My brother and Sal sat across from us. Their backs were straight,
their eyes closed. I too tried to meditate, but could not.
Instead, I thought about my parents. I had followed Atmananda's
suggestion and told them that I was studying spiritual mysticism.
Nonetheless, they seemed convinced that their sons were getting
sucked into a cult. I was sensitive to their reaction to me
and intentionally saw them less as the weeks went by.
I also thought about Chinmoy. He had instructed followers to memorize
four of his disciple-published books. I opened one and read,
"When you choose you lose." Chinmoy, it seemed, believed that major
decisions should be left to the Supreme, his favorite word for what
Atmananda called the Infinite, which the Rabbi had referred to as God.
"Help, Guru!" I thought, doubting I could memorize the numerous
aphorisms without divine intervention.
"Penn Station, Penn Station," came the reply. "Last stop!"
We left the train and were funneled onto the escalator by the crowd.
Paul and my brother headed uptown on Third Avenue, while Sal and I
worked Second Avenue. Dodging cars, bicycles, and more crowds,
we entered a supermarket and found the manager.
"Excuse me, sir," Sal said sweetly.
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