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Updated: May 5, 2025
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.
"I *saw* light from the stars pass through your body," tried another. "Very good. Who *saw* me disappear?" I often saw Atmananda disappear after I stared at him for several minutes without blinking. But during one desert trip in 1983, I saw him vanish independently of the dilated pupils. Then, a moment later, I saw him reappear as someone else.
I reflected on the sacrifices that Atmananda had been making lately. His efforts at running a spiritual Centre appeared to leave him exhausted and in pain. Dealing with the physical and non-physical demands of a congregation was no doubt an enormous imposition. And what a spiritual leader he was!
"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 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.
"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.
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.
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.
But then I thought about how, unlike McMurphy, Atmananda increasingly blamed others for the role he chose to play. "I incarnated into this world of pain and suffering," Atmananda often claimed, "to help my students from past lives. Many of you don't seem to realize it, but I am in a constant state of pain as a result of the bad energy that you continuously bombard me with.
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.
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