Krishnamurti & the Art of Awakening
Experimenter's Corner | moderated by John Raica

Pages from the Book of Life

Displaying posts 121 - 150 of 158 in total
Wed, 12 Jul 2017 #121
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

( More of MZ's K Story time)

June 1977 We arrived at 9:30 a.m. at Brockwood. It was green and beautiful. Everyone keeps saying, “This is the first day of summer.” ‘We had a pleasant, leisurely lunch with Mary L. While I went to the lavatory, Krishnaji started one of his 'questionings' with Mary—how is it, chance or otherwise, that someone turns up to look after him? Example: me. And he repeated again that the only thing he regretted in his life was the association with DR and RR’—that means Rajagopal and Rosalind. ‘He said what an extraordinary life he has had. This remark came up after my return when we were talking of the difficulties facing the young, Mary’s grandchildren, for instance, on how to find jobs, etcetera. He said he had been so fortunate, looked after always, cared for. Did 'something' arrange it all? Did “they” therefore see to it that someone (me) would come along, interested, able to care for him? I asked him if he knew more about this. He said he did, but “It is not my job to go into that.” Yet, he does raise this (rhetorical) question frequently. It seems as if there is 'mystery' in some part of it for him too, as there is about “that boy”—his younger self.

July nineteenth. ‘Krishnaji gave Saanen talk number five. He ended with his story of the teacher addressing the pupils, and a bird comes to the window and sings. The teacher listens and when the bird is finished and flies away, he tells the pupils, “You have heard the lesson for today.”

August thirty-first. ‘In the afternoon, Krishnaji talked to Reg and Mavis Bennett on the future of the work in Australia.

‘We had our suppers in our rooms. Then, very suddenly, in the middle of the soup, Krishnaji’s face changed. He looked about with that listening expression, “Do you feel it?” I hadn’t till then. But the room suddenly seemed vibrant and charged. He closed his eyes, and I wondered if he would faint, but he didn’t. He came out of it. Said his head was beginning to hurt, but finished his supper. He didn’t want to talk about it, as always.’ During lunch, he said, “It isn’t superstition, but I think I know what it was last night. Nobody knows this person here, except a few nuts, and it’s like the jewels (in the foundation of house), it is to bring about an atmosphere.” I asked if he meant that this something and his presence would have the effect, and he nodded.’

He spoke of going to France, somewhere in the country, for a week or two. He can’t rest at Brockwood—too many people. Later, Krishnaji said, “I want to fix it in my mind, or I will forget it. “Register lightly, that’s the thing.”January twelfth. ‘I got a cable from Krishnaji saying he will fly from London to Los Angeles on February fifth. I booked his ticket. Later, letter number five came, written before, and then after he had the flu and through December twenty-seventh. He said Rajagopal had telephoned him on the twenty-seventh.’

January thirty-first, 1978

‘Krishnaji left Bombay early this morning and flew to London. At 11 a.m. here, I telephoned Brockwood and spoke to him. His voice was strong, eager, and full of energy. It was so extraordinary to be talking to him, I forgot to ask him more than “Are you alright? Are you well?” He was and he is. I reminded him that he is now a U.S. resident with his “green card,” so he must fill out a customs declaration. He asked me to find the porter who last year said he could go into the customs area and help him with the luggage.’.’

The twelfth. Krishnaji asked us if the schools “are worth it.” Mark gave a firm yes, and so did Theo. Erna didn’t demur. Krishnaji said they had asked him in India to whom he talked. He said 'nobody' and because he is speaking to nobody, not seeking a result, there is greater energy.

February twenty-first. Krishnaji said, “The last two or three days in my sleep, in the brain, there is a quality of dreadful seriousness.” While we walked around the lawn, he spoke about giving me the necessary understanding. Can he give it to me? There is nothing I can “do” to enhance that. It seems foremost in his mind to transmit something, an understanding of his teachings.’
Krishnaji says there is already an atmosphere in the ( Ojai) house. This especially pleases Theo, who put the jewels in the foundation when the cement was poured.

