Article 8210 of alt.buddha.short.fat.guy: Path: news1.digex.net!news.intercon.com!howland.reston.ans.net!usc!nic-nac.CSU.net!charnel.ecst.csuchico.edu!olivea!uunet!news.delphi.com!usenet From: Charlie Rubin Newsgroups: alt.buddha.short.fat.guy Subject: Re: Rama book - complete text (very long, in 15 parts) Date: Mon, 25 Jul 94 20:26:15 -0500 Organization: Delphi (info@delphi.com email, 800-695-4005 voice) Lines: 876 Message-ID: References: NNTP-Posting-Host: bos1g.delphi.com X-To: Charlie Rubin Message-ID: <180325Z11071994@anon.penet.fi> Path: news.delphi.com!uunet!EU.net!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.buddha.short.fat.guy From: an112477@anon.penet.fi X-Anonymously-To: alt.buddha.short.fat.guy Organization: Anonymous contact service Reply-To: an112477@anon.penet.fi Date: Mon, 11 Jul 1994 18:02:44 UTC Subject: No subject Lines: 865 This book is electronically distributed with full permission of the author. Please feel free to download and pass along to interested parties. (c) Copyright 1993 by Mark E. Laxer All Rights Reserved. Outer Rim Press 4431 Lehigh Rd., #221 College Park, MD 20740 6. The Garden Southern Californians have been exposed to more New Age teachers than perhaps any population in the United States. Yet the forty or so people seemed unprepared for Atmananda, who strode into the lecture hall twenty minutes late, with a can of diet soda in one hand and a pack of green gum in the other. I assumed that many of the Birkenstock-clad seekers drank natural fruit juice and did not chew gum. "This evening I'd like for you all to hold hands and be like reeeally mellowwww," said Atmananda, mimicking the way some people spoke in San Diego's flourishing holistic community. There was tense laughter. A few people left. "Those who take themselves too seriously on the path to enlightenment," Atmananda said in a more dignified tone, "tend not to get very far." I felt good knowing that I did not take myself too seriously. "From the spiritual point of view," he said later on, "eating junk food is fine -as long as you do so in moderation and as long as you exercise regularly." Jaws dropped. I figured that many of them ate unprocessed rice and seaweed. When the meditation began, Atmananda played fast-paced electronic music by Tangerine Dream. More jaws dropped. I surmised that many of them meditated to flute and chime melodies. During the meditation, Atmananda briefly gazed at each person in the audience, as if he were sending them Spiritual Light. I closed my eyes...tried to slow my thoughts...opened my eyes... gazed intensely at Atmananda...perceived light emanating from his eyes!...kept gazing without blinking...perceived the entire room go white!.... "How many of you saw Light in the room?" he asked several minutes later. No response. "Be honest now." I raised my hand. "Why don't you describe what you saw, Mark?" I did. "Mark has been studying advanced meditation techniques with us for over a year. But you don't have to be advanced to have mystical experiences. Who -besides Mark -got zapped?" A few raised their hands. "I think you all got so blasted," Atmananda said, "that you don't know what hit you." After the talk, many of the people came forward with questions. I wanted to watch Atmananda work his charm, but I knew that I had a task to perform. Weeks earlier he had instructed me, "If you see a guy at a workshop trying to pick up a lady, move right in and engage him in conversation. This will give her the opportunity to walk away and maintain a high level of consciousness. "Do you know what women at the lectures really want? They want to get closer to God. They may think that they want relationships with men. But if they choose that world, believe me, their inner beings will be miserable." I did not ask how he proposed to relate to them. "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. The guide pointed to a giraffe. "This is -" "Fwazznoid," interrupted Atmananda loudly. " -and Puzzles has been with us for three years," continued the guide, trying to ignore the man monkeying around with the four laughing hyenas. One time during our first few weeks in California, Atmananda saw me standing on a wall in the yard. He later told me that he had seen me fly. "Really?" I said. "Yes," he replied. "I saw your Astral Body hovering over the canyon." "Wow!" Suddenly, his kind encouragement transmogrified into a cold, penetrating glare. I felt he was looking right through me. "I can see that you still doubt me," he said, turning away. I was upset with myself. As usual, he was right. Yet I sensed there was something more, something in the way he looked at me... But he was smiling now. "Don't let it bother you, kid. You're doing fine." "Whew," I thought, happy to forget about it. Perhaps Atmananda had been happy to forget about it too because he began giving me other things to think about. He gave me the task, for instance, of starting a meditation club at my new school, the University of California at San Diego (UCSD). He understood that by controlling a university club, he gained legitimacy, prestige, and unlimited access to free lecture halls. I saw no harm in Atmananda's request. We