Arriving carless in California, Atmananda thought about continuing his career as a college professor. He thought about writing another book. He even considered going to law school. Instead, he expanded the Money Club.
The Money Club had started in New York when Atmananda began collecting from Stony Brook disciples. We voluntarily gave a few dollars a month to offset the cost of the posters.
In San Diego, he raised membership dues to four or so dollars a week. Rachel, who took out loans to help the San Diego Chinmoy Centre get started, gave much more. As The Centre rapidly grew, so did the numbers in Atmananda's club.
"Seekers used to live in monasteries and in caves," Atmananda taught at Centre meetings. "But Guru recommends that instead, we live in a city. This gives us the opportunity to strengthen our psychic defenses and to better serve humanity. In order to live in the world, particularly as your consciousness evolves and as the vibrations of the world grow darker, you will need money."
Most of the new disciples, though, were UCSD undergraduates; when Atmananda explained the etiquette of selfless giving—"You can give in the right way or you can give in the wrong way"—many of us wondered how we could give in any way.
But Atmananda had an idea. He suggested that we take out student loans for more than we actually needed.
"You can then donate the extra amount to a worthy cause," he pointed out. "To a genuine spiritual centre, for instance."
It was no coincidence that the Centre's finances improved significantly after banks issued checks for guaranteed student loans.
Atmananda had another idea.
"Accepting money from your parents is the spiritual thing to do. Why not give your parents the opportunity to help? Why shouldn't they be given the opportunity to make spiritual progress?"
He even devised a way that we could earn money.
"Why work for five dollars an hour when you could be making twenty? Work is not supposed to be fun. Believe me, they would not be paying you if it was. Unless you already have a career that you are happy with, you should study computer science.
"Most of you developed software back in Atlantis, back when computers were far more advanced than they are today. Keeping track of all those variables will help you strengthen your mind. Besides, programming pays extremely well after a relatively short period of time."
Atmananda interspersed talk of raising consciousness and money with stories from the rich world of his imagination. He told stories, for instance, about a legendary character that he called "The Gwid."
"The Gwid is close friends with Roshi Megabucks," he said, stroking his chin and smiling. "The Gwid leases all of reality to God."
At one Centre meeting, a UCSD anthropology graduate student pointed out that millions in the world were starving. "Shouldn't we be doing something to help?" she asked.
"On the surface," Atmananda replied, "Elizabeth is asking a perfectly legitimate question. But if you could see, you would have detected the underlying hostility in her tone."
The room filled with uneasy silence.
"But that is why we study meditation," he went on. "We are constantly striving to perfect our different selves."
He slowly scanned the disciples. "Many of you send Guru hostile vibrations in the inner worlds, so don't hide behind your holier-than-thou facade. It isn't necessary. We understand."
He turned back to Elizabeth, his sarcastic pout transforming into a compassionate smile. "There are many who are suited for helping the poor. What we do here is help people on a higher level." He went on to provide a framework through which to view poverty. Each soul, he explained, chooses the circumstance of its birth so that it can best work out its karma.
At first, Elizabeth's question struck a chord in me. But I associated her question with Atmananda's accusation—that many of us were sending hostile vibes to Guru. This made me upset, so I tried to think about something else. But there was something else I was trying not to think about.
"Has anyone noticed that I have been going into advanced states of consciousness?" Atmananda had started to ask at the Centre meetings.
At first there had been no response.
"The powers from my past lives are returning," he continued in a sincere-sounding voice. "My consciousness is cycling. Those of you who can see will easily feel The Change."
Several disciples nodded, as though for the first time they were feeling The Change.
I knew that if I gazed at him intensely for several minutes, I saw auras in whichever hue I imagined. Nonetheless, I had not detected The Change. I wanted to maintain complete trust in my mentor, housemate, and friend. I told myself that my seeing abilities must not be too advanced.
Atmananda then changed the subject. "The Golden Gwid Card," he said with a grin, "gives The Gwid and Roshi Megabucks unlimited access to multi-dimensional, trans-reality banking networks."
Perhaps it was with The Golden Gwid Card in mind that Atmananda asked me to perform a "task of power." He instructed me to inspire each of the several dozen disciples in the Centre to donate money. "Tell them that the money will be used to buy me a surprise gift, and tell them the gift will be a new car." He suggested that I remind them that he worked night and day for the good of others, that he was broke because he gave all his money to the Centre, and that if he concentrated on making money rather than on helping Guru's mission, he could easily afford to buy his own car.
"Got it," I said.
"Don't pressure anyone. If someone does not want to contribute, that's fine."
"Of course!"
"And keep a list of who gave what."
