made the right decision about you two." Then he squinted and focused
his gaze above our heads.

"You realize, of course, who I am," he added haughtily.

I was eighteen at the time and thought I already knew who he was: a
devoted Chinmoy disciple, a respected English professor, and a kind,
sensitive person. His remark had left me so confused and repulsed that
I let it drop from my conscious mind.

Now, as I listened to the gurgling river, I realized that Atmananda had
made the same remark two years later, when he announced that Chinmoy
had fallen. I realized, too, that there were other foreshadowings of
his rise to power. There were the money and the "surprise gift"
schemes. There was the basement samadhi announcement, which came
during a debilitating thirteen-day fast. And there were numerous times
he manipulated Chinmoy's disciples through the use of images, such as
when he told me to picture my parents as "two red lobsters sporting bow
ties."

Why, I wondered, had I largely ignored these and other warnings? Part
of the answer, I supposed, had to do with the masterful way in which
Atmananda used words. Equipped with a seductively compelling voice, he
built vast, virtual kingdoms which were subject to constantly changing,
contradictory etiquette. One week, for instance, it was spiritually
correct to save money for ourselves, to have sex with someone outside
the Centre, to study with Chinmoy; the following week, it was not. It
had been difficult to maintain a perspective. I sensed that another
part of the answer had to do with me and my need to believe, but now,
as memories and realizations grew too painful to touch, I let my
thoughts swirl slowly downstream with the gurgles of the river. Soon I
was asleep.

That night, I woke to the noise of a racing engine and screeching
brakes.

"This is no dream," I thought. "This is real!"

Two blinding lights sped straight toward me.

"HEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYY!" I screamed. Suddenly, the screeching and
skidding stopped. My heart pounded. No more than ten feet away was a
vehicle. It kicked into reverse, spun around, and disappeared into the
night in a cacophonous squeal of metal, rubber, and asphalt. It was
some time before the sound of rushing water lulled me back to sleep.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of car doors slamming. From the
tent I saw a family walking toward the river. They stepped past long
skid marks. "Excuse me," I called out, "which