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.
I rode over the mountains of western Massachusetts and rolled
into the town of Lenox. There a woman noticed the oddness
of my entourage and asked, "What exactly is going on?"
"I am bicycling across America with my dog," I replied.
Ten minutes later she was interviewing me in a nearby cafe.
She was a reporter for the Berkshire Eagle, and, as I answered
her questions, I thought about how I would answer when she asked
me "why?" I realized it was more than a love for bicycling,
more than a longing for adventure, and more than a desire
to strengthen my self-confidence that propelled me west.
I wanted time to think about Atmananda's thousands of lessons,
some of which I sensed were valid and some of which I knew were not.
There was another reason: I wanted to do something distinctly
*me*. Bicycling across a continent against the prevailing winds
with all my possessions and a Siberian husky--that was *me*.
"Why?" she asked later.
I tempered my answer with the knowledge that I was being interviewed
by a journalist and not a shrink. At one point I told her that I
was traveling with a book on Gandhi.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
While reading the book I felt proud that Gandhi had been deeply
influenced by Thoreau's essay "Civil Disobedience," proud that a
thinker and experimenter from the United States had had an effect
on one from India whose thoughts and experiments affected humankind.
But it was more than pride which attracted me to Shirer's Gandhi:
A Memoir. Gandhi's dream of helping the masses reminded me of
Atmananda's seeming interest in making millions of people happy.
While Gandhi wielded influence over two-thirds of a billion people
as he helped India secure independence, never did he grow twisted
by the enormity of his own power, never did he betray the public trust.
Though Atmananda eloquently described the balance between the spiritual
and the mundane, I knew from years of firsthand experience--
yet found it difficult to admit--that a Mahatma Gandhi he
was not.
"I like the book very much," I replied.
"Would you like to meet Shirer?" she offered.
William L. Shirer was the only correspondent sent by an American
newspaper to cover India's revolution. He gathered that Gandhi's
philosophy encompassed more than civil disobedience, passive resistance,
non-cooperation and non-violence, but "had to do also with
something more subtle--and fundamental: the search for truth,
for the essence of the spirit..." Insights such as this made him
seem particularly suited to investigate so complex and sensitive
a matter as India's social, political, and spiritual ferment.
Shirer was also the author of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich:
A History of Nazi Germany. As I knocked on his door, I hoped that
with his knowledge of benevolent and malevolent charismatic leaders,
he could help me to understand Atmananda.
I wanted to tell Shirer that I had seen Atmananda's seemingly tight-knit
community transform into a group of fearful, paranoid people.
I wanted to tell him that I had seen Atmananda himself transform from
a seemingly kind and noble seeker into a man who used anti-psychotic
drugs and LSD as tools of persuasion, who--without the use of drugs--
persuaded one woman to leave her husband and newborn child,
who dreamt of filling stadiums and of starting a world religion,
who claimed to be the anti-Christ, and who spoke repeatedly of
taking the inner circle for a ride in a Learjet into a mountain.
I wanted to tell Shirer how, in 1984, I had helped Atmananda through
a bad LSD trip and how, as he was "coming down," I had observed
his opposing personalities reassert themselves. I wanted to tell
him that Atmananda seemed to be getting progressively worse.
And I wanted to tell him how Atmananda had persuaded one disciple
that he and I would be forever locked in a battle over mystical power.
The disciple was my brother.
When Shirer answered the door his large, bright forehead and serene
countenance made him appear intellectually and spiritually advanced,
and I had an uncanny feeling that something of the Mahatma himself
peered out at me through those eighty-three-year-old eyes.
"What can I do for you?" he asked me.
"I wanted to tell you that I'm enjoying your book," I said,
suddenly aware that he might not want to discuss the extremities
of human nature with a total stranger. I told him about the bike trip,
his book on Gandhi, and the reporter. But he was busy preparing
for a lecture tour of Russia and had no time to talk. I thanked him,
got back on my bicycle, and left.
I pictured Shirer as a young man, contemplating the life and lessons
of Mahatma Gandhi. I also pictured him observing uniformed men
with swastikas, bent on genocide. I imagined him accepting both
good and bad in people, for only by cultivating acceptance did I
imagine him harvesting peace. But I realized, as I pedaled north,
that I would have to learn to distinguish between the nurturing and
noxious roots Atmananda had sown in my mind without Shirer's help.
This was something I would have to do for myself.
I continued to ride towards Pittsfield, Massachusetts, with Frank,
a childhood friend. Tall, with messy red hair, he was an expert
car mechanic though he never made much money. This was in part
because he was a slow worker, because he had little self-confidence,
and because people took advantage of him.
"How's work going?" I asked him.
"Okay, I suppose."
I knew that he was making less than six dollars an hour.
"Have you thought about looking for a higher paying job?"
I asked.
He shrugged.
"You know you're being ripped off."
He shrugged again. We had been through this conversation before.
I wanted to teach Frank that he was like a sitting duck, that he
could protect himself, that he could change--suddenly I froze.
I remembered that Atmananda had taught us that we were like
sitting ducks, that we could protect ourselves, that we could
change...