"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.