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Updated: May 6, 2025
"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.
In the days that followed, Atmananda seemed to enjoy his assumed role as psychiatrist and nurse. He knocked on my door several times a day and, in a cheery voice, announced, "Hi, kid reality check. How do you feel?" "Dizzy," I replied. I smiled. I was enjoying Atmananda's attention and kind treatment. "I feel pretty relaxed." "Good," he said. "Now tell me about your thoughts." I did.
I liked the way Atmananda poked fun at the pomp and ceremony which had distanced Chinmoy from many of his disciples. I also found Atmananda's deflated view of himself a relief. A number of Atmananda's advertisements, however, were of a more serious nature. Each month... he offers several free workshops to members of the San Diego community.
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.
We are the only authorized distributors of the GOLDEN GWIDcard... Interloka Bank We Own You... " Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, the desire to believe in our friend and mentor, or the need for comic relief that blinded us to the grim foreshadowing of Atmananda's humor.
"GRAAAAAUUUUHHHHG!" squawked one of the colorful, captive birds. "BAM! BAM! BAM!" echoed Atmananda's hammer as he blocked off the escape route with some two-by-fours. Breakdown In the months after I tried to run away, Atmananda kept me busy expanding his postering routes north to Los Angeles and to the Bay area.
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.
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.
"Does Atmananda's path have heart?" I wondered. "Is it even a path? What the hell is going on?" I turned toward the underexposed photo of Chinmoy still on my shrine. "What if Guru has not fallen?" I wondered, not wanting to be left bobbing in the stormy sea of ignorance. "But then again," I thought, reminded of Atmananda's uncanny ability to see, "what if he has?" I felt overwhelmed.
In Boston I had stopped paying Atmananda's ever-increasing tuition, moved from a studio apartment to a small room in a house, and commuted to my computer job each day by bicycle. I had managed to pay off one student loan and, after selling the car, to build a small buffer. Why, I now wondered as I tossed a penny in the pool, did I feel so bad?
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