"No pro-blem-mo!" Honored that Atmananda would trust me with such responsibility, with such a secret, and with so much money, I felt guilty for not having thought of the idea myself. I understood that Atmananda was being a sneak. But he did work for the good of others night and day. And ours was the fastest growing Chinmoy Centre in the world. And the Guru's mission would suffer if Atmananda worked a traditional job. Besides, I was drawn to the idea of sneaking for a noble cause.
The disciples gave generously, and Atmananda soon shifted the garage door opener from Rachel's car, which he had frequently borrowed, to the glove compartment of his shiny, new Renault LeCar.
Rachel, who had donated generously to the "surprise" gift, felt that they should share the garage door opener. She decided that Atmananda was being unfair and told him so.
The next day, Atmananda instructed Dana to tell Rachel that, spiritually speaking, she was heading for some serious hot water and had better apologize quickly.
Unaware of the "Garage Door Opener Incident," I was feeling pretty good. I felt even better when Atmananda, who liked the new car, reminded the Centre of how advanced a soul I really was. When the disciples began to treat me with a mellow kind of reverence—a phenomenon local, perhaps, to southern California—I was thrilled. I had an intuitive grasp on how to wield the ad hoc power, but I did not grasp that it was the power which was actually wielding me.
Meanwhile, Atmananda had added "money collector" to the growing list of my responsibilities. This task, he cautioned, was not without its dangers. "Money is physically dirty," he said, as though telling me a secret. "It also retains and transmits the greed of its handlers. Always wash your hands after you touch it." But he did not always ask me to collect it directly.
In 1981, he asked me to inspire Richard, a tall, large-hearted disciple who owned a raquet-stringing shop in La Jolla. Richard, who appeared to love Guru even more than he loved tennis, was on the verge of purchasing a million-dollar house, which he planned to rent to the Centre at a bargain rate.
"How's your game coming along?" I asked him.
"Oh, not too bad I suppose."
"Are you ready to play against Guru?"
"Guru is not going to want to play tennis with me."
"Sure he is. Only if I were you, I'd let him win every so often."
We laughed.
"How's the deal going?" I asked.
His gaiety suddenly vanished. "It almost went through," he said. "But someone pulled out at the last minute... again."
"Oh well," I tried. "Maybe there's someone else who could help."
No response.
"Wouldn't it be great," I continued, "to have the Centre across the street from UCSD? Parking sure wouldn't be a problem anymore. And picture a meditation room overlooking the ocean—a meditation room large enough to hold everyone."
He nodded.
"Imagine Guru coming to San Diego and visiting us at the new Centre!"
"That would be nice," he admitted.
"Remember Richard," I added, working in a quote from Atmananda, "whatever you really want you will get."
"You're right," he said resolutely. "I'll just keep trying."
After several more setbacks the deal went through, and Atmananda, Dana, Anne, Tammy, and I moved in. Atmananda occasionally paced the carpets of the new Centre, improvising a song from Fiddler On The Roof in which pious dairyman Tevya aspires for a little wealth from God.
"If I were a realized soul!" Atmananda began. "Ahhh yaahtuh daahtuh daahtuh yaahtuh daahtuh daahtuh daahtuh duhm. All day long I'd bittih bittih buhm. If I were a realized soul! Ahhh wouldn't have to work hard... "
Once at the new Centre, Atmananda recited for me the money mantra.
"Ya devi sarva bhutesu ratna rupena sangsthita nastasvai namastvai namastvai namo nama," he chanted soulfully.
If I could have followed his words down the corridors of time, I would have seen him—
Ya devi...
Dramatically increasing the cost of public meditation lectures and seminars.
... sarva bhutesu...
Charging one thousand dollars a person for weekend desert trips (1987).
... ratna rupena...
Increasing his advertising budget from hundreds (1977) to hundreds of thousands (1987).
... sangsthita...
Requesting that manditory tuition—which took the place of the voluntary Money Club—be paid in hundred dollar denominations to avoid "low vibe" tens and twenties. Suggesting that followers hold off on tax payments until "later." Raising monthly tuition from one hundred dollars (1982) to approximately thirty-five hundred dollars (1993).
... nastasvai...
Driving a Renault LeCar (1979), a BMW (1981), a 911 Porsche (1982), a 928 Porsche (1983), a turbo Carerra Porsche (1984), a Bentley (1991). Keeping seven cars at his New York property: three Mercedes Benzes, two Porsches and two Range Rovers (1991).
... namastvai namastvai...
Renting the Del Mar castle, complete with turrets, a walk-in fireplace, and a full-court basketball-game-sized living room (1982). Renting in Malibu what he claimed was Goldie Hawn's house (1983). Spending roughly nine hundred dollars per night for a hotel suite where his dog enjoyed a room of its own (1988). Buying a house on Conscience Bay in Old Field, New York, for about nine-hundred-fifty thousand dollars (1988). Buying a house in Tesuque, a suburb near Sante Fe, New Mexico, for about eight-hundred-seventy-five thousand dollars (1990). Spending approximately one million dollars on each house for electronic security systems and renovations (1991). Renting Sting's house in Malibu Colony for about twenty-five thousand dollars a month (1992).
