I wanted to tell Shirer how, in 1984, I had helped Atmananda through
a bad LSD trip and how, as he was "coming down," I had observed
his opposing personalities reassert themselves. I wanted to tell
him that Atmananda seemed to be getting progressively worse.
And I wanted to tell him how Atmananda had persuaded one disciple
that he and I would be forever locked in a battle over mystical power.
The disciple was my brother.
When Shirer answered the door his large, bright forehead and serene
countenance made him appear intellectually and spiritually advanced,
and I had an uncanny feeling that something of the Mahatma himself
peered out at me through those eighty-three-year-old eyes.
"What can I do for you?" he asked me.
"I wanted to tell you that I'm enjoying your book," I said,
suddenly aware that he might not want to discuss the extremities
of human nature with a total stranger. I told him about the bike trip,
his book on Gandhi, and the reporter. But he was busy preparing
for a lecture tour of Russia and had no time to talk. I thanked him,
got back on my bicycle, and left.
I pictured Shirer as a young man, contemplating the life and lessons
of Mahatma Gandhi. I also pictured him observing uniformed men
with swastikas, bent on genocide.
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