I'm going to leave my manipulative, demanding mother. I'm going
to follow a path with heart, and things are going to get better."
Meanwhile, my mother had asked if she could attend one of the meetings
with the Guru.
"Sure," I replied. I felt I had nothing to hide, and I secretly
hoped that she would wish me well on my journey.
Dressed in Western clothes, she went to St. Paul's Chapel that
Wednesday night and sat near the front. She felt uncomfortable
being surrounded by a sea of whites and saris. She saw disciples
praying to a short, Indian man dressed in robes. Her stomach became
tense when the man placed his hand on the forehead of her youngest son.
I stood in front of the chapel, before Chinmoy, squinting. In the
flickering of the Guru's eyes, I was initiated. I bowed and turned,
and in the audience I saw my mother. I quickly looked away.
I saw myself less as the son of caring, creative, and slightly
mixed-up New York Jews, and more a disciple of the man Atmananda said
was perfect.
After initiation, I began to spend less time at home, where I often
heard things like: "Artie, you talk to your son about what he
is getting involved in."
"Leave me alone!" my father replied, irritably.
"It's a *rotten* family!" my mother declared.
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