Take Me for a Ride Part 19

"Are you okay?"

"My neck and throat hurt."

But Atmananda's sore throat had not stopped him from voicing and capitalizing on what he had dreamt.

"The Guru is attempting to destroy me," Atmananda announced to his disciples at subsequent Centre meetings. "You need to understand that while the Guru has lost his spiritual powers, he has not lost his mystical powers. Until you break all mental, emotional, and psychic attachments to him, and until you develop a powerful inner connection with me, you will be completely vulnerable to his next round of inner attacks. Many of you think that this is some kind of game.

Just don't come running to me when you find that all your power is gone."

Memories about Atmananda that had been suppressed for months continued to freely flow. "Do you see how my skin glows?"

he had recently asked me.

"That means you are healthy," I had replied.

"True, but if you look closely you will see that the light from my body is emanating from a higher plane."

There were memories of eating breakfast with Atmananda and my other housemates. At one point during the meal, Atmananda gazed out the window and spoke as though in a trance. "The powers,"

he said repeatedly, "are coming back to me. I can now fill an entire room with golden light. I am not who you think I am."

About fifteen minutes later, he stopped talking and went to his room.

"Is there something wrong with Atmananda?" Anne asked me as we washed the breakfast dishes.

"Something is definitely not right," I replied. We glanced at each other, but found it difficult to share our ideas and doubts in much depth. We both felt indebted to Atmananda.

He had managed to convince us, separately, that had we not met him, we would now be dead. He used this tactic on many disciples.

He had also been giving Anne and me special attention lately, and we therefore felt particularly guilty that we had doubts about him.

Then there was the climate of distrust that he had been fostering within the Centre. He occasionally warned me, for instance, that Anne was in a low state of consciousness and that I should avoid her whenever possible; he would then tell her the same about me, and so on. Furthermore, Atmananda had worked to make communication among disciples intimidating and taboo.

"If any of you break the Seven Seals of Silence," he had repeatedly warned inner circle devotees, without explaining what the Seals were, "I would not want to be in your shoes. You have to understand that there would be absolutely nothing I could do to help you.

It would be awful--I don't even want to think about it."

Other surfacing memories of Atmananda revolted me. I recalled his often-stated maxim that only through revenge could one of life's greatest joys be attained. In WOOF! (Issue #3; January, 1981), he wrote: "Thousands died today in Pompeii when Mount Vesuvius erupted without warning...It was seen that the people of Pompeii had all been enemies of the Gwid in a recent incarnation and that the explosion...was the Gwid's special way of showing the populace that he is not a person to be trifled with..."

I recalled with disgust Atmananda's claim that he used to toss his dog fifteen to twenty feet into the air.

I recalled with disgust his treatment of me during one of his public lectures. "Can anyone see what is wrong with Mark?"

he had asked the audience, after calling me to the front of the room.

No response.

"Look at him now."

Silence.

"The energy around his head," he told them matter-of-factly, "is not balanced. But don't worry. We are working on him."

As I grappled with the memory, I grew angry. Atmananda, I realized, probably saw me as one of his pets. Suddenly it struck me that while Atmananda might be like McMurphy, he might also be like the novel's mean-spirited antagonist, Nurse Ratched, also known as Big Nurse.

Both Atmananda and Big Nurse, I realized, discouraged their wards from exploring the outdoors. I remembered Atmananda warning me, before I went backpacking in Yosemite, that he was picking up bad vibes from the trip. Despite his grim prophecy, the trip had been a success.

I had gone with three friends from the Centre, each of whom loved the woods as much as I did. We woke to the sounds of a brown bear eating our food. We played hacky-sack on top of Half Dome.

We got muddy and jumped in a river and yelled and laughed from the cold.

Yet when we returned, Atmananda scolded me for having picked up significant quant.i.ties of Negative Psychic Energy. "Don't worry,"

he told me. "I'll process the bad energy for you--though it will probably make me ill." Then, adding humiliation to guilt, he dubbed us "a.s.sholes of the mountains."

Both Atmananda and Big Nurse, I also realized, relied heavily on informants to gather data about the group that they controlled.

Atmananda exposed his Big Nurse nature in other ways. He claimed, for instance, that he had to "press all the right b.u.t.tons"

to help people overcome their resistance to the Light and to him.

And he said he never trusted a man unless he had his p.e.c.k.e.r in his pocket.

As I lay in bed remembering and reflecting, I felt overwhelmed by the extent to which Atmananda had changed. For a moment, I felt sad.

I still thought of him as a friend. I found myself thinking about the time he had initiated the former Chinmoy disciples. When it came my turn, he placed his hand on my forehead and looked into my eyes.

Not a grin or gesture broke his stern countenance. Seconds later he was done meditating on me, and I returned to the audience.

Then he called me back.

"You are rejecting me inwardly," he accused and tried again.

After the third time, he frowned.

"Next," he said.

Now I struggled with the memory and with the realization that Atmananda considered me less his friend than a subject. I had believed in him.

I had loved him. I was devastated. But as I concentrated again on his other side, the sadness disappeared. Atmananda, I realized, had been using me. I grew angry and scared.

My thoughts drifted, and I found myself thinking about a bicycle trip I had taken to Palomar Mountain months before. At the top of the mountain one of my brakes had malfunctioned, so I hitched a ride to a bike shop in Escondido. A plumber had picked me up.

During the ride, the plumber, who lived with his wife and kids on the mountain, had pointed out a red-tailed hawk. Now, in my room in Atmananda's Centre, I pictured the way that the hawk had soared through the clear, blue, mountain sky on a course of its own...

"What the h.e.l.l am I doing here?" I suddenly thought, lifting myself out of bed. I stepped into the hall.

"What if Atmananda sees me?" I thought nervously. But the door to his room was shut. I stepped into the kitchen. Except for an occasional squawk from a macaw, the house was dead quiet.

I picked up the phone. I remembered the name of the plumber on Palomar Mountain. I called information. My heart raced.

The plumber remembered who I was.

"Do you need an apprentice?" I asked in a strained whisper.

"Well, come to think of it," he said, "I could use some help.

But weren't you going to finish college?"

"I think I need to take a break for awhile," I admitted.

"I understand. I'll tell you what. Why don't you come on out and we'll talk it over."

I wrote down directions, thanked him, and returned to my room.

I wanted to say good-bye to my friends in the Centre, but I knew that in the interest of "saving" me, they would tell Atmananda.

And I knew too well that he had a knack for persuading borderline disciples not to leave. So, wishing the disciples well on their journey, I kept my plan secret. I wished Atmananda well on his journey, too. Each time I thought of him, though, I broke out in a cold sweat.

My plan was to hitchhike that night to Palomar Mountain.

I stuffed some gear in my backpack, which I kept hidden in the closet.

I was ready. The sun was starting to set. "It's okay, man," I thought, hugging myself. I was frightened.

Suddenly the bell rang. I remained in my room. Atmananda answered the door. It was Sal.

I heard Atmananda shout, "Salitos, take out the hot sauce!"