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Updated: June 29, 2025
Chinmoy seemed willing to look the other way when Atmananda, his chief recruiter, disregarded his etiquette on sex, ego, cinema, individuality, and language. But his patience ran out in 1979, when a Queens disciple informed him that Atmananda was "playing guru."
But I recalled that Don Juan often acted absurd, funny, and irreverent. He did so to balance the utter seriousness of The Path, as well as to shake up Castaneda's pre-conceived notions of what it meant to be a seeker. "Besides," I thought, quoting Atmananda, "who says spirituality can't be fun?" The following week, I wondered if Chinmoy would accept me as his disciple.
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.
Atmananda organized rides, gave directions, warned us about potholes and drunk drivers, and suggested that we maintain a meditative consciousness, lest we lose the Guru's light. Then he led us away from the other Chinmoy disciples, from the chapel, from the campus, and onto the streets.
After weekly Centre meetings, Atmananda often cooked for the nearly one hundred Chinmoy disciples. It was a joy to watch him sing and dance around the kitchen, adding spice to our lives and to the simmering vats of Indian curry. On occasion, he asked Cheryl to cook for the Centre. He loved the way her eggplant parmigiano patties tasted.
"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.
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.
But the thick fog of illusion, which prevented me from gaining insight into his true nature, might have partially cleared had I known what Atmananda told Tom only weeks before, during a meditation with Chinmoy in New York. "Have you noticed anything different about Guru?" Atmananda had asked him. "No," replied Tom, who had not yet joined Atmananda's west coast entourage.
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?"
"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.
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