... namo nama.
I spent many happy hours with Atmananda, in the plushly carpeted meditation room, watching the Pacific Ocean as I listened to him sing and talk about his dreams. Deeply believing that millions would be made happy, I refused to acknowledge that millions would soon be made. And though I never chanted the money mantra, I helped my housemate who did.
In the fall of 1980, Atmananda spoke with the Stony Brook disciples, who were still in New York, "on an inner level." He also spoke with them on the phone. He told them that Chinmoy was directing a "special force" toward our new, million-dollar Centre in La Jolla. He told them about our now legendary recruitment drive. He told them about our feasts.
These disciples missed Atmananda. They missed his advice, friendship, and love. They missed his extended family. They missed him coaxing, "Eat, eat."
When Sal moved west, he joined the disciples who ate each week at a Mexican restaurant with Atmananda. One time Atmananda declared, "I wonder where The Gwid has been hiding these days."
Sal said, "You would not believe how many people have asked me that very question."
"You swine!" cried Atmananda. "All along you've been hiding him in... your nose!"
"How can you tell?"
"Hah—so you doubt my ability to see!"
A few minutes later, the waiter arrived. I ordered a quesadilla and a chile relleno.
"C'mon kid," said Atmananda, "where's your capacity?"
I admitted I was low on money.
"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.
I looked and saw our reflection superimposed on the image of the crowd.
"The people," I said. "They don't seem real."
"Yes," he agreed. "Theirs is a world of illusion."
"Something heavy has been going down in the inner worlds," Atmananda announced at a Centre meeting in late December, 1980. "Can anyone *see* what it is?"
"Is Guru coming to visit us soon?" asked one disciple.
"No."
"Is the earth's psychic energy field getting progressively worse?" tried another.
"Yes, but that's not it. Anyone else?"
"This is going to sound crazy," said Kara, a UCSD student who seemed entranced by her own melodious voice. "But has Guru fallen?"
"Yes."
No one stirred.
"Why don't you elaborate, Kara?" said Atmananda.
"I first felt it a few weeks ago," she said, glancing at the ceiling as if she were trying to recall something. "I was meditating on the Transcendental but didn't *see* much light, ya know, and well, I just thought it was me but it just kept happening, and like I love Guru and all but... " Months later, Kara would be hospitalized for a mental disorder.
"You have truly *seen*," praised Atmananda.
My heart pounded. I felt like a bomb had exploded in my face. I saw Kara gazing at Atmananda. It was only months before that Atmananda had asked me to deceive the disciples into buying him a "surprise gift"—the new car. I scanned the crowded room. People seemed disoriented. Three disciples visiting from the Santa Barbara Chinmoy Centre kept glancing at the door. They looked ready to bolt.
"Many of you have been having difficulty meditating recently," said Atmananda in his familiar, soothing voice. "You have been blaming yourselves. But you should understand that it is not you.
"For years I have meditated on the Transcendental and the room has filled with a beautiful, white light. But lately, the light has simply not been there. At first I thought that the level of my meditation had dropped. Intuitively, though, I knew that that was not the case."
I could not believe what was happening. I had never heard Atmananda criticize his—our—beloved Guru. Still, I had to admit that his intuition was usually correct.
"When I tried meditating without the Transcendental," he continued, "my consciousness suddenly jumped to a much higher level—as if the Guru had been holding me down. And yet my logical mind still refused to accept that the Guru had fallen. You see, you don't just turn your back on someone you have devoted eleven years of your life to, someone you have loved more than anyone else in the universe."
I wondered if a con artist would devote eleven years of his life to a guru.
"I had to make sure that the Negative Forces were not playing tricks on my mind," he continued. "So I decided to visit New York and meditate on the Guru in person. I found that he still looked like Guru. But inwardly I could see right away that he had lost his power."
I wondered if I could have detected a change.
"When the Guru began to meditate, it became clear that he was not entering into samadhi—though the disciples still believed that he was. Nonetheless, I wanted to be absolutely certain that the Negative Forces were not clouding my vision. So I visited Apeksha, a Queens, New York, disciple who has studied with the Guru for as long as I have.
"At first, Apeksha thought I was crazy. But after we spent hours looking at old Guru photos, neither of us had any doubt as to what had happened.
"Apeksha is now in a real bind. On the one hand, he can see that the Guru has fallen. On the other hand, he knows that he's not strong enough yet to ward off the Negative Forces on his own."
Richard, who had bought the million-dollar Centre, raised his hand and said, "Atmananda, isn't there anything we can do to help Guru?"
