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clearer than ever that being in school was an irrelevant distraction.
    Ketan, on the other hand, was not at all fazed over how to manage school and God-Realization. In fact, I never heard him mention anything about God-Realization, or even God at all; his one and only concern was the theater. Ketan's Broadway genes came from my mother. As a child she learned the melodies and plots to all the classic musicals. Even though music other than Guru's was officially banned, my mother kept a secret stash of LPs of old favorites that she couldn't bear to part with such as
Hello, Dolly, The Music Man,
and
West Side Story.
Ketan, as if on instinct, found the contraband and claimed the treasures as his own. Instead of punishing him, my mother privately encouraged his forbidden vice and even intervened on his behalf when my father complained about his low consciousness. With the green light from my mother, Ketan quickly transformed our bottom bunkinto a stage, hung a sheet over the front as a curtain, cast roles for our entire collection of stufties—Big Teddy as Tony, Fluffity Bunny as Maria—and designed Playbills.
    Because Ketan's theatrical spectacles clearly were not part of Guru's sacred teachings, and would have been viewed as dubious, at best, by Guru's inner circle, my mother deliberately hid Ketan's passions for twirling around our Kermit puppet to the beat of “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top” from other disciples. Her safeguarding of Ketan's theatrical vices was but one of many ongoing issues and major disagreements between my mother and father. When they argued, I slipped away until I couldn't hear them. My mother had the last word when it came to us, because my father was never around long enough to enforce his own opinions. With all the work he was doing for Guru and the Center, he had limited time for us. It gave me great pride that he was busy with matters far more important than our family. I found it heroic and admirable. I, too, longed to be of greater service to Guru's mission.
    Guru wanted his own lawyer and, per Guru's orders, my father dropped studying philosophy to complete law school. He passed the bar exam and was now officially Rudra Tamm, Attorney at Law. Guru blessed him by placing a white gardenia against his third eye, then instructed him to get to work. And he did. My father recounted to us that Guru told him that his first official lawyer duty was to obtain all of the rights and privileges afforded to other religious groups and register the Sri Chinmoy Center as a nonprofit, tax-free church. When he had carefully explained to Guru that in order to hold this status, like other churches, there would need to be a board of directors, elections, and transparency of all finances, afterlistening to my father, Guru closed his eyes and drifted off into meditation.
    Guru finally opened his eyes and said, “The Supreme acts in and through me. You do not question what I do or tell you to do on my behalf. All commands are coming from the Highest Supreme. I
only
take advice from the Supreme.”
    My father told us he immediately understood the absurd inappropriateness of a brand-new lawyer carping to a mes-siah about petty and mundane regulations. He bowed his head, recognizing his error, understanding that his years of law school had not prepared him for this unique lawyer-client relationship. My father used this as a teaching story for us, a reminder not to question Guru. I solemnly swore that, no matter what happened, I would never doubt or disobey Guru.
    Instead of my father working for a large law firm and having to socialize and network with clients, Guru instructed him to open his own firm. This suited my father fine, for he had always been antisocial, preferring to sit cross-legged reading a book on the Upanishads than chat with house guests. Harking back to his barefoot days at Yale, my father still relished the notion of stark discipline and rigid asceticism. He watched his caloric intake to avoid