Chapter One

A Long Journey to Nowhere

“It takes time to make a soul pregnant with God!”—Bhai Sahib

It is January 1999, and I am sitting in the passenger seat of a cab as we drive through the early-morning streets of Las Vegas. I am on my way to a Federal Prison located near Nellis Air Force Base, about twenty miles out of the city. As the sun peeks over the desert mountains, I stare blankly at the bleary-eyed people wandering out of the casinos, and at the frenetic commuter traffic. Where do they think they’re going with such desperation? I think. Although I am at peace with myself, thoughts of what the coming fifteen months will be like buzz around in my head. This latest episode in my bizarre but interesting life began in 1996, when the FBI raided my multi-million dollar business and I was criminally indicted. The following two years were tough. I lost most of my money. As a result of two national appearances on NBC’s “Dateline,” I lost my reputation. I also lost my effort to clear myself, pleading guilty to one count of wire fraud.

Now I am to lose my freedom too. And although I do not know it at the moment, more losses will come. There will also be gains of a less tangible kind, and I will come to understand that my time in prison is just another stepping stone on a path of spiritual growth that I have been pursuing virtually all my life. I am to learn that all roads lead eventually to inner freedom— even roads to federal prisons.

But all that is in the future, as we get nearer and nearer to the prison. In the gaps in my conversation with the cab driver, a warm and friendly guy with a Middle Eastern accent, I think back over my life. How did it come to this? How did I really get here? Images from my childhood loom up in my mind. One incident in particular seems to grip me for a few moments. It seems to say so much about how my attitudes about money, love and happiness have been formed, and how they have affected my whole life.

I close my eyes and a series of images come to me: a young boy is huddling away safely in the corner, afraid of being hit. The battle he’s been witnessing had been going on for over an hour. The noise is deafening and he covers his ears with his hands. His heart is pounding and he feels sick to his stomach. There is a loud noise, like an explosion, and something is hurled in his direction. After that there is silence.

On the floor next to his quivering, frightened body is a tattered, crinkled twenty-dollar bill. His Mom breaks the silence with tears as she sobs, “There just isn’t enough! There just isn’t enough money!”

As his Dad stares blankly out the window, fighting back his own sadness, the boy sees his chance to get away. He scrambles for his room, fighting back tears. As he enters his refuge he dives to the bed and buries his head safely beneath his pillow.

It hurts! It hurts so much! He cannot stand it anymore. His parents’ rage claws at his stomach. The fighting is always about money. “No!” his clenched body responds. “I don’t want to feel this! Dad works so hard and still there isn’t enough. It isn’t fair!” He clenches his jaw, repeating to himself, “I won’t hurt like that, I won’t, I won’t,” as he drifts off into a restless sleep.

The images fade, but as I sit in the cab, those early years come back to me with a peculiar clarity. I remember that I decided even then, as a young boy, that in order to survive I had to achieve. The more achievements that I attained the happier I would be and the more money there would be. I wanted to be rich—then there would always be enough. I would come for some years to see money and happiness as inseparable partners in this life. In the belief structure that I began to form as a child, I saw the world as a place to conquer—a place to achieve and to be special. I had to be somebody, distinct and unique! Never again did I want to feel out of control as I had when my parents argued. Never again did I want to feel that rage and those knife-like emotions tearing up my clenched stomach.

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