"Your sentiment is a noble one," Atmananda replied. "But you have to be careful. If you are swimming near a sinking ocean liner, it doesn't matter how nice a person you are—you'll be sucked under when the ship goes down.
"You should understand that I am not criticizing the Guru. Nor should any of you. You should give him a great deal of credit for holding out against the Forces for as long as he did.
"The Forces are not exactly evil per se. They are merely playing their role in the Cosmic Game. It just so happens that their role is to destroy Light."
Several disciples shook their heads incredulously. Others cast a glassy-eyed, soporific gaze at the renegade Centre leader—as if this were a typical late-night meeting.
"In 1985, the situation in the universe will begin to get much worse. A great cloud of darkness will envelop the earth for thousands of years."
I pictured the shadow of a huge oil slick creeping toward the globe.
"There will soon be a sharp increase in the number of wars and natural disasters, and nearly everyone on the planet will be affected. Spiritual seekers will suffer the most, because they are the ones who are most sensitive to the pain and suffering of others. It will become increasingly difficult to meditate, and seekers not grounded in the dharma [Truth] will be in grave danger of being seduced by the Dark Side."
Unaware of the effect Atmananda was having beneath the surface world of my reason, I watched his demanding, doughy face and listened to his soothing, arresting voice.
"But there is no reason for you to indulge in sadness. In times of great darkness, spiritual warriors band together and fight the Forces. This is their soul's work, and therefore their inner beings are extremely happy! Despite enormous odds, they fight for Truth and Light and, well, I'm not supposed to tell you this, but, let's just say that the warriors are in for some pleasant surprises in this and in future lives."
I assumed he meant that they would accrue good karma.
"And I would be willing to wager," he said, smiling warmly, "that they are in for a heck of a good time.
"Until the warriors are close to attaining enlightenment, they will need a genuine spiritual teacher. They will need a teacher who turns out strong, free-thinking individuals, *not* spaced-out, dependent disciples. They will need a teacher who is fully or partially enlightened, and who has extensive experience in guiding souls to self-realization. They will also need a teacher who has the power to ward off hordes of Negative Forces."
Atmananda reminded us that the powers from his past lives had been "cycling" through him and had been propelling him into basement samadhi and beyond. He said that he had been carefully monitoring his progress toward self-realization. He had not only asked the Infinite for advice, he assured us, but had been reading detailed accounts of the enlightenment process.
No one asked to review his source material.
He went on to describe the countless inner realms he had been slipping in and out of lately. The realms, he explained, were so deep and powerful that the man we had come to know as Atmananda had all but disappeared inside the clear light of the void.
I was attempting to make sense of his claims, when he said that samadhi was incomprehensible to the human mind. Then he paused, slowly scanned the audience, and announced that he would be helping advanced, sincere seekers in their quest for enlightenment... on his *own*.
"He's on a power trip!" I thought. "Maybe he's been planning this all along. Maybe he actually believes in it. In either case... "
"You need to realize that I am doing this because it is what the Infinite wants me to do. It certainly wasn't my idea. You see, when you reach this stage in the enlightenment process, you completely surrender your will to the Infinite."
"If that's true," I thought, "no problem. But... "
"Please understand that I am not a guru. I am a teacher. How can you tell if someone is your teacher? By how you feel when you meditate with them. By their glow. By how they treat the people around them. By whether they practice what they preach. But you have to be careful out there. You have to ask yourself, 'Are they phony or are they genuine? Are they trying to take your money? Are they trying to sell you spiritual rhetoric laced with subtle, complex half-truths?'"
"I agree," I thought, "we should watch out. But... "
"You have to ask yourself, 'Does the teacher give individual counseling when necessary? Provide a community of advanced seekers? Transmit light inwardly? Teach several spiritual philosophies and disciplines? Point out traps along the Path? Ward off the Negative Forces?'" Atmananda inundated us with so many details that he appeared to be conducting a lesson, not a coup.
"Another way to tell if someone is your teacher," Atmananda said, turning toward me, "is to see if you have studied with them in a previous life. Several of you have been with me before. Mark, for instance, has studied with me in Tibet, Japan, and India. He doesn't remember very well, but he will. You may have noticed how easy it is to see his aura."
"He's just saying that!" I thought. Yet I had always felt a powerful affinity toward those countries. Several students cast their gaze at me. I felt a rush. I felt powerful. It felt good.
Minutes later, Atmananda suddenly grew bitter. "Don't think that I don't know what some of you are thinking," he accused, as he aimed his eagle-like glare. "You realize, of course, who I *am*," he added haughtily.
"Who are you really, Atmananda?" I wondered. I felt frenzied and dazed, as if a dark and powerful cyclone had swept Atmananda's train off its tracks—and me with it. I thought about the time Atmananda had narrated at a Centre meeting the tale of "The Emperor's New Clothes." He had likened himself to the story's truthful, outspoken child.
