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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.
I missed Tom, the bass-guitar-playing disciple from Stony Brook whom Rama had put in charge of security. He left largely as a result of the "Omelet Incident." The "Incident" occurred in Rama's kitchen in Malibu. Rama sat with Tom and Fran, a tall, young UCSD recruit with a long, powerful stride and a glint of the wild in her eye. At around 2:30 a.m., Rama asked Fran to cook him an omelet.
I saw a sticker for UCSD, John Muir College. I saw a quote from Thoreau: "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music that he hears, however measured or far away." My father sent me that.
Several properties south of the UCSD Chancellor's mansion lay a burned-out car abandoned on a charred foundation. The address seemed to be 951, but in my mind the missing tile was in place: 9514 La Jolla Farms Road, where Rama became "enlightened" and where I moved into darkness. It was 1988.
I rode with Alexander, a spare, devout UCSD recruit who had impressed the Centre with his ability to place second or third in a marathon. Perhaps from a lack of social self-esteem, Alexander never said much, but he spoke with me, and I enjoyed his company. The following day, Rama invited me and Alexander to ride in his group.
I kept this in mind one Saturday afternoon as I approached a health food store with Marty, a shy, soft-spoken UCSD student with a sense of wonder in his eyes. Marty had been a disciple of Chinmoy for about a year. Raising the WOOF!'s to the counter, I said, "Could we leave these by the door? They're free!" "Sure," the manager replied and he took one.
"Maybe I can rejoin the group and be independent at the same time," I told myself as I began the drive west. Days later, in San Diego, I was showering at the UCSD gym, when I asked a guy if I could use some of his shampoo. "Sure, Mark, take as much as you want," was the reply. Wiping the soap from my eyes, I recognized Gary, a disciple who had left Rama years ago. I was glad to see him.
He also wanted to be a Guru, told me so in a UCSD parking lot. But cool guy. Powerful attention level. Controls every situation impeccably. cares about others what seems to be an enormous amount. Yet detached. cold. warm. whatever he was projecting. A master illusionist. Created/s dreams & realities with the flick of a wrist.
Hidden between UCSD and the Pacific Ocean were burial grounds, Rama said, that were sacred to Native Americans. Surfers on their way to Black's Beach passed through this land of cliffs and ravines. They pointed to a graceful, white mansion and said, "Heyyy, duuuude, that's Atkinson's place, duuuuuuuuude."
I parked my Volkswagon Bus at a mall one-and-a-half miles east of campus and walked with Nunatak toward the sea. I had cut through the not-yet-bulldozed chaparral just east of Interstate-5 many times since returning to UCSD a twenty-seven year old undergraduate but now the sun was setting and the air seemed heavy. Suddenly, I had a sense of where I was going.
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