I watched the disciples work. Only months had passed since
the exploding stove episode, and yet I felt close to them.
There was Atmananda. He was orchestrating the festivities.
He had brought us all together. There was my brother. He looked happy.
He did not seem to mind me tagging along. There was Sal.
His intense nature seemed balanced by a fabulous sense of humor.
There was Tom, the tall, easygoing bass guitar player. He would
soon receive a degree in history from Stony Brook. He seemed to be
good friends with Atmananda. And there was Paul. He and I were
becoming friends.
Then there were the women. According to Guru, I was not even supposed
to look them in the eye. I tried to protect them from my wayward
sexual thoughts but sometimes, in my imagination, I did more than
just look. Then I felt bad. I was told that they would now have
to meditate extra hard to cleanse themselves of such "lower energy."
I wished that we could be friends. They seemed so nice.
Rachel, with light brown hair and perceptive eyes, was closer
in age to Atmananda than the rest of us. She had completed
medical school in three years and become a disciple in 1978,
two months after attending Atmananda's lectures at the New School
for Social Research in Manhattan.
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