Chapter 7: The Control Tower

Vinod picked at the crust of his vegetable wrap. He broke off a small piece, ate it, then broke off another. He wasn't really eating; he was thinking.

Outside, the runway was a ballet of heavy machinery. A 747 was thundering down the tarmac, gathering speed, until—miraculously—the nose lifted. Tons of steel floated into the air, disappearing into the clouds.

"It’s a miracle, isn't it?" Vinod said, watching the plane vanish. "If you stopped to think about the physics, you'd never get on board."

"It requires faith," I said, sipping my coffee.

"Faith," Vinod repeated. The word tasted sour in his mouth. He turned to me, his brow furrowed.

"That’s the problem, Sir. Faith is dangerous. I’m a businessman. I deal in contracts. Evidence. But in this... spirituality business..." He waved a hand vaguely. "It’s a jungle. There are so many paths. So many gurus. So many religions. One man says 'Go East,' the other says 'Go West.' One says 'God is light,' the other says 'God is dead.'"

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I have friends who have been cheated. Smart men. They gave millions to some 'mystic' who promised them enlightenment and ran off with their wives. How do I know who to follow? How do I know I’m not just buying a ticket on a plane that’s going to crash?"

It was a valid fear. The market of spirituality is full of counterfeits. And the wealthy are the favorite prey.

"Vinod," I said. "Look at the runway again."

I pointed to a sleek jet taxiing toward the gate.

"Would you get on that plane if the pilot came out and said, 'Ladies and gentlemen, I don't believe in flight manuals. I’m going to fly based on my intuition today. I feel like pressing the red button instead of the blue one'?"

Vinod laughed. "I’d run for the exit."

"Exactly. You trust the pilot only because you know he is trained. You know he isn't making up the rules."

I set my cup down.

"Spiritual life is a flight, Vinod. You are trying to cross the ocean of material existence. You cannot swim it. You need a plane. And you need a Pilot—a Guru."

"But how do I spot a fake Pilot?"

"Check his connection to the Control Tower," I said.

"The Control Tower?"

"The Scripture," I explained. "The Manual. The revealed Truth—whether it is the Gita, the Bible, the Koran. The timeless instructions given by the Supreme."

I held up a finger. "Here is the test. A bona fide Pilot—a real Guru—is in constant contact with the Control Tower. He never says, 'I have a new philosophy.' He never says, 'I am the destination.' He says, 'I am receiving instructions. I am following the map. Fasten your seatbelts, I will take you there.'"

Vinod nodded slowly. "So he follows a standard."

"Rigidly," I said. "Think of a mailman, Vinod. If I send a check to your son Prakash for his birthday, and the mailman opens the envelope, takes the check, and replaces it with his own drawing, is he a good mailman?"

"He is a thief," Vinod said.

"A real Guru is a transparent mailman," I said. "He delivers the message of the Supreme Person exactly as it is. He doesn't add anything. He doesn't subtract anything. He doesn't say, 'You are God, I am God, pay me $500 and I will give you a mantra.'"

I looked him in the eye. "If a man tells you that you are God... run. That is a crash waiting to happen. God does not fall into illusion. God does not need to pay a seminar fee to remember who He is."

"So a real Guru..." Vinod trailed off.

"A real Guru says, 'I am a servant of God. And I can teach you how to serve Him too.' That is his qualification. Humility. And consistency with the Manual."

Vinod looked back at the planes. He watched another one lift off, following the invisible highway in the sky, guided by voices he couldn't hear but the pilot trusted implicitly.

"A servant," Vinod mused. "In my world, everyone wants to be the Master. To find someone who is proud to be a servant... that is rare."

"It is the rarest thing in the world," I agreed. "But when you find such a person—someone who has no ambition for himself, only love for the Supreme—then you are safe. Then you can board the plane."

He finished his wrap, wiping the crumbs from his lips. He looked thoughtful, less anxious. The overwhelming jungle of "paths" had been cut down to a simple checklist.

"Check the manual," he muttered to himself. "Check the connection."

"And check the destination," I added. "Because not all planes are going to the same place."

Vinod looked up sharply. "They aren't?"

"No," I smiled. "Some are just flying in circles."

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Next: Read Chapter 8: The Final Destination