Krishnaji asked me to leave him alone for a few minutes in my room, to do whatever it is to bring a certain wordless 'something' to that room: protection, blessing. He asked, “Do you feel the atmosphere?” I did, and I felt it even more in his room. So, we sleep in this house, blessed by Krishnaji, his life here and his presence.’

April eighteenth, 1978.

Krishnaji said, “I’m glad they chose you to look after me. It might’ve been someone else.”’
Krishnaji said afterward, “I watched their faces (of the Brockwood students) students) . It is a hard world for the young. Exams, A-levels, O-levels, then what to do in life. Thank god I’m not young.”’

In the evening, Vanda has brought with her her written record of the times in 1961 in Gstaad, and 1962, when Krishnaji fainted, and another entity seemed to speak to her through him. She came across her notebook when moving out of her Rome flat. She feels as though it is private, and she has kept it to herself, but that she has not the right to do this indefinitely.

Vanda began to tell about the events that began in July ’61 at Tannegg, the period at the start of Krishnamurti’s Notebook, when Krishnaji was staying with her. Krishnaji, in his room, suddenly fainted, and then as Vanda described it, his eyes became enormous and another being spoke to her through Krishnaji’s body. An extraordinary change came over the face. It happened on July 18, 1961. The voice said, “Don’t leave me until he comes back.” And then, “He must love you if he lets you touch me, as he is very particular in this.” And “Don’t let anyone come near me until he comes back.” On the following day, it happened again. Krishnaji fainted. After trembling, the eyes became larger and deeper, and the voice said, “I feel very strange. Where am I? Don’t leave me. Will you kindly stay with me until he returns? Are you comfortable? Take a chair. Do you know him well? Will you look after him?” It was this last question that Vanda said “Is why I am here.” She feels she gave her word on this; she said that for a whole month Krishnaji’s face continued to change. There was not a return of the other being but a “different look” would come over his face. She describes these looks, and the feeling around Krishnaji at that time, in language that seems to copy Krishnaji’s own in Krishnamurti’s Notebook, which she was reading as he wrote it. Coming from her, not him, it sounds a little overdrawn, but she read most of it to Mary and me, from her own handwritten account. Part of it described a time, a year later, the twenty-first of May, 1962, in Rome when Krishnaji was ill with fever, and became delirious. “It has been told to you to look after him. He should not have gone out. You should’ve told him.” And, “Do you know him? You cannot know him. How can you know the running water?”…“We repeat and never question. Tell him, take a pencil, tell him ‘Death is always there very close to you, to protect you.’…‘When you take shelter, you will die.’ Mary and I guessed there were four entities in all this. The one who goes away (presumably Krishnaji); the one who tells what should be done; the 'one with the great eyes'; and probably the 'childlike one' who also spoke to me in Gstaad when Krishnaji was delirious.

**’ And then on the following day, it happened again. Krishnaji fainted after trembling. ‘The eyes became larger and deeper and the voice said, “I feel very strange. Where am I? Don’t leave me.  May seventeenth: ‘Another quiet day. In the afternoon, for half an hour, Krishnaji put his hands on the head, arms, legs, and various bones of Diane Maroger, something he’s never done at such length.’

Vanda knew Padre Pio, and apparently, once when Krishnaji was ill in India, and she was worried that something awful would happened to him, she somehow asked Padre Pio and he said, “Do not worry, he will be alright.”

May twenty-eighth. ‘Krishnaji spoke to the school. A very moving, far-off talk. At the end, it was on the
religious life is to be free of the self. He felt later that it had not been understood, and said,
“They are not able to see it.”

