"After thousands of human incarnations, you become ready to study with an enlightened teacher. You may suddenly notice a teacher's poster.

You may have seen the poster many times before--only this time something *clicks*."

I looked at the Transcendental and wondered if the Guru, who looked like he badly needed sleep, could make something in me *click*.

Atmananda turned toward me, as if in response to my newest doubt, and said, "An enlightened teacher can take a person through thousands of lives in just one lifetime."

"What's the rush?" I thought.

"The sooner you attain enlightenment, the sooner you can help others transcend this world of pain and suffering."

"How did he do that?" I wondered, unsure if he were addressing typical doubts, or if he were actually reading my mind.

Atmananda continued to look at me. I found myself gazing, without blinking, into his eyes...I began to feel as if I were floating... somewhere far away I sensed my body breathing...I heard "bzzzzzzzz" droning on and on and on...

He turned away, and I returned to normal consciousness.

"Holy cow," I thought. "He did it again!" Suddenly, I imagined that he was a sorcerer and I, his apprentice. I forgot about Anne and carefully followed his words.

"Advanced seekers say that after they attain enlightenment they will return to earth to help others. But most of them end up choosing eternal ecstasy instead."

I vowed to come back and help the downtrodden.

"It is even rarer for fully enlightened souls to return," he said, pointing out that his Guru was fully enlightened.

Fully enlightened souls, Atmananda explained, were aware of those who meditated sincerely on their photograph.

Atmananda then instructed us to meditate on the Transcendental.

After about ten minutes of silence he asked, "Who saw the light around Guru?"

One woman shot up her hand. Then another. I admitted to myself that I thought I saw the photo glow.

"Guru flooded you with light from another world," he explained.

Then, inviting the audience to experience the "advanced" side of self-discovery, he told us about Chinmoy's free weekly meditations at St. Paul's Chapel, Columbia University.

By this time, in keeping with Atmananda's suggestions, my brother had applied to study with Chinmoy. He was accepted.

He lived near the State University of New York at Stony Brook, near the eight or so Chinmoy disciples, near Atmananda. When I asked him to take me to his Guru, he said that he would.

We met at our parents' home. He wore all white clothes.

"White symbolizes purity--the spiritual quality men need to develop most,"

he explained, quoting Chinmoy. "Wearing white only adds one or two percent more purity to your consciousness, but every bit helps."

My mother came into the room and looked at my brother.

"Uh-oh," I thought. I felt bad for my mother. She typically had to deal with me and my brother on her own. Perhaps in antic.i.p.ation of an ulcer condition, my father tended to avoid so-called family discussions. "If only she would leave us alone,"

I figured, "she would not get so bent out of shape."

I also felt bad for my brother. Everything he did, it seemed, aggravated my parents. "They should support him in his spiritual quest,"

I decided.

Now my mother looked upset. I did not know it then, but she was not upset that her sons were interested in yoga. In her youth she had satisfied a similar interest in the East by taking a course on Gandhi's philosophy. She grew concerned, however, when she realized that we were intensely focusing on one person--on a living guru.

"Where are you boys going?" she asked.

"It's okay, Mom," I replied, a.s.suming 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, "h.e.l.lo, Dan."

"You remember my kid brother?"

"h.e.l.lo, 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 n.o.bility, he could have pa.s.sed as a high Roman senator or Greek G.o.d.

"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 ma.s.sive 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 was wearing red. "A non-conformist within a group of non-conformists!" I thought.

He nodded to us but continued talking.

I walked by and noticed his name tag. Directly beneath "ATMANANDA"

glimmered a sticker from AAA and this warning: "Fasten Your Seat Belt."

That night, in the Castaneda books, I read how ordinary events were often portentous omens. I wondered if there was a significant message hidden in the Guru's absence. I wondered, too, if I was supposed to meditate with this Guru before hitchhiking west.

The following week, I ventured with my brother to another of Atmananda's lectures. We also returned to meditate with Chinmoy.

When we arrived at Columbia, disciples were arranging flowers, lighting incense, and otherwise darting about in preparation for their master's presence. Chinmoy apparently was on his way.

Several minutes later a short, stocky Indian entered the chapel.

He had a shiny head, a hooked nose, and high cheek bones. He was draped in a light-blue dhoti, the male version of a sari. He walked slowly toward the front. He sat in a big blue chair, opened his eyes wide, and blinked a couple of times.

Disciples in the audience sat with their hands folded, as if they were praying to him.