. 
While Gandhi wielded influence over two-thirds of a billion people
as he helped India secure independence, never did he grow twisted
by the enormity of his own power, never did he betray the public trust. 
Though Atmananda eloquently described the balance between the spiritual
and the mundane, I knew from years of firsthand experience--
yet found it difficult to admit--that a Mahatma Gandhi he
was not.

"I like the book very much," I replied.

"Would you like to meet Shirer?" she offered.

William L. Shirer was the only correspondent sent by an American
newspaper to cover India's revolution.  He gathered that Gandhi's
philosophy encompassed more than civil disobedience, passive resistance,
non-cooperation and non-violence, but "had to do also with
something more subtle--and fundamental:  the search for truth,
for the essence of the spirit..." Insights such as this made him
seem particularly suited to investigate so complex and sensitive
a matter as India's social, political, and spiritual ferment. 
Shirer was also the author of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich: 
A History of Nazi Germany.  As I knocked on his door, I hoped that
with his knowledge of benevolent and malevolent charismatic leaders,
he could help me to understand Atmananda.

I wanted to tell Shirer that I had seen Atmananda's seemingly tight-knit
community transform into a group of fearful, paranoid people. 
I wanted to tell him that I had seen Atmananda himself transform from
a seemingly kind and noble seeker into a man who used anti-psychotic
drugs and LSD as tools of persuasion, who--without the use of drugs--
persuaded one woman to leave her husband and newborn child,
who dreamt of filling stadiums and of starting a world religion,
who claimed to be the anti-Christ, and who spoke repeatedly of
taking the inner circle for a ride in a Learjet into a mountain. 
I wanted to tell Shirer how, in 1984, I had helped Atmananda through
a bad LSD trip and how, as he was "coming down," I had observed
his opposing personalities reassert themselves.  I wanted to tell
him that Atmananda seemed to be getting progressively worse. 
And I wanted to tell him how Atmananda had persuaded one disciple
that he and I would be forever locked in a battle over mystical power. 
The disciple was my brother.

When Shirer answered the door his large, bright forehead and serene
countenance made him appear intellectually and spiritually advanced,
and I had an uncanny feeling that something of the Mahatma himself
peered out at me through those eighty-three-year-old eyes.

"What can I do for you?" he asked me.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm enjoying your book," I said,
suddenly aware that he might not want to discuss the extremities
of human nature with a total stranger.  I told him about the bike trip,
his book on Gandhi, and the reporter.  But he was busy preparing
for a lecture tour of Russia and had no time to talk.  I thanked him,
got back on my bicycle, and left.

I pictured Shirer as a young man, contemplating the life and lessons
of Mahatma Gandhi.  I also pictured him observing uniformed men
with swastikas, bent on genocide.  I imagined him accepting both
good and bad in people, for only by cultivating acceptance did I
imagine him harvesting peace.  But I realized, as I pedaled north,
that I would have to learn to distinguish between the nurturing and
noxious roots Atmananda had sown in my mind without Shirer's help. 
This was something I would have to do for myself.

I continued to ride towards Pittsfield, Massachusetts, with Frank,
a childhood friend.  Tall, with messy red hair, he was an expert
car mechanic though he never made much money.  This was in part
because he was a slow worker, because he had little self-confidence,
and because people took advantage of him.

"How's work going?"  I asked him.

"Okay, I suppose."

I knew that he was making less than six dollars an hour. 
"Have you thought about looking for a higher paying job?" 
I asked.

He shrugged.

"You know you're being ripped off."

He shrugged again.  We had been through this conversation before. 
I wanted to teach Frank that he was like a sitting duck, that he
could protect himself, that he could change--suddenly I froze. 
I remembered that Atmananda had taught us that we were like
sitting ducks, that we could protect ourselves, that we could
change...




6.  The Garden


Southern Californians have been exposed to more New Age
teachers than perhaps any population in the United States. 
Yet the forty or so people seemed unprepared for Atmananda,
who strode into the lecture hall twenty minutes late, with a can
of diet soda in one hand and a pack of green gum in the other.

I assumed that many of the Birkenstock-clad seekers drank natural
fruit juice and did not chew gum.

"This evening I'd like for you all to hold hands and be
like reeeally mellowwww," said Atmananda, mimicking
the way some people spoke in San Diego's flourishing holistic community.

There was tense laughter.  A few people left.

"Those who take themselves too seriously on the path to enlightenment,"
Atmananda said in a more dignified tone, "tend not to get very far."

I felt good knowing that I did not take myself too seriously.

"From the spiritual point of view," he said later on, "eating junk
food is fine--as long as you do so in moderation and as long as you
exercise regularly."

Jaws dropped.  I figured that many of them ate unprocessed rice
and seaweed.

When the meditation began, Atmananda played fast-paced electronic
music by Tangerine Dream.

