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Updated: May 6, 2025
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 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.
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?"
As I meditated on Atmananda's possible motives, I swatted mosquitos and picked at scabs of aging stings. I did not yet know that he had given Stelazine to at least one other inner circle follower. I tried to remember how I had felt during the Stelazine experiment. I recalled feeling dizzy. I also recalled feeling at peace with myself.
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.
I thought about how, as a thirteen-year-old, it had been easier to journey into lives of sorcerers from the Castaneda books than it was to deal with the emotions of a family in conflict; years later, it was easier to follow Atmananda's narcotic program than it was to brave a suppressed conflict of my own.
During the ride, the plumber, who lived with his wife and kids on the mountain, had pointed out a red-tailed hawk. Now, in my room in Atmananda's Centre, I pictured the way that the hawk had soared through the clear, blue, mountain sky on a course of its own... "What the hell am I doing here?" I suddenly thought, lifting myself out of bed. I stepped into the hall. "What if Atmananda sees me?"
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.
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.
"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."
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