"It is even rarer for fully enlightened souls to return," he said,
pointing out that his Guru was fully enlightened.
Fully enlightened souls, Atmananda explained, were aware
of those who meditated sincerely on their photograph.
Atmananda then instructed us to meditate on the Transcendental.
After about ten minutes of silence he asked, "Who saw the light
around Guru?"
One woman shot up her hand. Then another. I admitted to myself
that I thought I saw the photo glow.
"Guru flooded you with light from another world," he explained.
Then, inviting the audience to experience the "advanced" side of
self-discovery, he told us about Chinmoy's free weekly meditations
at St. Paul's Chapel, Columbia University.
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.
"White symbolizes purity--the spiritual quality men need to develop most,"
he explained, quoting Chinmoy. "Wearing white only adds one or two
percent more purity to your consciousness, but every bit helps."
My mother came into the room and looked at my brother.
"Uh-oh," I thought. I felt bad for my mother. She typically
had to deal with me and my brother on her own. Perhaps in
anticipation of an ulcer condition, my father tended to avoid
so-called family discussions. "If only she would leave us alone,"
I figured, "she would not get so bent out of shape."
I also felt bad for my brother. Everything he did, it seemed,
aggravated my parents. "They should support him in his spiritual quest,"
I decided.
Now my mother looked upset. I did not know it then, but she was
not upset that her sons were interested in yoga. In her youth she
had satisfied a similar interest in the East by taking a course on
Gandhi's philosophy. She grew concerned, however, when she realized
that we were intensely focusing on one person--on a living guru.
"Where are you boys going?" she asked.
"It's okay, Mom," I replied, assuming my role as mediator.
"We're just going to a talk on relaxation and meditation--you know,
stuff like that." I had already told her about Chinmoy and Atmananda
("Mom, I think I found a teacher right here in New York!"). But she
wanted to know more. She looked hurt.
"You're upset about relaxation and meditation?" I said, trying my
best to reason with her. "This is nothing, Mom. What are you
going to say when I hitchhike to Mexico to study with a *brujo*?"
The silence that ensued bore with it all the weight
of a mother's love, hope, and fear for her sons.
We said good-bye and rode to the city.
"I mean, I have to lead my own life," I thought, and focused
on my parents' shortcomings to offset pangs of guilt.
Manhattan's ivy-league citadel of the intellect seemed an unlikely
spot for people to be led beyond thought. But then, finding a
guru with an enlightened soul uptown seemed no less likely than
meeting a sorcerer with a Ph.D. downtown. We switched at Grand
Central Station to an uptown train and emerged at 125th Street.
The clatter of subway cars gave way to traffic noise which faded once
we entered the Columbia University campus. Soon we ascended steps
to St. Paul's Chapel. Ahead of us were men with closely cropped
hair wearing all white clothes. With hair clenched in braids,
the sari-wrapped women walked apart from the men--who were not looking
at them. At the top of the stairs, dressed in a red tennis outfit,
stood Atmananda.
"Hi, Atmananda," said my brother, looking up.