ee, sea of consciousness,
dream-time, vibrations, energy, chakra, subtle, metaphysical, pyschic,
unseen forces, traps, Entities, light, and darkness. The language
defined for me a world in which I chose at each moment between good and
evil. Put that way, there was not much of a choice. I believed now
that ours was a pure and noble quest, and that I was a warrior of
Truth, not a casualty of rhetoric.

On the train ride into the city, I sat next to Paul, a happy-go-lucky
Swede with blond hair, a broad grin, and a magnet-like attraction for
devices that were electronic. We both were Stony Brook freshmen who
had learned about Chinmoy through Atmananda's lectures. We both sensed
that there was something out there beyond the surface world of reason.
We both intended to do something about it.

"What's the penguin doing on the tehlee?" he quipped, quoting from
Monty Python. Green and grey scenes of Long Island sped by through the
train's window frame.

"The penguin on the tehlee," I squawked, "is about to blow up!"

"Tickets, tickets," announced the conductor. "All tickets please!"

I remembered how, as a kid, I rode the trains without paying. I had
stayed ahead of the ticket collector, gotten off when I reached the
front car, and then caught the next train... But now I no longer
believed in free rides. It did not matter that the Ultimate
Destination could not, according to Atmananda, be described using
words. I still felt that I should pay to get there. By postering I
was not only paying for myself, but was affording thousands the
opportunity to be taken for a ride of their own. I handed the
conductor my ticket.

My brother and Sal sat across from us. Their backs were straight,
their eyes closed. I too tried to meditate, but could not. Instead, I
thought about my parents. I had followed Atmananda's suggestion and
told them that I was studying spiritual mysticism. Nonetheless, they
seemed convinced that their sons were getting sucked into a cult. I
was sensitive to their reaction to me and intentionally saw them less
as the weeks went by.

I also thought about Chinmoy. He had instructed followers to memorize
four of his disciple-published books. I opened one and read, "When you
choose you lose." Chinmoy, it seemed, believed that major decisions
should be left to the Supreme, his favorite word for what Atmananda
called the Infinite, which the Rabbi had referred to as God.

"Help, Guru!" I thought