By Chico Harlan | Washington Post
[…] Paramadvaiti’s devotees view him as pious and pure, and they travel the world to meet him. But their absolute devotion raised suspicions in my mind. I’d always joked to my friends, describing my uncle as a comic figure, a could-be cult leader who doesn’t have sex. But the reality was more serious. Was he selfless or a fraud? Was he peaceful or dangerous? And what did I, a bit of a wanderer myself, have in common with him?
To hear my family tell it, my uncle’s world had always been two parts extreme, one part exasperating. Born Oct. 12, 1953, Ulrich Harlan almost always seemed bothered by something, be it asthma or chronic sickness or jealousy of his older brother. Ulrich was the second-born of four siblings, all raised in rural northern Germany.
Though close in age, my father and uncle were as much rivals as friends. My father, studious and compliant, gained the favor of his teachers. My uncle, wild-eyed with curly hair and a penchant for Che and Marx, drew the ire of authority. He ignored his father and paid plenty of attention to drugs. Once, the police arrested him under a bridge as a loiterer. He told his mother: “I just wanted to find out what it feels like when you have no money.”
Full Article at Washington Post
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