More jaws dropped.  I surmised that many of them meditated to flute
and chime melodies.

During the meditation, Atmananda briefly gazed at each person
in the audience, as if he were sending them Spiritual Light.

I closed my eyes...tried to slow my thoughts...opened my eyes...
gazed intensely at Atmananda...perceived light emanating from his
eyes!...kept gazing without blinking...perceived the entire room
go white!....

"How many of you saw Light in the room?" he asked several minutes later.

No response.

"Be honest now."

I raised my hand.

"Why don't you describe what you saw, Mark?"

I did.

"Mark has been studying advanced meditation techniques with us
for over a year.  But you don't have to be advanced to have
mystical experiences.  Who--besides Mark--got zapped?"

A few raised their hands.

"I think you all got so blasted," Atmananda said, "that you don't
know what hit you."

After the talk, many of the people came forward with questions. 
I wanted to watch Atmananda work his charm, but I knew that I had a task
to perform.  Weeks earlier he had instructed me, "If you see a guy
at a workshop trying to pick up a lady, move right in and engage him
in conversation.  This will give her the opportunity to walk away
and maintain a high level of consciousness.

"Do you know what women at the lectures really want?  They want to get
closer to God.  They may think that they want relationships with men. 
But if they choose that world, believe me, their inner beings will
be miserable."

I did not ask how he proposed to relate to them.

"The tricky part," he added, "is to do this without letting either
one know what is going on."  He was silent awhile and I sensed
there was more he wanted to tell me.

"Why don't more women attain enlightenment?" he finally sighed. 
"Because they are taught in a male-dominated society to marry,
have children, and serve their husbands.  Traditionally, they have not
had the opportunity to study with an enlightened teacher."

I was moved by the truth that I felt in his words and now,
as he answered questions in the front of the room, I interrupted
conversations with all the speed and savvy I could muster. 
People did not seem to mind.  On the contrary, they seemed to regard
me as someone special, as if I were on The Bus--and they were trying
to get on.

With each passing week, Atmananda further opened the audience to
the possibility that they could evolve countless lifetimes by staring
at the underexposed photo of a balding man.  After about a month,
he announced:  "Those who are interested in the advanced side
of self-discovery should ask Mark for a map to the Centre."

"The Centre" was Atmananda's term for the San Diego branch
of Chinmoy's organization.  It was also his term for the house
he now shared with me and the three other Chinmoy disciples. 
Atmananda had not needed a map to the Centre months before, on the day
that the five of us moved west.  He had seemed to know the way. 
"There's Mission Bay," he said, pointing to bright green lawns bordering
light blue water.  When he exited the freeway, which he assured us
was free, I noticed ground-cover plants surrounding and dividing
the road like armies of fat green spiders.  On La Jolla Scenic Road,
I saw more exotic flora:  tall, cedar-like trees, plants with huge
vein-covered leaves, and cacti with yellow flowers and spiny needles. 
I did not know their names.

"At last," boomed Atmananda, pointing to a large shrub which drooped
like a wilted phallus.  "We have found the fabled swaaaanso bush!"

I laughed nervously at his fabrication and glanced at Dana, who sat
beside me.  Only minutes ago, she and I had sat outside the San Diego
airport terminal, caressed by a balmy breeze, waiting for Atmananda
and Rachel to rent a car.  It was the first time we had been alone. 
My heart pounded, and I unsuccessfully tried not to watch the way
in which her breasts pressed against her blouse.

She ran her fingers through her hair and smiled at me.

I wanted so much to kiss her, to tell her that she was beautiful,
to love her.  Had I followed my gut feelings, Atmananda might
have sent me back to New York on the next available flight. 
But Chinmoy and Atmananda had explained that sex saps psychic growth. 
And I was concerned that Atmananda and Dana might be in some sort
of relationship already.  Besides, I never had had a girlfriend and
was at a loss as to what to say.  I paused, and Atmananda and Rachel
appeared with the rental car.

Atmananda often displayed an extraordinary sensitivity toward
what people around him were thinking and now, as we approached
the Centre for the first time, I wondered if he had timed
his arrival back at the airport based on my wayward desire. 
I also wondered how to diffuse my crush on Dana.

"Don't worry," I told myself.  "Guru will help me work it out."

Now Atmananda told his passengers that the new Centre was only a few
blocks away.  He had chosen a house on Cliffridge Avenue where,
in the name of the Guru, we would fight evil forces and make
millions happy.  Before turning left on Cliffridge, we drove past
Nottingham and Robin Hood.

The lawns in the neighborhood seemed like tiny golf courses. 
Atmananda pulled into one of the driveways, got out of the car,
and said, "Here we are."  Then he strode down the path as though
leading us to his castle.

He claimed the master bedroom which overlooked the garden. 
Dana's was next to his.  Then mine.  Then Connie's. Then Rachel's.

"Welcome to Atmananda's bar and grill," he grinned from behind
the kitchen counter, pretending to serve us.

