ter,
I saw him reappear as someone else.

"What I am about to say," he had announced that night, "is going to
come as a shock to you. You see, I am not who you think I am."

The followers stopped fidgeting.

"A few days ago," he continued, "when I stopped drinking Tab, I knew
something was up. This morning when I woke, I looked at my body.
There was nothing but Light. I suddenly understood. It was all so
simple."

He paused. "Who am I?" he asked.

Dead silence.

"Don't all answer at once."

Nervous laughter.

"I thought you were a man named Atmananda who meditated extremely
well," said a man.

Atmananda did not reply.

"Are you a doorway to eternity?"

"Please--no philosophy tonight," he said sharply. "Who else?"

After several more tries, a devotee suggested that he was Vishnu, a
Hindu godhead.

"Close," he approved.

I felt a rush in the pit of my stomach. Atmananda's private jet, after
years of accumulating the fuel of our trust and belief, was finally
taking off. I was worried. "Fastening my seat belt" would do me no
good if he started thinking he was on par with Jesus Christ or the
Buddha.

"Are you Rama?" someone asked.

"Yes," he replied. "I am Rama, the last incarnation of Vishnu. You
people think that I am a person, but I am not. Over the years I
watched my various selves fade away. I fought the process tooth and
nail--like each of you are doing now. But it was in vain. I could not
stop the process of dissolution. I had to admit that I was no longer a
person. This morning I suddenly knew who I was. I have been
cycling... I am beginning to remember... Eternity has named me
Rama... Rama most clearly reflects my strand of luminosity... We're at
the end of a cycle... At this time, Vishnu takes incarnation as a
person... Vishnu is that aspect of God that preserves and protects
life... Rama... the last incarnation of Vishnu... "

Jolted by the speed and the angle at which his jet now climbed--he
*was* putting himself on par with Jesus Christ and the Buddha--I
suppressed a reaction and awaited instructions from the pilot's latest
persona. But the instructions, it turned out, had been issued months
before. Each follower was supposed to write and submit stories--typed,
double-spaced--about his or her experiences with him. Our prose, he
had been telling us, was indicative of our mediocre level of
consciousness, so we wrote and rewrote and we tried to revise, guided
by his co