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