Adjacent to the kitchen was the meditation room, where Atmananda
planned to conduct weekly meetings for the soon-to-be-recruited
Chinmoy disciples.  From the meditation room I could see the long,
narrow yard and the large, wooden deck which he christened "the
flogging platform."  On the steep hill past the deck, legions of
spidery plants advanced imperceptibly toward the garden.

Nearly every day during the first few weeks in San Diego, Atmananda drove
us to La Jolla Shores Beach.  There, he led Rachel, Dana, and me
to where the water was over our heads.  Connie was intimidated
by the Pacific surf and did not immerse herself the way the rest
of us did.  With Atmananda's guidance, however, that would soon change.

Two years before, in New York, Atmananda and Tom had tried to swim
across a channel in the Long Island Sound.  Though a strong swimmer,
Tom grew fatigued fighting the swift current, and Atmananda risked
his life to save his friend from being swept to sea.

Now, buoyed by Atmananda's legendary strength, I rode the swells
beyond the breakers to where my feet dangled above the ocean floor. 
After thirty minutes or so, we rode the waves toward the shore. 
At this time Atmananda often disappeared beneath the surface. 
We stood there in the waist-deep water, waiting, watching, and trying
to figure out his next move--when suddenly there was a scream! 
Still underwater, Atmananda had seized and was tickling someone's
foot.

Then we sat on the beach, soothed by gentle currents of the herb-scented air. 
I looked to the west.  Blue on blue stretched across the horizon. 
I looked to the east.  White buildings gleamed behind a row
of tall, healthy palms.  I remembered Atmananda's advice: 
"If you want to live in a pretty world, just cry inwardly to Guru." 
I could not help but feel that I had entered one of Dr. Seuss'
fantasy-gardens for children.

Atmananda drove us back to the Centre, where we gazed for forty minutes
or so at the Transcendental.  Then we ate nachos--a perfect ending,
I thought, to a perfect day.  I was so absorbed in having fun with
my new family, I did not think to contact my parents or my brother.

Several days after we arrived in southern California,
Atmananda took us on a bus tour of the San Diego Zoo in Balboa Park. 
The guide pointed to an elephant and said, "This is Peanuts. 
Peanuts has been with us for seven years."

"This guy is making it up as he goes," whispered Atmananda,
who seemed to resent having someone else control the conversation.

The guide pointed to a giraffe.  "This is--"

"Fwazznoid," interrupted Atmananda loudly.

"--and Puzzles has been with us for three years," continued the guide,
trying to ignore the man monkeying around with the four laughing hyenas.

One time during our first few weeks in California, Atmananda saw me
standing on a wall in the yard.  He later told me that he had seen
me fly.

"Really?"  I said.

"Yes," he replied.  "I saw your Astral Body hovering over the canyon."

"Wow!"

Suddenly, his kind encouragement transmogrified into a cold,
penetrating glare.  I felt he was looking right through me.

"I can see that you still doubt me," he said, turning away.

I was upset with myself.  As usual, he was right.  Yet I sensed
there was something more, something in the way he looked at me...

But he was smiling now.  "Don't let it bother you, kid.  You're doing fine."

"Whew," I thought, happy to forget about it.

Perhaps Atmananda had been happy to forget about it too because he
began giving me other things to think about.  He gave me the task,
for instance, of starting a meditation club at my new school,
the University of California at San Diego (UCSD). He understood
that by controlling a university club, he gained legitimacy,
prestige, and unlimited access to free lecture halls.

I saw no harm in Atmananda's request.  We were, after all,
using the club to help Guru.  So I set out to find three full-time
students who were willing to sign up as the club's officers.

"Hi!"  I said, approaching one student.  "I'm starting a meditation
club and was wondering if you might be interested in helping out."

"What's a meditation club?"

"We're going to have guest lecturers teach Zen and relaxation--
you know, stuff like that."

"Sounds cool, dude, but I'm already relaxed."

"Great--but maybe you could take a moment and help people who are not." 
And so, by soliciting signatures from those not particularly
interested in meditation, I became the club's sole proprietor.

Meanwhile, Dana designed, Rachel mostly payed for, and Atmananda
"zapped" the new stack of posters, which I then placed around UCSD,
San Diego State University (SDSU), and the neighboring communities. 
The talks went well, and I soon handed out many maps to the Centre.

Before the potential recruits arrived, Connie spent hours cleaning
the Centre.  According to Atmananda, this was something her soul
loved to do.  My soul, he pointed out, loved to greet people.

"Howdy--I'm Mark!"  I said.

"Hello," she replied.  She was graceful and alluring.  "I'm Mandy."

"This one," I thought, "is gonna need some heavy protecting."

