When Sal moved west, he joined the disciples who ate each week at a Mexican restaurant with Atmananda. One time Atmananda declared, "I wonder where The Gwid has been hiding these days." Sal said, "You would not believe how many people have asked me that very question." "You swine!" cried Atmananda. "All along you've been hiding him in...your nose!" "How can you tell?" "Hah--so you doubt my ability to see!" A few minutes later, the waiter arrived. I ordered a quesadilla and a chile relleno. "C'mon kid," said Atmananda, "where's your capacity?" I admitted I was low on money. "Stop worrying about money," he admonished. "If you're in the right consciousness, believe me, the money will come." "Okay," I agreed, adding a large cheese crisp to the order. So the disciples, now reunited with Sal, happily broke bread and chips with our nurturing spiritual shepherd. A ditty from the Paul Winter song Icarus played in the background. Atmananda often spoke about myths. Icarus, according to Greek mythology, took flight from prison on wings of wax which were crafted by Daedalus, his father. Despite warnings from Daedalus, Icarus soared too near the sun and fell with melted wings to his death in the sea. I knew about the myth of Icarus from my childhood. "Icarus was punished," my father had taught me, "because humans are not supposed to fly among the gods." Atmananda did not teach the myth of Icarus. He spoke, instead, about the role of the Self-Sacrificing Hero. "Be like a star," he said at Centre meetings, citing Guru, Gandhi, and Jesus Christ. "Burn your own substance so that others may see." Yet as the months in southern California slipped by, he spoke increasingly about the myth of the Fluid Warrior. "Be fluid," he said. "Don't let people pin you down as being a certain way." Perhaps, then, the deviation from his role as Feeder Of The Tribe should have come as no surprise. It was during a Centre meeting that he announced the fast. Missing meals for thirteen days, he explained, would raise the level of our consciousness, increase our personal power, and bring us closer to Guru. "Besides," he said, "it's the thaaang." I longed to raise my consciousness, increase my power, and develop a deeper connection with Chinmoy. I wanted to maintain my status as an "advanced" follower. I hungered, too, for Atmananda's approval. About twenty of us agreed to limit our nourishment to a glass or two of juice a day. Painful, dizzying hours of drinking water passed. Several devotees, including Atmananda, claimed that their meditations were growing increasingly powerful. In contrast, my efforts to empty my mind were interrupted by gurgling complaints rumbling up from the caverns of my gut. I found myself concentrating not on eternal salvation, but on persistent growls. I found myself thinking not about God, but about vast quantities of food.