Months after the coup, Atmananda held late-night meetings less often,
and I soon caught up on sleep. Refreshed from the rest, I tried
to understand the changes that had been taking place within the Centre
and within Atmananda. My thoughts were frequently interrupted
by squawks from Atmananda's fourteen blue-and-gold macaws.
He kept them in a room in the garage. He was unaware that they
were gnawing a hole in the roof. He planned to tame them and to sell
them at a profit.
One time I lay in bed thinking about One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest,
a book Atmananda had recommended to me. At first I thought
about the similarities between Atmananda and R. P. McMurphy,
the novel's free-spirited protagonist. Both men, I realized,
exuded auras of self-confidence. Atmananda, for instance,
had once offered to teach me the secret of attracting women.
Jutting his chin forward like a boxer's glove, he focused on
an imaginary horizon and began taking long and rhythmic strides.
He suddenly seemed eight feet tall, and I watched in awe as he ignored
the young women who were checking him out.
Both Atmananda and McMurphy, I realized, shared their knowledge
with others. Atmananda, for instance, made a special effort to make
his followers feel big. "How can you become strong and self-confident?"
he asked at Centre meetings. "By doing all the things I have
been recommending. By meditating. By leading impeccable lives.
By cutting off those--such as your family--who are draining your power.
And by learning to trust in yourselves."
Both Atmananda and McMurphy, I also realized, were teachers of
self-sacrifice. Atmananda, for instance, lectured on Jesus Christ,
Gandhi, and McMurphy. "McMurphy," he said at Centre meetings,
"leads twelve men to the sea and takes them fishing.
After the fishing trip, McMurphy is worn out. He is in pain.
He has exhausted his energy so that others might be free.
This is the essence of self-giving. This is why I do what I do."
I reflected on the sacrifices that Atmananda had been making lately.
His efforts at running a spiritual Centre appeared to leave him
exhausted and in pain. Dealing with the physical and non-physical
demands of a congregation was no doubt an enormous imposition.
And what a spiritual leader he was! I pictured him striding about
with his chin jutting forward, exuding that aura of confidence;
sharing insights into metaphysical philosophies of the ancients,
as well as American pop culture of the early '80s; joking and singing,
inspiring and enlivening us; writing and publishing WOOF!, as well
as a book called The Bridge is Flowing But the River Is Not;
challenging our intellects with the known and unknowable;
recording and selling tapes on a variety of spiritual topics;
framing and reframing the ways in which we viewed the world;
issuing a recommended book list which included The Way Of Life
According To Lao Tzu, The Bhagavad-Gita, How To Know God, I Ching,
The Gospel Of Sri Ramakrishna, Tales Of Power, Tibetan Book Of The Dead,
and Walden; distributing geometric patterns on which to meditate;
and generating mystical experiences--with Light from the Infinite,
of course!
But then I thought about how, unlike McMurphy, Atmananda increasingly
blamed others for the role he chose to play. "I incarnated
into this world of pain and suffering," Atmananda often claimed,
"to help my students from past lives. Many of you don't seem
to realize it, but I am in a constant state of pain as a result
of the bad energy that you continuously bombard me with.
I am also constantly ill as a result of the massive amounts of bad
karma that I absorb from you on a regular basis."
I began to think not about McMurphy and Atmananda's similarities,
but about their differences. I recalled Atmananda saying, "When you
attain my level of enlightenment, you transcend good and evil.
'Good' and 'evil' become mere words, mere concepts in a universe
where only experience matters. So why be attached to the good side of
the force?"
I wanted to believe that Atmananda meant: "Why worry about being
good if you become goodness itself?" But other memories surfaced,
and I became overwhelmed by a nauseating sense that he had something
else in mind. "Do you know who I really am?" he had increasingly
croaked in a low, throaty rasp, his bright eyes mocking me.
"The anti-Christ. I work for the other side. Six-six-six. Think
about it."
"He was only joking," I reassured myself. "Or maybe he was testing me.
