"Aren't enlightened souls supposed to be more quiet?" I thought,
recalling Atmananda's newfound access to a world without words.
It was an hour or so after the coup. His voice crept through my
bedroom door, interrupting my thoughts. I had been deliberating
on whether I would attend the follow-up meeting, which was scheduled
to begin within minutes. "Well," I thought, trying to ignore
the relentless monologue, "he did claim only *partial* enlightenment."
I read from the Castaneda poster on the wall of my room a quote about
following a path with heart. "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. I realized I needed
time to think. I realized I needed guidance.
I wanted to ask former Chinmoy disciples for advice, but did not
want to subject them to spiritual doubts about Guru or Atmananda.
I wanted to ask friends and teachers outside the group, but did
not want to rely on people whom I supposed could not see.
I even thought of asking my parents, but did not want to rely on two
lobsters sporting bow ties. So I tried to assess the situation on
my own.
I recalled some of the good times I had had with Atmananda.
I also recalled Atmananda admitting to me, months before, that he
wanted some day to be a guru.
I saw him as a genuine seeker on the path to Truth. I also saw
him as a man whose ambitions I could not fathom.
"I need to get away," I told myself. "I need to get a perspective.
It's not that I don't trust Atmananda. It's just that..."