During the lecture, Atmananda predicted that the world would enter
a spiritual dark age in 1985.  "The darkness will last for thousands
of years, and it will become increasingly difficult to meditate
and to think clearly.  Spiritual warriors will need to band together
under the protection of a guru who can fight the Negative Forces
and forge a path toward freedom and Light through a world turned
murky and grey."  Then we had cookies.

After several public meetings at the Centre, Atmananda invited
those who were interested in studying with Chinmoy to stay afterwards.

"What do you do for a living?"  Atmananda asked each of the three.

"I'm a flight attendant," said Mandy.

"I know a few things about flying," Atmananda interjected.

"I cane chairs," said a woman with long, brown hair.

"I cane people," said a man with a crewcut.

"If you sincerely want to take the next step in your spiritual evolution,"
Atmananda said, "we will mail your photographs to Guru. 
Guru will use his psychic vision to see if you are meant to study
with him."

By the time Chinmoy accepted the flight attendant, the crafts-person,
and the marine, there were many more applicants to be processed.

Despite the intensity of the recruitment drive, Atmananda found time
to assist certain seekers on a one-on-one basis.  Mandy, in particular,
must have exhibited potential because he often spent nights
at her condo.

I figured it was okay for Atmananda to sleep with Mandy,
though it was not okay for me to appreciate her beauty.  He was,
after all, an advanced disciple and knew a lot more about these
things than I. (He said on occasion that I could have a girlfriend
outside the Centre, but mostly he said that I shouldn't.)
My perceptions might have changed, however, had I known that he
was sleeping with *numerous* women disciples.  My perceptions
also might have changed had I known about the "Bedroom Incident."

When Atmananda first flew with Rachel to La Jolla in search of a rental,
he chose a house with "good vibes"--but with only four bedrooms. 
He told Rachel that he would take the large bedroom, that she
would take the dining room and living room areas, and that they
would switch.

But he never allowed her to use the living room.  Nor would he switch. 
To complicate matters, he often sat outside her makeshift bedroom,
advising disciples through the night and early morning how they could
accelerate their march toward a wordless perfection.

Unlike Atmananda, Rachel had to wake up in the morning and go to work. 
After too many nights of too little sleep, she grew tired, angry,
and confused.

When Atmananda sensed that she was not her usual, happy self, he did
not openly communicate his displeasure.  Instead, he ignored her. 
He let the other women know that she was in a bad consciousness and
should be avoided whenever possible.  He began to treat her as if she
were an outsider.

Rachel grew increasingly flustered.  She reached out in her thoughts
to Guru, to family, and to friends.  When Atmananda asked her
to move out of the house, she breathed an exhausted sigh of relief.

In the meantime, without a clue, I studied literature, worked
part-time, read Guru's books, meditated one-and-a-half hours a day,
tried to see, organized poster teams, attended Atmananda's talks,
and immersed myself each day in water over my head. 
I felt so good about my life and the community I was helping
to build that it seemed like I was living in paradise.




7.  Money Mantra


Arriving carless in California, Atmananda thought about continuing his
career as a college professor.  He thought about writing another book. 
He even considered going to law school.  Instead, he expanded
the Money Club.

The Money Club had started in New York when Atmananda began
collecting from Stony Brook disciples.  We voluntarily gave a few
dollars a month to offset the cost of the posters.

In San Diego, he raised membership dues to four or so dollars
a week.  Rachel, who took out loans to help the San Diego Chinmoy
Centre get started, gave much more.  As The Centre rapidly grew,
so did the numbers in Atmananda's club.

"Seekers used to live in monasteries and in caves," Atmananda taught at
Centre meetings.  "But Guru recommends that instead, we live in a city. 
This gives us the opportunity to strengthen our psychic defenses
and to better serve humanity.  In order to live in the world,
particularly as your consciousness evolves and as the vibrations
of the world grow darker, you will need money."

Most of the new disciples, though, were UCSD undergraduates;
when Atmananda explained the etiquette of selfless giving--"You
can give in the right way or you can give in the wrong way"--
many of us wondered how we could give in any way.

But Atmananda had an idea.  He suggested that we take out student
loans for more than we actually needed.

"You can then donate the extra amount to a worthy cause," he pointed out. 
"To a genuine spiritual centre, for instance."

It was no coincidence that the Centre's finances improved significantly
after banks issued checks for guaranteed student loans.

Atmananda had another idea.

"Accepting money from your parents is the spiritual thing to do. 
Why not give your parents the opportunity to help?  Why shouldn't they
be given the opportunity to make spiritual progress?"

He even devised a way that we could earn money.

"Why work for five dollars an hour when you could be making twenty? 
Work is not supposed to be fun.  Believe me, they would not be paying you
if it was.  Unless you already have a career that you are happy with,
you should study computer science.

"Most of you developed software back in Atlantis, back when computers
were far more advanced than they are today.  Keeping track of all
those variables will help you strengthen your mind.  Besides,
programming pays extremely well after a relatively short period of time."

