Atmananda pulled into one of the driveways, got out of the car,
and said, "Here we are." Then he strode down the path as though
leading us to his castle.
He claimed the master bedroom which overlooked the garden.
Dana's was next to his. Then mine. Then Connie's. Then Rachel's.
"Welcome to Atmananda's bar and grill," he grinned from behind
the kitchen counter, pretending to serve us.
Adjacent to the kitchen was the meditation room, where Atmananda
planned to conduct weekly meetings for the soon-to-be-recruited
Chinmoy disciples. From the meditation room I could see the long,
narrow yard and the large, wooden deck which he christened "the
flogging platform." On the steep hill past the deck, legions of
spidery plants advanced imperceptibly toward the garden.
Nearly every day during the first few weeks in San Diego, Atmananda drove
us to La Jolla Shores Beach. There, he led Rachel, Dana, and me
to where the water was over our heads. Connie was intimidated
by the Pacific surf and did not immerse herself the way the rest
of us did. With Atmananda's guidance, however, that would soon change.
Two years before, in New York, Atmananda and Tom had tried to swim
across a channel in the Long Island Sound. Though a strong swimmer,
Tom grew fatigued fighting the swift current, and Atmananda risked
his life to save his friend from being swept to sea.
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