"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 a short, stocky Indian entered the chapel. He had a shiny head, a hooked nose, and high cheek bones. He was draped in a light-blue dhoti, the male version of a sari. He walked slowly toward the front. He sat in a big blue chair, opened his eyes wide, and blinked a couple of times.
Disciples in the audience sat with their hands folded, as if they were praying to him.