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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.
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. Money Mantra
"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.
Over the past few days, I had continuously questioned Atmananda's authenticity in the forefront of my rested mind. But now, the conflict, which pitted my rational nature against my mystical nature, became too much to endure. He opened his fist and demanded, "What do you see?" I saw memories of him telling me to act like a warrior before the Forces destroyed what we had worked so hard to achieve.
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.
I recalled his often-stated maxim that only through revenge could one of life's greatest joys be attained. I recalled with disgust Atmananda's claim that he used to toss his dog fifteen to twenty feet into the air. I recalled with disgust his treatment of me during one of his public lectures.
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.
"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.
Had Atmananda's techniques ended there, I might have seen him as a confused combination of Big Nurse and McMurphy and left. But he managed, by flipping between abusive and supportive personas, to keep me off balance on an emotionally gut-wrenching roller coaster ride.
"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 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.
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