"Those who take themselves too seriously on the path to enlightenment,"

Atmananda said in a more dignified tone, "tend not to get very far."

I felt good knowing that I did not take myself too seriously.

"From the spiritual point of view," he said later on, "eating junk food is fine--as long as you do so in moderation and as long as you exercise regularly."

Jaws dropped. I figured that many of them ate unprocessed rice and seaweed.

When the meditation began, Atmananda played fast-paced electronic music by Tangerine Dream.

More jaws dropped. I surmised that many of them meditated to flute and chime melodies.

During the meditation, Atmananda briefly gazed at each person in the audience, as if he were sending them Spiritual Light.

I closed my eyes...tried to slow my thoughts...opened my eyes...

gazed intensely at Atmananda...perceived light emanating from his eyes!...kept gazing without blinking...perceived the entire room go white!....

"How many of you saw Light in the room?" he asked several minutes later.

No response.

"Be honest now."

I raised my hand.

"Why don't you describe what you saw, Mark?"

I did.

"Mark has been studying advanced meditation techniques with us for over a year. But you don't have to be advanced to have mystical experiences. Who--besides Mark--got zapped?"

A few raised their hands.

"I think you all got so blasted," Atmananda said, "that you don't know what hit you."

After the talk, many of the people came forward with questions.

I wanted to watch Atmananda work his charm, but I knew that I had a task to perform. Weeks earlier he had instructed me, "If you see a guy at a workshop trying to pick up a lady, move right in and engage him in conversation. This will give her the opportunity to walk away and maintain a high level of consciousness.

"Do you know what women at the lectures really want? They want to get closer to G.o.d. They may think that they want relationships with men.

But if they choose that world, believe me, their inner beings will be miserable."

I did not ask how he proposed to relate to them.

"The tricky part," he added, "is to do this without letting either one know what is going on." He was silent awhile and I sensed there was more he wanted to tell me.

"Why don't more women attain enlightenment?" he finally sighed.

"Because they are taught in a male-dominated society to marry, have children, and serve their husbands. Traditionally, they have not had the opportunity to study with an enlightened teacher."

I was moved by the truth that I felt in his words and now, as he answered questions in the front of the room, I interrupted conversations with all the speed and savvy I could muster.

People did not seem to mind. On the contrary, they seemed to regard me as someone special, as if I were on The Bus--and they were trying to get on.

With each pa.s.sing week, Atmananda further opened the audience to the possibility that they could evolve countless lifetimes by staring at the underexposed photo of a balding man. After about a month, he announced: "Those who are interested in the advanced side of self-discovery should ask Mark for a map to the Centre."

"The Centre" was Atmananda's term for the San Diego branch of Chinmoy's organization. It was also his term for the house he now shared with me and the three other Chinmoy disciples.

Atmananda had not needed a map to the Centre months before, on the day that the five of us moved west. He had seemed to know the way.

"There's Mission Bay," he said, pointing to bright green lawns bordering light blue water. When he exited the freeway, which he a.s.sured us was free, I noticed ground-cover plants surrounding and dividing the road like armies of fat green spiders. On La Jolla Scenic Road, I saw more exotic flora: tall, cedar-like trees, plants with huge vein-covered leaves, and cacti with yellow flowers and spiny needles.

I did not know their names.

"At last," boomed Atmananda, pointing to a large shrub which drooped like a wilted phallus. "We have found the fabled swaaaanso bush!"

I laughed nervously at his fabrication and glanced at Dana, who sat beside me. Only minutes ago, she and I had sat outside the San Diego airport terminal, caressed by a balmy breeze, waiting for Atmananda and Rachel to rent a car. It was the first time we had been alone.

My heart pounded, and I unsuccessfully tried not to watch the way in which her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against her blouse.

She ran her fingers through her hair and smiled at me.

I wanted so much to kiss her, to tell her that she was beautiful, to love her. Had I followed my gut feelings, Atmananda might have sent me back to New York on the next available flight.

But Chinmoy and Atmananda had explained that s.e.x saps psychic growth.

And I was concerned that Atmananda and Dana might be in some sort of relationship already. Besides, I never had had a girlfriend and was at a loss as to what to say. I paused, and Atmananda and Rachel appeared with the rental car.

Atmananda often displayed an extraordinary sensitivity toward what people around him were thinking and now, as we approached the Centre for the first time, I wondered if he had timed his arrival back at the airport based on my wayward desire.

I also wondered how to diffuse my crush on Dana.

"Don't worry," I told myself. "Guru will help me work it out."

Now Atmananda told his pa.s.sengers that the new Centre was only a few blocks away. He had chosen a house on Cliffridge Avenue where, in the name of the Guru, we would fight evil forces and make millions happy. Before turning left on Cliffridge, we drove past Nottingham and Robin Hood.

The lawns in the neighborhood seemed like tiny golf courses.

Atmananda pulled into one of the driveways, got out of the car, and said, "Here we are." Then he strode down the path as though leading us to his castle.

He claimed the master bedroom which overlooked the garden.

Dana's was next to his. Then mine. Then Connie's. Then Rachel's.

"Welcome to Atmananda's bar and grill," he grinned from behind the kitchen counter, pretending to serve us.

Adjacent to the kitchen was the meditation room, where Atmananda planned to conduct weekly meetings for the soon-to-be-recruited Chinmoy disciples. From the meditation room I could see the long, narrow yard and the large, wooden deck which he christened "the flogging platform." On the steep hill past the deck, legions of spidery plants advanced imperceptibly toward the garden.

Nearly every day during the first few weeks in San Diego, Atmananda drove us to La Jolla Sh.o.r.es Beach. There, he led Rachel, Dana, and me to where the water was over our heads. Connie was intimidated by the Pacific surf and did not immerse herself the way the rest of us did. With Atmananda's guidance, however, that would soon change.

Two years before, in New York, Atmananda and Tom had tried to swim across a channel in the Long Island Sound. Though a strong swimmer, Tom grew fatigued fighting the swift current, and Atmananda risked his life to save his friend from being swept to sea.

Now, buoyed by Atmananda's legendary strength, I rode the swells beyond the breakers to where my feet dangled above the ocean floor.

After thirty minutes or so, we rode the waves toward the sh.o.r.e.

At this time Atmananda often disappeared beneath the surface.

We stood there in the waist-deep water, waiting, watching, and trying to figure out his next move--when suddenly there was a scream!

Still underwater, Atmananda had seized and was tickling someone's foot.

Then we sat on the beach, soothed by gentle currents of the herb-scented air.

I looked to the west. Blue on blue stretched across the horizon.