s okay, Mom," I replied, assuming my role as mediator. "We're just
going to a talk on relaxation and meditation--you know, stuff like
that." I had already told her about Chinmoy and Atmananda ("Mom, I
think I found a teacher right here in New York!"). But she wanted to
know more. She looked hurt.

"You're upset about relaxation and meditation?" I said, trying my best
to reason with her. "This is nothing, Mom. What are you going to say
when I hitchhike to Mexico to study with a *brujo*?"

The silence that ensued bore with it all the weight of a mother's love,
hope, and fear for her sons.

We said good-bye and rode to the city.

"I mean, I have to lead my own life," I thought, and focused on my
parents' shortcomings to offset pangs of guilt.

Manhattan's ivy-league citadel of the intellect seemed an unlikely spot
for people to be led beyond thought. But then, finding a guru with an
enlightened soul uptown seemed no less likely than meeting a sorcerer
with a Ph.D. downtown. We switched at Grand Central Station to an
uptown train and emerged at 125th Street. The clatter of subway cars
gave way to traffic noise which faded once we entered the Columbia
University campus. Soon we ascended steps to St. Paul's Chapel. Ahead
of us were men with closely cropped hair wearing all white clothes.
With hair clenched in braids, the sari-wrapped women walked apart from
the men--who were not looking at them. At the top of the stairs,
dressed in a red tennis outfit, stood Atmananda.

"Hi, Atmananda," said my brother, looking up.

With folded arms, Atmananda looked down and said, "Hello, Dan."

"You remember my kid brother?"

"Hello, kid brother."

Atmananda and I were roughly the same height, yet as disciples flocked
by him he seemed much taller. I was again struck by his piercing eyes,
sharp nose, and thick crown of brown hair. With such a countenance of
nobility, he could have passed as a high Roman senator or Greek god.

"Guru couldn't make it this week," he said. "Why don't you go in and
meditate, and pick up on Guru's vibes?"

My brother and I went inside. High above us on the massive chapel dome
were paintings of angels. Perhaps it was the distant angels, the two
hundred or more silent disciples, and the rising scent of sandalwood
incense, that made me feel foreign and small. We meditated for about
five minutes and left.

Outside, Atmananda was speaking with a man in white, when it struck me
that he