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.