y the
idea of starting a Chinmoy Centre in a distant city seemed less of a
dream than a necessity. He wrote Guru a letter asking if he could move
to San Diego.

Chinmoy consented.

Weeks later, the phone rang. It was Atmananda.

I offered to find my brother.

"No," he said, "I want to speak with you. Why don't you come over?"

He lived about a quarter of a mile from my apartment in Stony Brook. I
jogged down Cedar Street and knocked on his door.

"Hi, kid. Make yourself at home." He offered me a yogurt.

I accepted.

He told me that he was starting a Centre for Guru in La Jolla,
California. Then, in an enchantingly anesthetizing voice, he explained
that southern California rested upon a mystical power spot around which
had congregated the nation's largest population of spiritual seekers.
"Would you like to go?"

I realized that San Diego--San Diego!--was driving distance to the
Sonoran Desert and to UCLA--Castaneda's frequent haunts! I remembered
Atmananda telling me that California boasted many lovely, friendly
women! I realized that such a move would distance me from my parents,
who continued to worry that I was in a cult! I also realized that such
a move would distance me from Guru. But I now believed that the Light
would reach me in whichever state I inhabited. Besides, I sensed that
without Atmananda as a buffer, Chinmoy's highly regimented brand of
spirituality would be difficult, if not impossible, for me to conform
to.

And what a buffer Atmananda was! I pictured him striding about with
his chin jutting forward, exuding that aura of confidence; joking and
singing, inspiring and enlivening us; challenging our intellects with
the known and unknowable; framing and reframing the way in which we
viewed the world; and generating mystical experiences--not on his own,
of course, but with the Guru's Spiritual Light.

"Yes!" I replied, without considering the feelings of my brother, who
continued to support me in my quest with a faraway smile. I was proud
that Atmananda had chosen me to be part of his team. I did not know,
however, that he had embellished stories in his book Lifetimes. Nor
did I know that he had told the San Francisco Examiner that he never
experienced a past life remembrance. Nor did I know that he had once
asked a girlfriend to slip out the window when another appeared at the
door. Nor that he had recently been in deep trouble with Chinmoy. Nor
that during the height o