"Stop worrying about money," he admonished. "If you're
in the right consciousness, believe me, the money will come."
"Okay," I agreed, adding a large cheese crisp to the order.
So the disciples, now reunited with Sal, happily broke bread and chips
with our nurturing spiritual shepherd. A ditty from the Paul Winter
song Icarus played in the background.
Atmananda often spoke about myths. Icarus, according to Greek mythology,
took flight from prison on wings of wax which were crafted by Daedalus,
his father. Despite warnings from Daedalus, Icarus soared too near
the sun and fell with melted wings to his death in the sea.
I knew about the myth of Icarus from my childhood. "Icarus was punished,"
my father had taught me, "because humans are not supposed to fly
among the gods."
Atmananda did not teach the myth of Icarus. He spoke, instead,
about the role of the Self-Sacrificing Hero. "Be like a star,"
he said at Centre meetings, citing Guru, Gandhi, and Jesus Christ.
"Burn your own substance so that others may see."
Yet as the months in southern California slipped by, he spoke
increasingly about the myth of the Fluid Warrior. "Be fluid,"
he said. "Don't let people pin you down as being a certain way."
Perhaps, then, the deviation from his role as Feeder Of The Tribe
should have come as no surprise. It was during a Centre meeting
that he announced the fast. Missing meals for thirteen days,
he explained, would raise the level of our consciousness, increase our
personal power, and bring us closer to Guru. "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. Several devotees,
including Atmananda, claimed that their meditations were growing
increasingly powerful. In contrast, my efforts to empty my mind
were interrupted by gurgling complaints rumbling up from the caverns
of my gut. I found myself concentrating not on eternal salvation,
but on persistent growls. I found myself thinking not about God,
but about vast quantities of food.
On the sixth day of the fast, I stood at the edge of the meditation
room trying not to think about the sharp pains now forking my belly.
I gazed at the larger-than-life Transcendental on the tall, wooden table.
Atmananda typically lectured from beside this shrine. It was also from
here that he continued his effort to spread Spiritual Light--to play guru--
during public and private meditations. 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. Leftovers were wrapped
in aluminum foil and stored in the freezer.
On the seventh day, I opened the door to the freezer and there,
wrapped in aluminum foil, were eggplant parmigiano patties waiting
to be plucked like gems from a cave. I felt weak and disoriented.
I was so hungry. Memories of the peppery patties brought back
the luscious aroma. I thrust my hand toward a shimmering
treasure...
On the eighth day, I wondered if I should confess that I had cheated.
I recalled the story of a priest who, out of concern for his congregation,
hid his doubts about God. I, too, chose not to confess,
and the ensuing guilt served to strengthen my resolve not to stray
from Atmananda's suggested path again. And though I did eat part
of a patty, I still shared with the disciples an overpowering
emptiness and a heightened receptivity to the fast leader.
During the second week, my meditations began to improve.
Typically, when I gazed at the Transcendental, I only saw a subtle
glow around the photo. Now I saw thousands of swirling dots
swimming before me. Typically, when I meditated on my heart chakra,
I had to remind myself to visualize the ocean. Now I became immersed
in a world of blue light. Typically, when I realized that I was having
a powerful mystical experience, I found it difficult to reenter
a state of meditation after a self-congratulatory interruption.
Now I found it easy to resubmerge my awareness into a thoughtless calm.
My newfound calm, however, was broken by what Atmananda said
at a Centre meeting several days later. He announced that he had
recently attained levels of consciousness so powerful and sublime
that he was no longer the person that we thought him to be.
Each time he dipped into these higher realms of perception, his old
self died and a new one emerged, forged in the fires of what he
called perfection.
"A number of you have already sensed the change," he said.
"I first started entering into these higher states--which I call
basement samadhi--during deep meditation. Recently, though,
I have been slipping in and out of them spontaneously:
while walking at the beach, for instance, or while eating at Howard
Johnson's. Now I am finding that I can enter them at will."
Atmananda repeatedly described his newfound abilities until
the disciples, a number of whom had not eaten in nearly two weeks,
appeared to accept the restructuring.
After the meeting I sat on the toilet, contemplating what had passed
through Atmananda's lips. "What is going on?" I wondered.
"Who does he think he is?" I felt angry and confused. I had been
taught that samadhi was a state of consciousness so exalted that
precious few enlightened souls achieved it. But now I was dizzy
and nauseous from hunger. I was having difficulty concentrating.
I saw swirling dots before me whether I was meditating or not. I found
myself realizing that Atmananda had studied meditation in past lives.
I found myself realizing that he was an advanced disciple of the Guru.
I found myself feeling bad that I had doubted so advanced a soul,
so educated a man, and so close a friend.
"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.