June fourth. ‘A man named Geoffrey Nicoletti in Philadelphia has been writing urgent letters to Krishnaji, to me, to David Bohm, and one came here for Alain Naudé, which I forwarded. He is hung up on resolving Krishnaji’s teachings and life, to the implications of the life of Padre Pio, whom he greatly reveres. He speaks of the physical signs: the stigmata, healings, being in two places, etcetera, which he regards as evidence of 'something', all involved with faith, a belief in Jesus, etcetera; but then there’s Krishnaji’s denial of faith, etcetera. I read the latest letter to Krishnaji, and he suggested that he and I have a taped conversation in which I put forth the questions in Nicoletti’s letters, and see what happens. We did this today, taping it on the Uher. Krishnaji said that the phenomena of so-called “sainthood” are familiar in various religions, and they can come about without the person having truly perceived truth. He spoke of 'waters in the harbor and the waters of the sea'. They are the same waters, but those in the harbor are contained whereas those of the sea are boundless. He questions any perception that doesn’t discard all religious dogma. It is partial, and therefore not the ultimate.

June eighth. Krishnaji said, “There’s something in the head that is absolutely still, and that 'center of energy' looks and sees. And when that is happening, the rest of the body is quiet, as though it were nonexistent.”’ ‘I asked him, “When that silence looks, does it record?”’ ‘He said, “No, and that is the point of it.”’
‘I then asked, “If I were to ask you what you see, do you know what you see?”’
‘He said, “Yes. The center of energy doesn’t record. The memory records, but not the 'center of energy'.”
‘I asked him if there is an action in this, and he said, “Yes. There is an action but I don’t know what it is. In the center of the head there is a sense of great space, stillness, and energy.”

‘I asked him if this is something new, something different. And he said, “Entirely. I am just watching it go on. It is an extraordinary kind of stillness, quietness, I haven’t had before. I mustn’t talk too much about it.” And as he said this, he gestured with his hand across his forehead. “I shouldn’t talk about it. I talk about it to you, but it is something totally new. I haven’t had it before.”’

There was a cable from Mavis Bennett to me saying Reg died very suddenly.’ Oh, he died. He was a nice man.

Did he directly remember Nitya? Yes, but as with other faces, it is hard to evoke his face. “I can recognize a photo and say ‘Yes, that is him.’ He seems to remember more the feeling, the relationship. I asked him if he remembered Rosalind Rajagopal, and he said he remembered her beating him, hitting him “in the groin.” I felt sick.’ ‘“Those two must have set it all up.” “I was made to feel guilty all the time of something. I wondered if it were my fault.” “I don’t want to have those two in my consciousness.”

August seventeenth, 1978 Krishnaji questioned school money being spent, and the energy expended for that and not on the teachings.’ Brockwood has reached a fairly firm footing, but he now wonders if we should go ahead with the Oak Grove School in Ojai, so late in the day. “I could be wrong,” he said. Everyone is so busy making all these outward things happen that there is no time or energy for the inner. ‘Krishnaji said upstairs after lunch, “I woke up this morning saying, ‘What am I doing here?’…‘These are children. I need someone to talk to, someone who will mine it out of me. I feel there is much more to be got out. Someone who can discuss these things—but they can’t.’”’ I said, “Has there ever been anyone?”’ Krishnaji replied, “No. Aldous was Christian in his upbringing. Then he went off into Buddhism, Vedanta, and all that. He couldn’t.”’
‘I asked about India, and Krishnaji said, “ Achyut has gone into this, but he is too old now. He says that he has failed me.”’ “Perhaps I will go away. Leave all this. I must be careful or I will do that.”…  “I will do whatever is decided. Don’t you worry about this, or I can’t talk to you.” He said, “I will write to Achyut to get some pundits and we will have a discussion.”…

