ice.

I told myself that the explosion had probably more to do with the gas
being left on than it did with Guru and the Forces.

"The Negative Forces want to hurt Guru's mission," Atmananda continued
grimly. "But they know not to challenge an avatar directly. Instead,
they go after his disciples--particularly those wide open to doubt."

For months I had grappled with the concept of Negative Forces. Perhaps
they existed, I told myself, perhaps they did not. In either case, I
did not take them seriously. Now, though, I tried to imagine what they
looked like. I pictured massive, menacing storm clouds in a dark,
foreboding sky. I imagined the "clouds" were aware of my current
thoughts. Suddenly the clouds seemed real. I felt jolted. I looked
around the room. I sensed the disciples had taken Atmananda's caveat
seriously. My stomach felt taut. I thanked Chinmoy silently.

Atmananda had meanwhile flipped to a less somber mood. "One of the
best ways to combat the Forces," he said, "is to have fun." So we went
out to eat.

At an Italian restaurant during one party, Atmananda suddenly slapped
Sal on the back and, adopting the voice of the Godfather, cried, "Heyyy
Sal! You plenty-fine kinda guy!"

"Sure I'm plenty-fine, but I'm also plenty-hungry!" Sal replied with an
equally zesty accent, but without slapping him back.

Atmananda then denounced Sal for rescuing a maiden who had been held
against her will in "a large vat of ravioli."

"What's wrong with that?" I asked.

"Sal, tell the baby what'sa wrong with that."

Until now I had enjoyed their antics, but the transition from being the
editor-in-chief of my high school paper to "the baby" felt awkward.
Yet at seventeen, I was the youngest in the group, the average age of
which was twenty-one. Atmananda was twenty-seven. And I had learned
from Chinmoy and Atmananda that humility was the quintessential
spiritual quality. Besides, I loved the attention.

Sal replied that rescuing maidens was wrong because he should have been
at home meditating.

I looked again at Sal, a twenty-year-old with a large, creased
forehead. He had studied computer engineering first at CalTech, and
now at Stony Brook. He also studied guitar and drama. He cradled the
eggplant parmigiano hero lovingly in his hands and closed his eyes
before each bite, as if bracing for the next dose of ecstasy.

"Observe the maestro chow hound," Atmananda announced.

We laughed.

Sal ha