"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, "Hello, Dan."
"You remember my kid brother?"
"Hello, 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 nobility, he could have passed as a high
Roman senator or Greek god.
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