"Is he like the child?" I now wondered. "Or is he really like the deceitful tailor?" Looking up, I chose to see him as my kind, warm-hearted friend.
"There are a few of you," he said, "who are letting the Forces fill you with confusion and doubt. But overall, you are a fairly advanced group and should have no trouble perceiving what your inner beings already know."
"He sounds like he believes in what he's saying," I thought.
"Look, you can think about it all you want. But until you learn to *see*, believe me, you won't get very far."
The Santa Barbara disciples suddenly stood up.
"You folks are invited to stick around," Atmananda said.
They stepped outside and closed the door.
At around 9:30 p.m., Atmananda announced that those who sought to continue their studies with him should return to the Centre later that night. Then, pointing out that we were letting ourselves get fogged, he suggested that we meditate to clear things up.
Many in the audience closed their eyes to meditate.
"Open your eyes and look at me," Atmananda scolded.
Despite my new credentials as an old mystical seer, I looked but could not *see* if Atmananda was an enlightened spiritual teacher who had found the way, or a charismatic megalomaniac who had lost it. But the thick fog of illusion, which prevented me from gaining insight into his true nature, might have partially cleared had I known what Atmananda told Tom only weeks before, during a meditation with Chinmoy in New York.
"Have you noticed anything different about Guru?" Atmananda had asked him.
"No," replied Tom, who had not yet joined Atmananda's west coast entourage.
"Something heavy has been going down in the inner worlds," Atmananda said. "Call me in San Diego in late December, and I will fill you in."
One week into the cross-country bicycle trek, I stopped near the New York-Massachusetts border by a sign pointing to a campground. It was getting late. I wondered if I should save the money and sleep in the woods. I recalled Atmananda's penchant for lodging at exclusive, expensive hotels. I realized that I did not want to follow him. I also realized that I did not want to *not* follow him. I wanted to do what was right for me. I followed the sign.
I stood at the campground entrance beneath a totem pole, whose carved faces reminded me of the Negative Forces. But I was no longer bound by Atmananda's interpretation of the world, I told myself. "Sweet dreams," I said to the faces and rolled past them.
The next morning I crossed over the Hudson River into Albany and walked up the hill toward the Governor Nelson A. Rockefeller Empire State Plaza. Endowed with intricately sculptured arches and columns, the majestic New York State capitol building contrasted with the modern structures across the street, which included four towers labeled in letters of gold. I sat by a reflecting pool where I watched wavering images of pennies at the bottom. I thought about my financial situation. I was doing okay. In Boston I had stopped paying Atmananda's ever-increasing tuition, moved from a studio apartment to a small room in a house, and commuted to my computer job each day by bicycle. I had managed to pay off one student loan and, after selling the car, to build a small buffer. Why, I now wondered as I tossed a penny in the pool, did I feel so bad?
Because it was Atmananda, I suddenly realized, who had sent me to computer school. It was Atmananda who had bought me that car. I felt bad because I still considered myself to be in his debt. I needed to distinguish, I told myself, between the effects of his unsolicited gifts and the results of my own hard-earned efforts.
Two days later, as I continued to travel, the cars whizzing by served as a constant, crushing reminder that towing a three-foot wide trailer down a country road at night was probably not such a good idea. But driven by the thought of staying with a friend in Utica, I continued despite the danger. The road gradually rose into thick, dark woods, and there were no houses in sight. To complicate matters, I was a devout believer in the excitement and mystery of a journey and carried no maps. I was completely lost.
The road began following a winding river, and it became increasingly difficult to convince myself that a town or phone was just ahead. Exhausted, I stopped at the edge of a clearing and set up the bent, many-sided tent—another gift from Atmananda. I lay on my sleeping bag and listened to the river and to voices from the past. I could almost hear Atmananda talking, back in 1979, about the pending move from New York to southern California.
"It's very important that the right people go," he had said to Rachel and me.
We nodded.
"I'm not sure about Dana and Connie," he confided. "But I'm sure I made the right decision about you two." Then he squinted and focused his gaze above our heads.
"You realize, of course, who I am," he added haughtily.
I was eighteen at the time and thought I already knew who he was: a devoted Chinmoy disciple, a respected English professor, and a kind, sensitive person. His remark had left me so confused and repulsed that I let it drop from my conscious mind.
Now, as I listened to the gurgling river, I realized that Atmananda had made the same remark two years later, when he announced that Chinmoy had fallen. I realized, too, that there were other foreshadowings of his rise to power. There were the money and the "surprise gift" schemes. There was the basement samadhi announcement, which came during a debilitating thirteen-day fast. And there were numerous times he manipulated Chinmoy's disciples through the use of images, such as when he told me to picture my parents as "two red lobsters sporting bow ties."