Atmananda interspersed talk of raising consciousness and money with
stories from the rich world of his imagination.  He told stories,
for instance, about a legendary character that he called "The Gwid."

"The Gwid is close friends with Roshi Megabucks," he said,
stroking his chin and smiling.  "The Gwid leases all of reality
to God."

At one Centre meeting, a UCSD anthropology graduate student pointed
out that millions in the world were starving.  "Shouldn't we
be doing something to help?" she asked.

"On the surface," Atmananda replied, "Elizabeth is asking a perfectly
legitimate question.  But if you could see, you would have detected
the underlying hostility in her tone."

The room filled with uneasy silence.

"But that is why we study meditation," he went on.  "We are constantly
striving to perfect our different selves."

He slowly scanned the disciples.  "Many of you send Guru
hostile vibrations in the inner worlds, so don't hide behind
your holier-than-thou facade.  It isn't necessary.  We understand."

He turned back to Elizabeth, his sarcastic pout transforming into
a compassionate smile.  "There are many who are suited for helping
the poor.  What we do here is help people on a higher level." 
He went on to provide a framework through which to view poverty. 
Each soul, he explained, chooses the circumstance of its birth so that it
can best work out its karma.

At first, Elizabeth's question struck a chord in me. 
But I associated her question with Atmananda's accusation--
that many of us were sending hostile vibes to Guru. 
This made me upset, so I tried to think about something else. 
But there was something else I was trying not to think about.

"Has anyone noticed that I have been going into advanced states
of consciousness?"  Atmananda had started to ask at the Centre meetings.

At first there had been no response.

"The powers from my past lives are returning," he continued
in a sincere-sounding voice.  "My consciousness is cycling. 
Those of you who can see will easily feel The Change."

Several disciples nodded, as though for the first time they were
feeling The Change.

I knew that if I gazed at him intensely for several minutes, I saw auras
in whichever hue I imagined.  Nonetheless, I had not detected The Change. 
I wanted to maintain complete trust in my mentor, housemate, and friend. 
I told myself that my seeing abilities must not be too advanced.

Atmananda then changed the subject.  "The Golden Gwid Card,"
he said with a grin, "gives The Gwid and Roshi Megabucks unlimited
access to multi-dimensional, trans-reality banking networks."

Perhaps it was with The Golden Gwid Card in mind that Atmananda
asked me to perform a "task of power."  He instructed me to inspire
each of the several dozen disciples in the Centre to donate money. 
"Tell them that the money will be used to buy me a surprise gift,
and tell them the gift will be a new car."  He suggested that I remind
them that he worked night and day for the good of others, that he
was broke because he gave all his money to the Centre, and that if he
concentrated on making money rather than on helping Guru's mission,
he could easily afford to buy his own car.

"Got it," I said.

"Don't pressure anyone.  If someone does not want to contribute,
that's fine."

"Of course!"

"And keep a list of who gave what."

"No pro-blem-mo!" Honored that Atmananda would trust me with
such responsibility, with such a secret, and with so much money,
I felt guilty for not having thought of the idea myself. 
I understood that Atmananda was being a sneak.  But he did work
for the good of others night and day.  And ours was the fastest
growing Chinmoy Centre in the world.  And the Guru's mission would
suffer if Atmananda worked a traditional job.  Besides, I was drawn
to the idea of sneaking for a noble cause.

The disciples gave generously, and Atmananda soon shifted the garage
door opener from Rachel's car, which he had frequently borrowed,
to the glove compartment of his shiny, new Renault LeCar.

Rachel, who had donated generously to the "surprise" gift,
felt that they should share the garage door opener.  She decided
that Atmananda was being unfair and told him so.

The next day, Atmananda instructed Dana to tell Rachel that,
spiritually speaking, she was heading for some serious hot water
and had better apologize quickly.

Unaware of the "Garage Door Opener Incident," I was feeling pretty good. 
I felt even better when Atmananda, who liked the new car,
reminded the Centre of how advanced a soul I really was. 
When the disciples began to treat me with a mellow kind of reverence--
a phenomenon local, perhaps, to southern California--I was thrilled. 
I had an intuitive grasp on how to wield the ad hoc power,
but I did not grasp that it was the power which was actually
wielding me.

Meanwhile, Atmananda had added "money collector" to the growing list
of my responsibilities.  This task, he cautioned, was not without
its dangers.  "Money is physically dirty," he said, as though
telling me a secret.  "It also retains and transmits the greed
of its handlers.  Always wash your hands after you touch it." 
But he did not always ask me to collect it directly.

In 1981, he asked me to inspire Richard, a tall,
large-hearted disciple who owned a raquet-stringing shop in
La Jolla.  Richard, who appeared to love Guru even more than he
loved tennis, was on the verge of purchasing a million-dollar
house, which he planned to rent to the Centre at a bargain rate.

"How's your game coming along?"  I asked him.