were, after all, using the club to help Guru. So I set out to find three full-time students who were willing to sign up as the club's officers. "Hi!" I said, approaching one student. "I'm starting a meditation club and was wondering if you might be interested in helping out." "What's a meditation club?" "We're going to have guest lecturers teach Zen and relaxation -you know, stuff like that." "Sounds cool, dude, but I'm already relaxed." "Great -but maybe you could take a moment and help people who are not." And so, by soliciting signatures from those not particularly interested in meditation, I became the club's sole proprietor. Meanwhile, Dana designed, Rachel mostly payed for, and Atmananda "zapped" the new stack of posters, which I then placed around UCSD, San Diego State University (SDSU), and the neighboring communities. The talks went well, and I soon handed out many maps to the Centre. Before the potential recruits arrived, Connie spent hours cleaning the Centre. According to Atmananda, this was something her soul loved to do. My soul, he pointed out, loved to greet people. "Howdy -I'm Mark!" I said. "Hello," she replied. She was graceful and alluring. "I'm Mandy." "This one," I thought, "is gonna need some heavy protecting." During the lecture, Atmananda predicted that the world would enter a spiritual dark age in 1985. "The darkness will last for thousands of years, and it will become increasingly difficult to meditate and to think clearly. Spiritual warriors will need to band together under the protection of a guru who can fight the Negative Forces and forge a path toward freedom and Light through a world turned murky and grey." Then we had cookies. After several public meetings at the Centre, Atmananda invited those who were interested in studying with Chinmoy to stay afterwards. "What do you do for a living?" Atmananda asked each of the three. "I'm a flight attendant," said Mandy. "I know a few things about flying," Atmananda interjected. "I cane chairs," said a woman with long, brown hair. "I cane people," said a man with a crewcut. "If you sincerely want to take the next step in your spiritual evolution," Atmananda said, "we will mail your photographs to Guru. Guru will use his psychic vision to see if you are meant to study with him." By the time Chinmoy accepted the flight attendant, the crafts- person, and the marine, there were many more applicants to be processed. Despite the intensity of the recruitment drive, Atmananda found time to assist certain seekers on a one-on-one basis. Mandy, in particular, must have exhibited potential because he often spent nights at her condo. I figured it was okay for Atmananda to sleep with Mandy, though it was not okay for me to appreciate her beauty. He was, after all, an advanced disciple and knew a lot more about these things than I. (He said on occasion that I could have a girlfriend outside the Centre, but mostly he said that I shouldn't.) My perceptions might have changed, however, had I known that he was sleeping with *numerous* women disciples. My perceptions also might have changed had I known about the "Bedroom Incident." When Atmananda first flew with Rachel to La Jolla in search of a rental, he chose a house with "good vibes" -but with only four bedrooms. He told Rachel that he would take the large bedroom, that she would take the dining room and living room areas, and that they would switch. But he never allowed her to use the living room. Nor would he switch. To complicate matters, he often sat outside her makeshift bedroom, advising disciples through the night and early morning how they could accelerate their march toward a wordless perfection. Unlike Atmananda, Rachel had to wake up in the morning and go to work. After too many nights of too little sleep, she grew tired, angry, and confused. When Atmananda sensed that she was not her usual, happy self, he did not openly communicate his displeasure. Instead, he ignored her. He let the other women know that she was in a bad consciousness and should be avoided whenever possible. He began to treat her as if she were an outsider. Rachel grew increasingly flustered. She reached out in her thoughts to Guru, to family, and to friends. When Atmananda asked her to move out of the house, she breathed an exhausted sigh of relief. In the meantime, without a clue, I studied literature, worked part-time, read Guru's books, meditated one-and-a-half hours a day, tried to see, organized poster teams, attended Atmananda's talks, and immersed myself each day in water over my head. I felt so good about my life and the community I was helping to build that it seemed like I was living in paradise. 7. Money Mantra 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. 8. Fast Leader 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." ------------------------------------------------------------------------- To find out more about the anon service, send mail to help@anon.penet.fi. Due to the double-blind, any mail replies to this message will be anonymized, and an anonymous id will be allocated automatically. You have been warned. Please report any problems, inappropriate use etc. to admin@anon.penet.fi.