Why, I wondered, had I largely ignored these and other warnings? Part of the answer, I supposed, had to do with the masterful way in which Atmananda used words. Equipped with a seductively compelling voice, he built vast, virtual kingdoms which were subject to constantly changing, contradictory etiquette. One week, for instance, it was spiritually correct to save money for ourselves, to have sex with someone outside the Centre, to study with Chinmoy; the following week, it was not. It had been difficult to maintain a perspective. I sensed that another part of the answer had to do with me and my need to believe, but now, as memories and realizations grew too painful to touch, I let my thoughts swirl slowly downstream with the gurgles of the river. Soon I was asleep.
That night, I woke to the noise of a racing engine and screeching brakes.
"This is no dream," I thought. "This is real!"
Two blinding lights sped straight toward me.
"HEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYY!" I screamed. Suddenly, the screeching and skidding stopped. My heart pounded. No more than ten feet away was a vehicle. It kicked into reverse, spun around, and disappeared into the night in a cacophonous squeal of metal, rubber, and asphalt. It was some time before the sound of rushing water lulled me back to sleep.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of car doors slamming. From the tent I saw a family walking toward the river. They stepped past long skid marks. "Excuse me," I called out, "which way is it to Utica?"
"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... "
KNOCK!! KNOCK!!
I jumped up.
Atmananda smiled as he opened my door. "Hi, kid. The meeting will start in a few minutes. Do you want to greet people—or should I find someone else?"
Simultaneously soothed and disoriented by his voice and face, I felt reluctant to give up a position of authority. "I'll greet them," I said.
Some of the fifty or so former Chinmoy disciples that I greeted seemed excited, but most, like me, seemed anxious and confused. Twenty minutes after the meeting was scheduled to begin, I closed the door and sat with the group before a barren, Transcendental-less shrine. A nervous tension permeated the room. Atmananda strode in, sat down, and fiddled with his wristwatch. Then he looked up and quickly raised his hand to his mouth—as if he were surprised that he was not alone. A few people laughed.
"There are four paths leading to enlightenment," Atmananda said. "Bhakti yoga, the way of love, is by far the easiest path because love is the strongest force in the universe."
He had described the four paths many times before, and I began to feel slightly more at ease. It was particularly reassuring in his tumultuous world that love was still so important a quality.
"Karma yoga, the path of selfless service, is perhaps the noblest of the paths if you can avoid feeling superior to those whom you serve. Mahatma Gandhi was a karma yogi, though he never actually attained enlightenment."
"How can he be so sure?" I wondered. "Maybe Gandhi *had* attained enlightenment." I also wondered if Atmananda would end up serving himself rather than the Infinite.
"Jnana yoga, the path of knowledge and wisdom, is the least traveled of the four paths. Jnana yogis face the difficult task of learning to discriminate between what is real and what is maya, or illusion."
It was extremely difficult for me to face my friend and hero, and to discern whether his was a genuine path to the Infinite or an illusory path to himself. So I thought, instead, about jnana yoga master Sri Yukteswar, whose disciple, Paramahansa Yogananda, wrote the popular Autobiography of a Yogi.
"Mysticism," Atmananda said, "is the path described in the Castaneda books. By living impeccably, the mystic accumulates personal power until she or he is capable of entering into the Other Worlds. Though mysticism is the fastest way to enlightenment, it is also the most dangerous. Mystics are often attacked and drained of their power by the Dark Magicians, and many end up becoming Dark Magicians themselves."
Though enthralled by this path, I was bothered by Atmananda's insistence that a myriad of beings, human and otherwise, stood poised to destroy mystics who strayed from a constantly changing set of rules—that Atmananda happened to know all about. I was also bothered by Atmananda's seeming obsession with "Dark Magicians."
"In past lives," Atmananda continued, "I have followed, mastered, and taught each of the four paths. You should understand that if you choose to continue your spiritual education with me, it will be your resistance to the Light—not my level of evolution—that is responsible for impeding your progress."
"Where does he come off sounding so sure of himself?" I wondered, my doubts suddenly resurfacing. "I really need time to think about this."
"For me, leading people to enlightenment is old hat. Each of you have been singled out to me through omens or through dreams. It was up to me to hook you, to essentially trick you into pursuing the long, arduous path to knowledge. Hooking takes place on an inner level and can not be explained with words. Tricking is necessary because people, left to their own devices, are inherently lazy and would avoid their higher destiny."
Remembering how Don Juan hooked Castaneda, I figured that being hooked and tricked into a higher destiny was probably okay—as long as everything turned out all right. It was deeply ingrained in me to believe that things tended to turn out all right.
"It is essential that you learn spiritual etiquette," Atmananda said. "Do not hang pictures of me. Do not worship me. Do not treat me like a guru. I am a teacher, a spiritual benefactor. You will have to fight your impulses to treat me as though I were more important than anyone else."