"Oh, not too bad I suppose."

"Are you ready to play against Guru?"

"Guru is not going to want to play tennis with me."

"Sure he is.  Only if I were you, I'd let him win every so often."

We laughed.

"How's the deal going?"  I asked.

His gaiety suddenly vanished.  "It almost went through," he said. 
"But someone pulled out at the last minute...again."

"Oh well," I tried.  "Maybe there's someone else who could help."

No response.

"Wouldn't it be great," I continued, "to have the Centre across
the street from UCSD?  Parking sure wouldn't be a problem anymore. 
And picture a meditation room overlooking the ocean--a meditation room
large enough to hold everyone."

He nodded.

"Imagine Guru coming to San Diego and visiting us at the new Centre!"

"That would be nice," he admitted.

"Remember Richard," I added, working in a quote from Atmananda,
"whatever you really want you will get."

"You're right," he said resolutely.  "I'll just keep trying."

After several more setbacks the deal went through, and Atmananda,
Dana, Anne, Tammy, and I moved in.  Atmananda occasionally paced
the carpets of the new Centre, improvising a song from Fiddler On The
Roof in which pious dairyman Tevya aspires for a little wealth from God.

"If I were a realized soul!"  Atmananda began.  "Ahhh yaahtuh
daahtuh daahtuh yaahtuh daahtuh daahtuh daahtuh duhm. 
All day long I'd bittih bittih buhm.  If I were a realized soul! 
Ahhh wouldn't have to work hard..."

Once at the new Centre, Atmananda recited for me the money mantra.

"Ya devi sarva bhutesu ratna rupena sangsthita nastasvai namastvai
namastvai namo nama," he chanted soulfully.

If I could have followed his words down the corridors of time,
I would have seen him--

Ya devi...

Dramatically increasing the cost of public meditation lectures
and seminars.

...sarva bhutesu...

Charging one thousand dollars a person for weekend desert trips
(1987).

...ratna rupena...

Increasing his advertising budget from hundreds (1977) to hundreds
of thousands (1987).

...sangsthita...

Requesting that manditory tuition--which took the place of the voluntary
Money Club--be paid in hundred dollar denominations to avoid "low vibe"
tens and twenties.  Suggesting that followers hold off on tax payments
until "later."  Raising monthly tuition from one hundred dollars
(1982) to approximately thirty-five hundred dollars (1993).

...nastasvai...

Driving a Renault LeCar (1979), a BMW (1981), a 911 Porsche
(1982), a 928 Porsche (1983), a turbo Carerra Porsche (1984), a Bentley
(1991). Keeping seven cars at his New York property: 
three Mercedes Benzes, two Porsches and two Range Rovers
(1991).

...namastvai namastvai...

Renting the Del Mar castle, complete with turrets, a walk-in fireplace,
and a full-court basketball-game-sized living room (1982). Renting
in Malibu what he claimed was Goldie Hawn's house (1983). Spending
roughly nine hundred dollars per night for a hotel suite where his dog
enjoyed a room of its own (1988). Buying a house on Conscience Bay
in Old Field, New York, for about nine-hundred-fifty thousand dollars
(1988). Buying a house in Tesuque, a suburb near Sante Fe,
New Mexico, for about eight-hundred-seventy-five thousand dollars
(1990). Spending approximately one million dollars on each house
for electronic security systems and renovations (1991). Renting Sting's
house in Malibu Colony for about twenty-five thousand dollars a month
(1992).

...namo nama.

I spent many happy hours with Atmananda, in the plushly carpeted
meditation room, watching the Pacific Ocean as I listened to him sing
and talk about his dreams.  Deeply believing that millions would be
made happy, I refused to acknowledge that millions would soon be made. 
And though I never chanted the money mantra, I helped my housemate
who did.




8.  Fast Leader


In the fall of 1980, Atmananda spoke with the Stony Brook disciples,
who were still in New York, "on an inner level."  He also spoke
with them on the phone.  He told them that Chinmoy was directing
a "special force" toward our new, million-dollar Centre in La Jolla. 
He told them about our now legendary recruitment drive.  He told them
about our feasts.

These disciples missed Atmananda.  They missed his advice, friendship,
and love.  They missed his extended family.  They missed him coaxing,
"Eat, eat."

When Sal moved west, he joined the disciples who ate each week at
a Mexican restaurant with Atmananda.  One time Atmananda declared,
"I wonder where The Gwid has been hiding these days."

Sal said, "You would not believe how many people have asked me
that very question."

"You swine!" cried Atmananda.  "All along you've been hiding him
in...your nose!"

"How can you tell?"

"Hah--so you doubt my ability to see!"

A few minutes later, the waiter arrived.  I ordered a quesadilla
and a chile relleno.

"C'mon kid," said Atmananda, "where's your capacity?"

I admitted I was low on money.

