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.
"Are they praying to him?" I asked my brother.
"No," he whispered. "They are aspiring to the Infinite in him."
The Guru sipped from a glass which he held with his pinky pointing out.
"Well," I thought. "As long as they aren't praying to him."
Suddenly Chinmoy belted out, "Aummm.
Auuummmmmm. Auuummmmmmmmmmmm." After five
minutes of meditation, the Guru folded his hands and bowed to the audience.
My brother whispered, "He is offering his meditation to the Infinite
in us."
"That about evens the score," I thought, feeling better about
the whole business of guru worship.
Chinmoy signaled a disciple who placed a box of oranges before him.
He stood behind it and nodded to the audience, which began forming
a line.
At first I thought he was just giving out oranges. But by filling
the fruits with spiritual light, my brother explained, the Guru
was really giving darshan.
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