"How come?"
"He said I didn't have the right spirit."
He dialed again. "Halllooooooo, Atmanaaaaaaanda!" he bellowed. This time, Atmananda gave him directions to the party.
Weeks before, Atmananda gave me permission to attend his parties—provided that I did not "vibe" the women.
"Don't look at them as women," my brother had suggested, quoting Chinmoy and Atmananda. "Look at them as seekers. When you look at them as women, it hurts their evolution."
I assured him I would try.
After I moved to Stony Brook, I started going to Atmananda's parties regularly. At one party my brother and I arrived at Tom's house, left our sneakers by the door, and went inside. Atmananda, Sal, Anne, Tom, and a few other disciples stood in the kitchen. They looked bewildered. The air smelled charred. Black, gooey gobs darkened the floor. Atmananda was not talking. Something was wrong.
When Anne had lit the stove moments before, an explosion singed her hair and propelled chocolate and marshmallow covered graham crackers across the room. Now, as we cleaned the mess, Atmananda began to speak.
"Guru protected us from the Negative Forces," he said in a rich, lulling voice.
I told myself that the explosion had probably more to do with the gas being left on than it did with Guru and the Forces.