That's it--he was only testing me." Yet it was difficult to discount
the numerous, bone-chilling times that he had adopted a credible
Lucifer persona.
Vivid memories now rushed forward like water through a newly
unblocked dam. There were memories of Atmananda telling students
that he meditated each day at noon. "Maybe Atmananda's inner being
is always in a state of meditation," I thought, recalling the numerous
times that I had seen him at noon not meditating. "But then again,
maybe he was just lying."
There were memories of Atmananda's recent nightmare. "Guru tried
to kill me last night," he had told me several mornings before.
"Really?" I replied, certain that Chinmoy, the peace-and-tennis-loving
Guru, would not want to hurt anyone.
"That's right," he continued. "The Guru attacked me in the dream
plane and nearly strangled me. Fortunately, I am stronger than he is--
otherwise I would now be dead!"
"Are you okay?"
"My neck and throat hurt."
But Atmananda's sore throat had not stopped him from voicing
and capitalizing on what he had dreamt.
"The Guru is attempting to destroy me," Atmananda announced to his
disciples at subsequent Centre meetings. "You need to understand
that while the Guru has lost his spiritual powers, he has not lost his
mystical powers. Until you break all mental, emotional, and psychic
attachments to him, and until you develop a powerful inner connection
with me, you will be completely vulnerable to his next round of
inner attacks. Many of you think that this is some kind of game.
Just don't come running to me when you find that all your power is gone."
Memories about Atmananda that had been suppressed for months
continued to freely flow. "Do you see how my skin glows?"
he had recently asked me.
"That means you are healthy," I had replied.
"True, but if you look closely you will see that the light from
my body is emanating from a higher plane."
There were memories of eating breakfast with Atmananda and my
other housemates. At one point during the meal, Atmananda gazed
out the window and spoke as though in a trance. "The powers,"
he said repeatedly, "are coming back to me. I can now fill
an entire room with golden light. I am not who you think I am."
About fifteen minutes later, he stopped talking and went to his room.
"Is there something wrong with Atmananda?" Anne asked me as we
washed the breakfast dishes.
"Something is definitely not right," I replied. We glanced
at each other, but found it difficult to share our ideas
and doubts in much depth. We both felt indebted to Atmananda.
He had managed to convince us, separately, that had we not met him,
we would now be dead. He used this tactic on many disciples.
He had also been giving Anne and me special attention lately, and we
therefore felt particularly guilty that we had doubts about him.
Then there was the climate of distrust that he had been fostering
within the Centre. He occasionally warned me, for instance,
that Anne was in a low state of consciousness and that I should avoid
her whenever possible; he would then tell her the same about me,
and so on. Furthermore, Atmananda had worked to make communication among
disciples intimidating and taboo.
"If any of you break the Seven Seals of Silence," he had repeatedly
warned inner circle devotees, without explaining what the Seals were,
"I would not want to be in your shoes. You have to understand
that there would be absolutely nothing I could do to help you.
It would be awful--I don't even want to think about it."
Other surfacing memories of Atmananda revolted me. I recalled
his often-stated maxim that only through revenge could one of
life's greatest joys be attained. In WOOF! (Issue #3; January,
1981), he wrote: "Thousands died today in Pompeii when Mount
Vesuvius erupted without warning...It was seen that the people
of Pompeii had all been enemies of the Gwid in a recent incarnation
and that the explosion...was the Gwid's special way of showing
the populace that he is not a person to be trifled with..."
I recalled with disgust Atmananda's claim that he used to toss
his dog fifteen to twenty feet into the air.
I recalled with disgust his treatment of me during one of his
public lectures. "Can anyone see what is wrong with Mark?"
he had asked the audience, after calling me to the front of the room.
No response.
"Look at him now."
Silence.
"The energy around his head," he told them matter-of-factly, "is
not balanced. But don't worry. We are working on him."