I liked his term "spiritual benefactor." It seemed to encompass the spiritual worlds of the Guru and the mystical worlds of benefactor Don Juan. I also liked his claim that he sought no special attention.
"Needless to say, you are free to leave at any time," he suddenly lashed out. "No one is asking you to stay—believe me, you are not doing anyone any favors!"
It made me upset and confused when Atmananda flipped to his emerging, hostile personality.
"But if it is the highest good that you seek," he said, returning to a gentler tongue, "you have come to the right place."
I suppressed a yawn. He had been speaking awhile, and it was well past midnight. Exhausted, too, from the shock of Atmananda's sudden grab for power, I became mesmerized by the sound and the rhythm of the words.
"You are caught up in trying to be someone you are not, and it is clearly not working. You are fighting yourselves for no apparent reason. Look, it's easy. You can stay the way you are and continue living someone else's dream, or you can come with me on a walk to nowhere. Leave aside your petty jealousies, your hates, your desires, your attachments, your fears, and enter the worlds where I hang out—worlds of pure joy, light, and bliss."
Several minutes later, Atmananda announced it was time to meditate. I wanted to rub my eyes, yawn, and stretch out on the soft blue rug. Instead, I sat there spellbound, drifting in and out of a dreamless sleep. At one point, I woke and heard, "When you attain enlightenment, your selves dissolve in the clear light of the void. Maybe you exist, maybe you don't. It no longer matters." Then, as Atmananda rehashed the details of his own enlightenment, I dozed off again.
After the meeting, I went to my room. "I need time to think," I reminded myself. As I drifted off to sleep, I could still hear my housemate talking.
Of the original one hundred San Diego Chinmoy disciples, roughly ten formed their own Chinmoy Centre, forty set out on their own, and fifty followed Atmananda. While some aspects of Atmananda's program remained the same, others intensified. He repeatedly warned, for instance, that the Negative Forces would prey on those who did not meditate regularly, those who diluted their power with doubts about him, and those who did not regularly attend his meetings. He began holding "crucial" meetings each night to help us "combat the Forces." The meetings began at around seven-thirty p.m. and lasted at times until dawn.
I attended each of Atmananda's meetings and, with only two or three hours of sleep per night, quickly grew fatigued. Once my boss at the UCSD Computer Center found me asleep with my upper body resting on a noisy, three-and-a-half-foot-high mainframe printer. Another time, Atmananda read to me a letter that he had sent to Chinmoy: "As you know, I have been entering into highly advanced states of consciousness lately... " Unable to concentrate, I suppressed a yawn and lapsed into a long, thoughtless pause.
I was occasionally buoyed by the realization that I desperately needed rest, that I needed time to think, and that I needed to take a break from Atmananda's all-night meetings. But I was mostly slapped by waves of fear of Atmananda's Negative Forces, and pulled under by the weight of shifting etiquette, meta-rational rhetoric, and sleep deprivation.
Roughly two weeks into the post-coup program, Atmananda began to publish WOOF! The Weekly Newsletter of Anahata. Having named his organization after the anahata chakra—the "psychic energy center of love"—he initially distributed WOOF! to the fifty Anahatans. Weeks later, after having renamed his organization "Church of Atlantis" (C.O.A.), Atmananda decided to distribute WOOF! The Voice of Southern California to tens of thousands of San Diegans.
WOOF! provided work for Atmananda's devotees and helped bind the fledgling group. We illustrated, laid out, distributed, and laughed over each edition. We laughed, for instance, at Atmananda's fabricated advertisement about an imaginary bank (Issue #3; January, 1981): "Interloka Bank is pleased to announce the opening of a new branch in Mark's room. We will be giving away the first 500 customers as valuable gifts... We at Interloka are dedicated to serving you totally, and are proud to take you for all we can, whenever we can. We are the only authorized distributors of the GOLDEN GWIDcard... Interloka Bank—We Own You... " Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, the desire to believe in our friend and mentor, or the need for comic relief that blinded us to the grim foreshadowing of Atmananda's humor.
I laughed the hardest at Atmananda's ads and columns in which he satirized televangelists, Indian gurus, the Moonies, and New Age healers (see Appendix A). I felt justified in laughing at other spiritual groups, partly because they seemed to merit it and partly because Atmananda said that they needed to be laughed at. He wrote in an editorial (Issue #6; March, 1981): "WOOF!, the all-natural and organic paper that millions use to line their bird cages, makes fun of it all. We act as a consumer's representative for you in the field of New Age consciousness. We feel that if what people have to offer is genuine then they won't mind us poking a little fun at them. And if they do mind—then maybe the products or services they offer deserve careful scrutiny, and we should re-evaluate the truthfulness of their claims... "
In my naive, sleepless stupor, I accepted Atmananda's mission of poking fun at others, and did my best to train and coordinate the WOOF! distribution teams.
