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.
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