As I grappled with the memory, I grew angry. Atmananda, I realized,
probably saw me as one of his pets. Suddenly it struck me that while
Atmananda might be like McMurphy, he might also be like the novel's
mean-spirited antagonist, Nurse Ratched, also known as Big Nurse.
Both Atmananda and Big Nurse, I realized, discouraged their wards
from exploring the outdoors. I remembered Atmananda warning me,
before I went backpacking in Yosemite, that he was picking up bad vibes
from the trip. Despite his grim prophecy, the trip had been a success.
I had gone with three friends from the Centre, each of whom loved
the woods as much as I did. We woke to the sounds of a brown
bear eating our food. We played hacky-sack on top of Half Dome.
We got muddy and jumped in a river and yelled and laughed from the cold.
Yet when we returned, Atmananda scolded me for having picked up
significant quantities of Negative Psychic Energy. "Don't worry,"
he told me. "I'll process the bad energy for you--though it will
probably make me ill." Then, adding humiliation to guilt, he dubbed us
"assholes of the mountains."
Both Atmananda and Big Nurse, I also realized, relied heavily on
informants to gather data about the group that they controlled.
Atmananda exposed his Big Nurse nature in other ways. He claimed,
for instance, that he had to "press all the right buttons"
to help people overcome their resistance to the Light and to him.
And he said he never trusted a man unless he had his pecker in
his pocket.
As I lay in bed remembering and reflecting, I felt overwhelmed by
the extent to which Atmananda had changed. For a moment, I felt sad.
I still thought of him as a friend. I found myself thinking about
the time he had initiated the former Chinmoy disciples. When it came
my turn, he placed his hand on my forehead and looked into my eyes.
Not a grin or gesture broke his stern countenance. Seconds later
he was done meditating on me, and I returned to the audience.
Then he called me back.
"You are rejecting me inwardly," he accused and tried again.
After the third time, he frowned.
"Next," he said.
Now I struggled with the memory and with the realization that Atmananda
considered me less his friend than a subject. I had believed in him.
I had loved him. I was devastated. But as I concentrated again
on his other side, the sadness disappeared. Atmananda, I realized,
had been using me. I grew angry and scared.
My thoughts drifted, and I found myself thinking about a bicycle
trip I had taken to Palomar Mountain months before. At the top
of the mountain one of my brakes had malfunctioned, so I hitched
a ride to a bike shop in Escondido. A plumber had picked me up.
During the ride, the plumber, who lived with his wife and kids on
the mountain, had pointed out a red-tailed hawk. Now, in my room
in Atmananda's Centre, I pictured the way that the hawk had soared
through the clear, blue, mountain sky on a course of its own...
"What the hell am I doing here?" I suddenly thought, lifting myself
out of bed. I stepped into the hall.
"What if Atmananda sees me?" I thought nervously. But the door
to his room was shut. I stepped into the kitchen. Except for
an occasional squawk from a macaw, the house was dead quiet.
I picked up the phone. I remembered the name of the plumber
on Palomar Mountain. I called information. My heart raced.
The plumber remembered who I was.
"Do you need an apprentice?" I asked in a strained whisper.
"Well, come to think of it," he said, "I could use some help.
But weren't you going to finish college?"
"I think I need to take a break for awhile," I admitted.
"I understand. I'll tell you what. Why don't you come on out
and we'll talk it over."
I wrote down directions, thanked him, and returned to my room.
I wanted to say good-bye to my friends in the Centre, but I knew
that in the interest of "saving" me, they would tell Atmananda.
And I knew too well that he had a knack for persuading borderline
disciples not to leave. So, wishing the disciples well on
their journey, I kept my plan secret. I wished Atmananda well on
his journey, too. Each time I thought of him, though, I broke out
in a cold sweat.
My plan was to hitchhike that night to Palomar Mountain.
I stuffed some gear in my backpack, which I kept hidden in the closet.
I was ready. The sun was starting to set. "It's okay, man," I thought,
hugging myself. I was frightened.
Suddenly the bell rang. I remained in my room. Atmananda answered
the door. It was Sal.