The third of November ( In India) Krishnaji asked what we had all done with the gift of something true.
You have been given a baby. What have you done with it? Have you cared for it? Is it the most important thing in your life?” Pupul spoke of “clouding over”; one has clarity, then it 'clouds over'. Krishnaji in effect said, “You let this 'cloud over' because you are not serious. You have not accepted the baby’s responsibility. You have not given it your being, your total energy. This is not the whole of your life.” It hit hard at most of them. He spoke with great force. At lunch, he lingered at the table until 3 o’clock discussing whether Nagarjuna and Shankara’ whether they ‘had the insight of the Buddha, or whether intellect brought saints to see the limitations and the futility of intellect, until out of that and an ensuing search, there came an insight. Krishnaji felt that a Buddha and possibly Nagarjuna had insight born of compassion. Krishnaji used to say to us, when you see the limitations of what you’re doing, an insight can come into that. And he used to say that thought can see its own limitations, and by seeing its own limitations insight comes in like a light.

After supper, Pupul, Nandini, and Sunanda reminisced about Krishnaji in the late ’40s: Krishnaji’s gaiety in those days, how Rajagopal came to hear of Krishnaji’s strange events at Ootacamund, and Pupul’s and Nandini’s report of that; how Rajagopal came to hear of Krishnaji’s strange events at Ootacamund through grilling the servants, then made Pupul swear never to speak of it; of the nastiness of Rosalind to Krishnaji when she came to India in 1956, her berating him, yelling at him, and of her convincing Krishnaji that the CID was opening his mail, of her speaking ill of Krishnaji to Pupul when Pupul visited Ojai,

November fifteenth. ‘Krishnaji held a student discussion in the assembly hall. It was way over their heads. One Muslim girl asked, “Sir, what is religion?” Krishnaji replied it was what it is when you know what it is not.

There was a discussion at supper on what is tradition. Krishnaji spoke about tradition, and said that all religion is based on tradition and is therefore meaningless. I asked if he was against tradition because it is second-hand, a pattern, a formula, etcetera; or did he also deny the original perception of the first teacher, the Buddha, etcetera? Did he deny that there had been truth for them, which may subsequently have been corrupted into tradition by the ones who didn’t understand it, but passed it along? “Truth cannot be given to another,” he said. I asked about a person who reads in one of his books, say, the observer is the observed, and instantly sees the truth of it, not intellectually, but truly sees it? Tradition is not there. Achyut spoke of a conversation with Krishnaji years ago in which Krishnaji had showed him the falseness of something that was weighing on him, and it had totally ended then, and it had never relapsed. “But I have other blindness,” he said.
Krishnaji then said insight in one thing shows us the totality of things. This seemed to upset Sunanda. “It is not one thing at a time,” said Krishnaji. He asked, “What happens when I see that conflict harms the brain?”

Achyut explained to us, as Krishnaji had no idea, how Rishi Valley came to be. Mrs. Besant had a Theosophical college in Madanapalle, and had offered it to Krishnaji for a school, but Krishnaji didn’t want a school in the city. So they searched and found land in the valley, nearer to the Rishi Konda mountain. The valley then had no name, but the choice to Krishnaji was obvious. The school grounds were green with very many new trees. The part around the old guest house where Krishnaji stays is nicely planted and a stream runs through a stone channel.

November twenty-fifth, 1978. Krishnaji bore down very hard on what the Foundation is actually doing, and questioned what he is doing here. After more than forty years of talking, there is not one person “who will work at it, who will carry the flame through India.” Narayan suggested an order, such as a monastic order, but Krishnaji said, “He has said no disciples.”…“Don’t call it that.”…“Call it a group of people.” He questioned whether he himself had been “irresponsible” in not meeting with just half a dozen people and seeing that they have this thing.

The next day, ‘Krishnaji held another teachers’ discussion with the same group Much frustration. He said, “There is no distraction.” And, “Distraction is thought.” He seemed to me to take for granted one knew what he meant, and with, for instance, the subject of knowledge, which he discussed scathingly as “a means to livelihood and status” with teachers who have in part never heard him before and may not know he has a more nuanced view of it, this could be bewildering. He kept putting the question, “With ten students in front of you, how will you see that they have no distraction?” And at one point, he asked them how they will make the ten students understand the whole existence of man.’ ‘He is also intimidating in dismissing almost any reply they make with, “You’re not answering my question.” He made me feel at the end of one-and-a-half hours thankful that I’m not a teacher.