"Stop worrying about money," he admonished.  "If you're
in the right consciousness, believe me, the money will come."

"Okay," I agreed, adding a large cheese crisp to the order. 
So the disciples, now reunited with Sal, happily broke bread and chips
with our nurturing spiritual shepherd.  A ditty from the Paul Winter
song Icarus played in the background.

Atmananda often spoke about myths.  Icarus, according to Greek mythology,
took flight from prison on wings of wax which were crafted by Daedalus,
his father.  Despite warnings from Daedalus, Icarus soared too near
the sun and fell with melted wings to his death in the sea.

I knew about the myth of Icarus from my childhood.  "Icarus was punished,"
my father had taught me, "because humans are not supposed to fly
among the gods."

Atmananda did not teach the myth of Icarus.  He spoke, instead,
about the role of the Self-Sacrificing Hero.  "Be like a star,"
he said at Centre meetings, citing Guru, Gandhi, and Jesus Christ. 
"Burn your own substance so that others may see."

Yet as the months in southern California slipped by, he spoke
increasingly about the myth of the Fluid Warrior.  "Be fluid,"
he said.  "Don't let people pin you down as being a certain way." 
Perhaps, then, the deviation from his role as Feeder Of The Tribe
should have come as no surprise.  It was during a Centre meeting
that he announced the fast.  Missing meals for thirteen days,
he explained, would raise the level of our consciousness, increase our
personal power, and bring us closer to Guru.  "Besides," he said,
"it's the thaaang."

I longed to raise my consciousness, increase my power, and develop
a deeper connection with Chinmoy.  I wanted to maintain my status
as an "advanced" follower.  I hungered, too, for Atmananda's approval. 
About twenty of us agreed to limit our nourishment to a glass or two
of juice a day.

Painful, dizzying hours of drinking water passed.  Several devotees,
including Atmananda, claimed that their meditations were growing
increasingly powerful.  In contrast, my efforts to empty my mind
were interrupted by gurgling complaints rumbling up from the caverns
of my gut.  I found myself concentrating not on eternal salvation,
but on persistent growls.  I found myself thinking not about God,
but about vast quantities of food.

On the sixth day of the fast, I stood at the edge of the meditation
room trying not to think about the sharp pains now forking my belly. 
I gazed at the larger-than-life Transcendental on the tall, wooden table. 
Atmananda typically lectured from beside this shrine.  It was also from
here that he continued his effort to spread Spiritual Light--to play guru--
during public and private meditations.  After weekly Centre meetings,
Atmananda often cooked for the nearly one hundred Chinmoy disciples. 
It was a joy to watch him sing and dance around the kitchen,
adding spice to our lives and to the simmering vats of Indian curry. 
On occasion, he asked Cheryl to cook for the Centre.  He loved the way
her eggplant parmigiano patties tasted.  Leftovers were wrapped
in aluminum foil and stored in the freezer.

On the seventh day, I opened the door to the freezer and there,
wrapped in aluminum foil, were eggplant parmigiano patties waiting
to be plucked like gems from a cave.  I felt weak and disoriented. 
I was so hungry.  Memories of the peppery patties brought back
the luscious aroma.  I thrust my hand toward a shimmering
treasure...

On the eighth day, I wondered if I should confess that I had cheated. 
I recalled the story of a priest who, out of concern for his congregation,
hid his doubts about God.  I, too, chose not to confess,
and the ensuing guilt served to strengthen my resolve not to stray
from Atmananda's suggested path again.  And though I did eat part
of a patty, I still shared with the disciples an overpowering
emptiness and a heightened receptivity to the fast leader.

During the second week, my meditations began to improve. 
Typically, when I gazed at the Transcendental, I only saw a subtle
glow around the photo.  Now I saw thousands of swirling dots
swimming before me.  Typically, when I meditated on my heart chakra,
I had to remind myself to visualize the ocean.  Now I became immersed
in a world of blue light.  Typically, when I realized that I was having
a powerful mystical experience, I found it difficult to reenter
a state of meditation after a self-congratulatory interruption. 
Now I found it easy to resubmerge my awareness into a thoughtless calm.

My newfound calm, however, was broken by what Atmananda said
at a Centre meeting several days later.  He announced that he had
recently attained levels of consciousness so powerful and sublime
that he was no longer the person that we thought him to be. 
Each time he dipped into these higher realms of perception, his old
self died and a new one emerged, forged in the fires of what he
called perfection.

"A number of you have already sensed the change," he said. 
"I first started entering into these higher states--which I call
basement samadhi--during deep meditation.  Recently, though,
I have been slipping in and out of them spontaneously: 
while walking at the beach, for instance, or while eating at Howard
Johnson's. Now I am finding that I can enter them at will." 
Atmananda repeatedly described his newfound abilities until
the disciples, a number of whom had not eaten in nearly two weeks,
appeared to accept the restructuring.

