"
"What's wrong with that?" I asked.
"Sal, tell the baby what'sa wrong with that."
Until now I had enjoyed their antics, but the transition from
being the editor-in-chief of my high school paper to "the baby"
felt awkward. Yet at seventeen, I was the youngest in the group,
the average age of which was twenty-one. Atmananda was twenty-seven.
And I had learned from Chinmoy and Atmananda that humility was
the quintessential spiritual quality. Besides, I loved the attention.
Sal replied that rescuing maidens was wrong because he should
have been at home meditating.
I looked again at Sal, a twenty-year-old with a large, creased forehead.
He had studied computer engineering first at CalTech, and now
at Stony Brook. He also studied guitar and drama. He cradled
the eggplant parmigiano hero lovingly in his hands and closed his
eyes before each bite, as if bracing for the next dose of ecstasy.
"Observe the maestro chow hound," Atmananda announced.
We laughed.
Sal had apparently adjusted to his role as chow hound.
He continued to eat as if nothing happened.
"If only Sal could focus on the Infinite rather than on the eggplant,"
Atmananda noted, "he would be the first among us to realize God."
It was fun eating out with Atmananda.
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