Perhaps it was to dispel doubts about his own authenticity that Atmananda proceeded to poke fun at himself. Appearing beside his photograph was the following ad (Issue #6; March, 1981): "His High Holiness SWAMI UGULA UGLE From The Himalayan Institute For The Strange will be appearing in Del Mar on March 37th at 2 a.m. for the high himalayan karrmuppet hat dancing & tea ceremony. $$ Bring Lots Of Money $$ His high Holiness Swami Ugula Ugle is a direct lineal descendant of Llama Fred. He personally assisted in the baking of several LARGE rye breads at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. A devotee of Sri Ramana Maharshi and baseball, the Swami actually is a good guy. He doesn't claim to be any better than the rest of us. But he's happy. So maybe happiness can be learned? Come and find out... We may hit you for a few bucks—but we'll give you a good time... Lots of pomp and ceremony for you Western types who can't accept that enlightened souls can look and act like normal human beings... "
I liked the ad. I saw no reason why enlightened souls should not look and act like normal human beings. I liked the way Atmananda poked fun at the pomp and ceremony which had distanced Chinmoy from many of his disciples. I also found Atmananda's deflated view of himself a relief.
A number of Atmananda's advertisements, however, were of a more serious nature. In the first issue, for instance (January, 1981), he wrote: "1st WORKSHOP OF 1981... another exciting Castaneda experience at UCSD... inspired posterers—here's your chance!" In later issues, he repeatedly ran "The Experience of Luminosity" ad (Issue #6; March, 1981): "DR. FREDERICK LENZ is a spiritual Benefactor. Each month... he offers several free workshops to members of the San Diego community. At these workshops he provides solid information and techniques that will help you to gain inner peace and happiness. Dr. Lenz does this by discussing the most helpful aspects of Buddhism, Yoga, Vedanta, Zen, Taoism and the psychic and spiritual arts... During meditation, Dr. Lenz enters into Samadhi and directly channels Peace, Light, Power and Ecstasy to you... ADMISSION FREE... "
At the top of this full-page ad appeared the words, "Paid advertisement"—as if WOOF! had been published by someone other than Dr. Frederick Lenz.
Atmananda, who at times seemed as cautious as he was bold, told me to instruct WOOF! distribution volunteers to be highly inaccessible. I kept this in mind one Saturday afternoon as I approached a health food store with Marty, a shy, soft-spoken UCSD student with a sense of wonder in his eyes. Marty had been a disciple of Chinmoy for about a year.
Raising the WOOF!'s to the counter, I said, "Could we leave these by the door? They're free!"
"Sure," the manager replied and he took one.
I placed my stack, and Marty, who had been lugging additional copies, placed his as well. We were almost out the door when the man said, "Say, who puts out this... WOOF!?"
I was about to reply that we did not know, that we were only doing this for money, when Marty suddenly blurted, "What WOOF!?" And in a flash we were gone.
When I told Atmananda this story, he seemed pleased with me. He was pleased with the large turn-outs at his public lectures, and he said I was doing an impeccable job overseeing the ten or so WOOF! and poster distribution volunteers. Perhaps it was in anticipation of unbridled expansion that, using doubt-diffusing humor, he wrote and published the "Cult Of The Gwid Spreads Throughout Rancho Bernardo" article (Issue #6; March, 1981): "In a seemingly unstoppable tide of fanatic cultism, proponents, adherents and admirers of the Gwid have firmly rooted themselves in Rancho Bernardo and are expanding at an alarming rate. The concerned people of Rancho Bernardo are helpless in the face of such determined behavior and many have resigned themselves to their fate and joined ranks with the lively followers of the Gwid... the Gwid reassured and won the hearts of the entire Rancho Bernardo community when he gave a public speech yesterday outlining his major beliefs and ideals. Excerpts follow: 'I do not wish to own your sons and daughters, merely to use them as a tax break. It is not the acquiring of wealth that interests me, but rather the actual possession of it. All else is useless to me unless it involves adventure, limber bodies, cunning and chocolate... In closing, I stand for freedom, a cheese in every hand, the dignity to live a free and happy life under my close supervision... '"
As the month wore on, Atmananda often stopped by my room to perform what he called "reality checks." This involved chatting and meditating with me until my consciousness was "in a good place." He was probably concerned that, as a member of his inner circle, I might unduly influence his disciples. But I was too tired, too fearful of the Negative Forces, and too busy coordinating WOOF! and poster distribution teams to seriously reflect on or pose a threat to his self-anointed position of power.
Occasionally, though, I did think about the change. But instead of confronting guilt from having abandoned Chinmoy, and instead of confronting doubts about Atmananda, I found it easier to laugh and laugh at spiritual groups and the absurd things that they did.