"The Muppet Movie?" I asked after another full day of postering. "Starring Kermit-the-Frog?"
"Trust me," Atmananda replied.
Trust was the bridge to Atmananda's world, a peculiar, improbable place where it snowed inside buildings in Manhattan in the spring, where invisible beings threatened a guru's mission by blowing up stoves, and where people were hunters or hunted or both. It felt natural to trust a man who treated me with kindness, who exuded an aura of competency and of vulnerability, and who seemed wholeheartedly dedicated to the cause of self-improvement.
We met at a theatre where we ate popcorn and candy in the fourth row. I told Atmananda that the postering had gone well. The lights faded and the movie began.
A Hollywood agent on a fishing trip strikes up a conversation with Kermit-the-Frog. The agent is impressed with him and suggests that he move west, to Hollywood.
Though seemingly content in his East Coast swamp, Kermit is taken by the agent's prediction that, as a movie star, he could make millions of people happy. "Make millions of people happy," echoes the starry-eyed muppet.
The scene reminded me of my former plan to hitchhike west on a mystical quest. The plan seemed less glamorous now because I had already found a teacher and because of Atmananda's prediction. He often told me that had he not rescued me from that path I would have been shot by bandits and tossed in a ditch. Perhaps, though, the former plan would have regained some momentum had I known about, and had I analyzed, the problems currently fouling the air between Chinmoy and Atmananda.
One problem was sex. Chinmoy, who taught that higher consciousness lay above the sweaty world of physical pleasure, often instructed us to avoid members of the opposite sex whenever possible.
In contrast, Atmananda told me, "I once had several girlfriends at the same time—each named Susan."
There was the problem of ego. Chinmoy emphasized over and over the importance of humility.