"The tricky part," he added, "is to do this without letting either
one know what is going on." He was silent awhile and I sensed
there was more he wanted to tell me.
"Why don't more women attain enlightenment?" he finally sighed.
"Because they are taught in a male-dominated society to marry,
have children, and serve their husbands. Traditionally, they have not
had the opportunity to study with an enlightened teacher."
I was moved by the truth that I felt in his words and now,
as he answered questions in the front of the room, I interrupted
conversations with all the speed and savvy I could muster.
People did not seem to mind. On the contrary, they seemed to regard
me as someone special, as if I were on The Bus--and they were trying
to get on.
With each passing week, Atmananda further opened the audience to
the possibility that they could evolve countless lifetimes by staring
at the underexposed photo of a balding man. After about a month,
he announced: "Those who are interested in the advanced side
of self-discovery should ask Mark for a map to the Centre."
"The Centre" was Atmananda's term for the San Diego branch
of Chinmoy's organization. It was also his term for the house
he now shared with me and the three other Chinmoy disciples.
Atmananda had not needed a map to the Centre months before, on the day
that the five of us moved west. He had seemed to know the way.
"There's Mission Bay," he said, pointing to bright green lawns bordering
light blue water. When he exited the freeway, which he assured us
was free, I noticed ground-cover plants surrounding and dividing
the road like armies of fat green spiders. On La Jolla Scenic Road,
I saw more exotic flora: tall, cedar-like trees, plants with huge
vein-covered leaves, and cacti with yellow flowers and spiny needles.
I did not know their names.
"At last," boomed Atmananda, pointing to a large shrub which drooped
like a wilted phallus. "We have found the fabled swaaaanso bush!"
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.
She ran her fingers through her hair and smiled at me.
I wanted so much to kiss her, to tell her that she was beautiful,
to love her. Had I followed my gut feelings, Atmananda might
have sent me back to New York on the next available flight.
But Chinmoy and Atmananda had explained that sex saps psychic growth.
And I was concerned that Atmananda and Dana might be in some sort
of relationship already. Besides, I never had had a girlfriend and
was at a loss as to what to say. I paused, and Atmananda and Rachel
appeared with the rental car.
Atmananda often displayed an extraordinary sensitivity toward
what people around him were thinking and now, as we approached
the Centre for the first time, I wondered if he had timed
his arrival back at the airport based on my wayward desire.
I also wondered how to diffuse my crush on Dana.
"Don't worry," I told myself. "Guru will help me work it out."
Now Atmananda told his passengers that the new Centre was only a few
blocks away. He had chosen a house on Cliffridge Avenue where,
in the name of the Guru, we would fight evil forces and make
millions happy. Before turning left on Cliffridge, we drove past
Nottingham and Robin Hood.
The lawns in the neighborhood seemed like tiny golf courses.
Atmananda pulled into one of the driveways, got out of the car,
and said, "Here we are." Then he strode down the path as though
leading us to his castle.
He claimed the master bedroom which overlooked the garden.
Dana's was next to his. Then mine. Then Connie's. Then Rachel's.
"Welcome to Atmananda's bar and grill," he grinned from behind
the kitchen counter, pretending to serve us.
Adjacent to the kitchen was the meditation room, where Atmananda
planned to conduct weekly meetings for the soon-to-be-recruited
Chinmoy disciples. From the meditation room I could see the long,
narrow yard and the large, wooden deck which he christened "the
flogging platform." On the steep hill past the deck, legions of
spidery plants advanced imperceptibly toward the garden.
Nearly every day during the first few weeks in San Diego, Atmananda drove
us to La Jolla Shores Beach. There, he led Rachel, Dana, and me
to where the water was over our heads. Connie was intimidated
by the Pacific surf and did not immerse herself the way the rest
of us did. With Atmananda's guidance, however, that would soon change.
Two years before, in New York, Atmananda and Tom had tried to swim
across a channel in the Long Island Sound. Though a strong swimmer,
Tom grew fatigued fighting the swift current, and Atmananda risked
his life to save his friend from being swept to sea.
Now, buoyed by Atmananda's legendary strength, I rode the swells
beyond the breakers to where my feet dangled above the ocean floor.
After thirty minutes or so, we rode the waves toward the shore.
At this time Atmananda often disappeared beneath the surface.
We stood there in the waist-deep water, waiting, watching, and trying
to figure out his next move--when suddenly there was a scream!
Still underwater, Atmananda had seized and was tickling someone's
foot.
Then we sat on the beach, soothed by gentle currents of the herb-scented air.
I looked to the west. Blue on blue stretched across the horizon.
I looked to the east. White buildings gleamed behind a row
of tall, healthy palms. I remembered Atmananda's advice:
"If you want to live in a pretty world, just cry inwardly to Guru."
I could not help but feel that I had entered one of Dr. Seuss'
fantasy-gardens for children.
Atmananda drove us back to the Centre, where we gazed for forty minutes
or so at the Transcendental. Then we ate nachos--a perfect ending,
I thought, to a perfect day. I was so absorbed in having fun with
my new family, I did not think to contact my parents or my brother.
Several days after we arrived in southern California,
Atmananda took us on a bus tour of the San Diego Zoo in Balboa Park.
The guide pointed to an elephant and said, "This is Peanuts.
Peanuts has been with us for seven years."
"This guy is making it up as he goes," whispered Atmananda,
who seemed to resent having someone else control the conversation.