Take Me For A Ride | Page 8

He lived near the
State University of New York at Stony Brook, near the eight or so
Chinmoy disciples, near Atmananda. When I asked him to take me to
his Guru, he said that he would.
We met at our parents' home. He wore all white clothes. "White
symbolizes purity--the spiritual quality men need to develop most," he
explained, quoting Chinmoy. "Wearing white only adds one or two
percent more purity to your consciousness, but every bit helps."
My mother came into the room and looked at my brother.
"Uh-oh," I thought. I felt bad for my mother. She typically had to deal
with me and my brother on her own. Perhaps in anticipation of an ulcer
condition, my father tended to avoid so-called family discussions. "If
only she would leave us alone," I figured, "she would not get so bent
out of shape."
I also felt bad for my brother. Everything he did, it seemed, aggravated
my parents. "They should support him in his spiritual quest," I decided.
Now my mother looked upset. I did not know it then, but she was not
upset that her sons were interested in yoga. In her youth she had
satisfied a similar interest in the East by taking a course on Gandhi's
philosophy. She grew concerned, however, when she realized that we

were intensely focusing on one person--on a living guru.
"Where are you boys going?" she asked.
"It's okay, Mom," I replied, assuming my role as mediator. "We're just
going to a talk on relaxation and meditation--you know, stuff like that."
I had already told her about Chinmoy and Atmananda ("Mom, I think I
found a teacher right here in New York!"). But she wanted to know
more. She looked hurt.
"You're upset about relaxation and meditation?" I said, trying my best
to reason with her. "This is nothing, Mom. What are you going to say
when I hitchhike to Mexico to study with a *brujo*?"
The silence that ensued bore with it all the weight of a mother's love,
hope, and fear for her sons.
We said good-bye and rode to the city.
"I mean, I have to lead my own life," I thought, and focused on my
parents' shortcomings to offset pangs of guilt.
Manhattan's ivy-league citadel of the intellect seemed an unlikely spot
for people to be led beyond thought. But then, finding a guru with an
enlightened soul uptown seemed no less likely than meeting a sorcerer
with a Ph.D. downtown. We switched at Grand Central Station to an
uptown train and emerged at 125th Street. The clatter of subway cars
gave way to traffic noise which faded once we entered the Columbia
University campus. Soon we ascended steps to St. Paul's Chapel.
Ahead of us were men with closely cropped hair wearing all white
clothes. With hair clenched in braids, the sari-wrapped women walked
apart from the men--who were not looking at them. At the top of the
stairs, dressed in a red tennis outfit, stood Atmananda.
"Hi, Atmananda," said my brother, looking up.
With folded arms, Atmananda looked down and said, "Hello, Dan."
"You remember my kid brother?"
"Hello, kid brother."
Atmananda and I were roughly the same height, yet as disciples flocked
by him he seemed much taller. I was again struck by his piercing eyes,
sharp nose, and thick crown of brown hair. With such a countenance of
nobility, he could have passed as a high Roman senator or Greek god.
"Guru couldn't make it this week," he said. "Why don't you go in and
meditate, and pick up on Guru's vibes?"
My brother and I went inside. High above us on the massive chapel

dome were paintings of angels. Perhaps it was the distant angels, the
two hundred or more silent disciples, and the rising scent of
sandalwood incense, that made me feel foreign and small. We
meditated for about five minutes and left.
Outside, Atmananda was speaking with a man in white, when it struck
me that he was wearing red. "A non-conformist within a group of
non-conformists!" I thought.
He nodded to us but continued talking.
I walked by and noticed his name tag. Directly beneath
"ATMANANDA" glimmered a sticker from AAA and this warning:
"Fasten Your Seat Belt."
That night, in the Castaneda books, I read how ordinary events were
often portentous omens. I wondered if there was a significant message
hidden in the Guru's absence. I wondered, too, if I was supposed to
meditate with this Guru before hitchhiking west.
The following week, I ventured with my brother to another of
Atmananda's lectures. We also returned to meditate with Chinmoy.
When we arrived at Columbia, disciples were arranging flowers,
lighting incense, and otherwise darting about in preparation for their
master's presence. Chinmoy apparently was on his way. Several
minutes later