After the meeting I sat on the toilet, contemplating what had passed
through Atmananda's lips.  "What is going on?"  I wondered. 
"Who does he think he is?"  I felt angry and confused.  I had been
taught that samadhi was a state of consciousness so exalted that
precious few enlightened souls achieved it.  But now I was dizzy
and nauseous from hunger.  I was having difficulty concentrating. 
I saw swirling dots before me whether I was meditating or not.  I found
myself realizing that Atmananda had studied meditation in past lives. 
I found myself realizing that he was an advanced disciple of the Guru. 
I found myself feeling bad that I had doubted so advanced a soul,
so educated a man, and so close a friend.

"The thing to remember," I told myself, recalling Atmananda's
lessons on humility, "is that it's only *basement* samadhi."

After the fast, Atmananda took me to an Orange Julius shop in a mall. 
We sat by a window, sipping the sweet, rich drinks.

"What do you *see*?" he asked.

I looked and saw our reflection superimposed on the image of the crowd.

"The people," I said.  "They don't seem real."

"Yes," he agreed.  "Theirs is a world of illusion."




9.  Off The Map


"Something heavy has been going down in the inner worlds,"
Atmananda announced at a Centre meeting in late December, 1980. 
"Can anyone *see* what it is?"

"Is Guru coming to visit us soon?" asked one disciple.

"No."

"Is the earth's psychic energy field getting progressively worse?"
tried another.

"Yes, but that's not it.  Anyone else?"

"This is going to sound crazy," said Kara, a UCSD student who seemed
entranced by her own melodious voice.  "But has Guru fallen?"

"Yes."

No one stirred.

"Why don't you elaborate, Kara?" said Atmananda.

"I first felt it a few weeks ago," she said, glancing at the ceiling
as if she were trying to recall something.  "I was meditating on
the Transcendental but didn't *see* much light, ya know, and well,
I just thought it was me but it just kept happening, and like I
love Guru and all but..." Months later, Kara would be hospitalized
for a mental disorder.

"You have truly *seen*," praised Atmananda.

My heart pounded.  I felt like a bomb had exploded in my face. 
I saw Kara gazing at Atmananda.  It was only months before that
Atmananda had asked me to deceive the disciples into buying him
a "surprise gift"--the new car.  I scanned the crowded room. 
People seemed disoriented.  Three disciples visiting from the Santa
Barbara Chinmoy Centre kept glancing at the door.  They looked ready
to bolt.

"Many of you have been having difficulty meditating recently,"
said Atmananda in his familiar, soothing voice.  "You have been
blaming yourselves.  But you should understand that it is not you.

"For years I have meditated on the Transcendental and the room has
filled with a beautiful, white light.  But lately, the light has simply
not been there.  At first I thought that the level of my meditation
had dropped.  Intuitively, though, I knew that that was not the case."

I could not believe what was happening.  I had never heard Atmananda
criticize his--our--beloved Guru.  Still, I had to admit that his
intuition was usually correct.

"When I tried meditating without the Transcendental," he continued,
"my consciousness suddenly jumped to a much higher level--
as if the Guru had been holding me down.  And yet my logical
mind still refused to accept that the Guru had fallen.  You see,
you don't just turn your back on someone you have devoted eleven
years of your life to, someone you have loved more than anyone else
in the universe."

I wondered if a con artist would devote eleven years of his life
to a guru.

"I had to make sure that the Negative Forces were not playing tricks
on my mind," he continued.  "So I decided to visit New York and meditate
on the Guru in person.  I found that he still looked like Guru. 
But inwardly I could see right away that he had lost his power."

I wondered if I could have detected a change.

"When the Guru began to meditate, it became clear that he was not
entering into samadhi--though the disciples still believed that he was. 
Nonetheless, I wanted to be absolutely certain that the Negative
Forces were not clouding my vision.  So I visited Apeksha, a Queens,
New York, disciple who has studied with the Guru for as long as I have.

"At first, Apeksha thought I was crazy.  But after we spent
hours looking at old Guru photos, neither of us had any doubt
as to what had happened.

"Apeksha is now in a real bind.  On the one hand, he can see
that the Guru has fallen.  On the other hand, he knows that he's
not strong enough yet to ward off the Negative Forces on his own."

Richard, who had bought the million-dollar Centre, raised his hand
and said, "Atmananda, isn't there anything we can do to help Guru?"

"Your sentiment is a noble one," Atmananda replied.  "But you have
to be careful.  If you are swimming near a sinking ocean liner,
it doesn't matter how nice a person you are--you'll be sucked under
when the ship goes down.

"You should understand that I am not criticizing the Guru. 
Nor should any of you.  You should give him a great deal of credit
for holding out against the Forces for as long as he did.

"The Forces are not exactly evil per se.  They are merely playing
their role in the Cosmic Game.  It just so happens that their role
is to destroy Light."

Several disciples shoo