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Updated: May 5, 2025
The food, the crackling fireplace, and the medieval trumpet and recorder music reminded me of something distant, intangible, and noble. My spirit soared. "The kid and I are going to write some songs for you," Atmananda announced. I looked at him, perplexed. After all, I was no longer "the baby" but "the kid." He motioned for me to follow him upstairs.
Yet it was difficult to discount the numerous, bone-chilling times that he had adopted a credible Lucifer persona. Vivid memories now rushed forward like water through a newly unblocked dam. There were memories of Atmananda telling students that he meditated each day at noon.
I happily spent time instead with my brother, Atmananda, and the other Stony Brook Chinmoy disciples. One time, while camping with my brother in a marsh near Stony Brook, my calves began to itch. I tried not to scratch what seemed to be poison ivy, but must have done so in my sleep because by morning, the rash had spread. When I went home, my mother applied lotion to my skin.
At first I thought that the level of my meditation had dropped. Intuitively, though, I knew that that was not the case." I could not believe what was happening. I had never heard Atmananda criticize his our beloved Guru. Still, I had to admit that his intuition was usually correct.
Meanwhile, others in the circle engineers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, students, and business professionals also remained as silent as the rocks and hills around us. "If you are at all serious about the study of mysticism," chided Atmananda, "you must learn to talk openly about what you *see*. If you don't, your mind will play tricks on you and you will doubt your experiences later on."
"Remember Richard," I added, working in a quote from Atmananda, "whatever you really want you will get." "You're right," he said resolutely. "I'll just keep trying." After several more setbacks the deal went through, and Atmananda, Dana, Anne, Tammy, and I moved in.
"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."
I wanted to watch Atmananda work his charm, but I knew that I had a task to perform. Weeks earlier he had instructed me, "If you see a guy at a workshop trying to pick up a lady, move right in and engage him in conversation. This will give her the opportunity to walk away and maintain a high level of consciousness. "Do you know what women at the lectures really want?
More silence. The next ten seconds passed very slowly. "Atmananda," I suddenly announced. "I *saw* the Warriors." Others in the circle soon *saw* them too.
Actually, it had been several months since Atmananda had made it a practice to scan the audience during the meditation part of his talks, as if he were channeling Divine Light. But now Chinmoy saw the light, and Atmananda was in immediate danger of being kicked out of the Centre. When Atmananda learned of his predicament, he had an idea.
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