The next day, ‘Krishnaji gave his second students’ talk and discussion. Krishnaji again had a little boy named Sanjay sit beside him and a little girl on the other side. Very bright children. Krishnaji asked what causes fear, and Sanjay replied, “It is all in the mind, sir.”’ ‘The older children don’t speak, but the young ones were quick and were really listening. At the end, Krishnaji asked everyone to sit quietly and asked if they understood why he suggested it. A little girl piped up, “Sir, it is to build up our energy.”

Krishnaji held a meeting for some of the teachers. He spoke of seven things to give the studentS: 1. protection in freedom, 2. a sense of religious, righteous behavior, 3. an expectation of the highest excellence, 4. love and affection, which is security. Then, he added last year’s list, which was 1. a global outlook, 2. a concern for man, 3. a religious feeling. He kept asking what we can do as a group to give this to the children, how one is to have unyielding rectitude? He said that other groups have a belief, an authority to hold them together, to give them energy. But, he said, the very denial of authority and belief gives energy.’

‘Narayan spoke of a brotherhood of teachers and absence of fear.’
‘Krishnaji asked, “How will you bring this about? By working, you will not get it. You must get it, and then work at it.”
‘Pupul brought up compassion as a central thing, and Narayan said, “If I see I am the world, there is a root of compassion.”’
‘Krishnaji asked, how will they prevent the children from being swallowed up by society? “Do you have a deep religious feeling? That is the rock, and from there you live.”…“Compassion means love, intelligence, an end to sorrow. Have you intelligence? You can’t give something you haven’t got. You have to have this quality of creation, newness, not innovation, or invention, but as an endless source, a river with no beginning and no end.”’
December eleventh. ‘Pupul recorded a question-and-answer session with Krishnaji. Toward the end, he said that there must be: 1. No comparison; 2. Problems must be solved instantly; 3. No sorrow. He said if someone were to ask why should one keep listening to K? He would tell them to listen to him constantly, as often as he could, because “The flower is always new.”

This post was last updated by John Raica Tue, 22 Aug 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Fri, 14 Jul 2017 #122
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

(Continuing the selected excerpts from Mary Z's K Memos)

December twenty-third 1978.

‘I attended the KF of India trustee meeting. There was a discussion of Krishnaji’s becoming president of the Foundation instead of Pupul. Krishnaji spoke of the need for new good people. Rajesh said that the full sense of responsibility people start with seems to fade. Perhaps the enormity of the teachings causes this. Krishnaji said if he saw the truth of the teachings, he would start in a small way. “After all, it took (himself) fifty years.”’ If I had heard the Buddha, and his mind is too big for me, I would take what I can understand and keep moving.”…“He says, no time—I would work on that. I don’t know what he means. I would ask him.”…“He says I will do this, I say, "no time". If I am angry, I end it now, not tomorrow. I won’t let anything enter into the field of time. I would ask, have I understood that—the word meaning, the inwardness of it? I can’t capture the immensity (of it all), but I can begin with that.”’

 "our trust is in the teachings, and that trust is your life.” It is the responsibility to see to each other and to keep in contact, not only verbally, but inwardly. We went into the responsibilities of the Foundations. Krishnaji said, “The religious mind is without illusion,” and later, “sorrow is illusion.” “Would you be more responsible if I went away?” he asked. He told them how he had often told me that he wanted to disappear.’

December twenty-seventh. the third and final combined Foundations meeting. The subject was the subtleties of 'interpretation' and what it means to spread the teachings. We must speak out of what we understand. It may not be the totality of the teachings, but what we have seen we can communicate.

January sixth, 1979, we’re in Madras.
The eighth. ‘Mrs. Gandhi came to Madras to see Krishnaji. She arrived here with Pupul at 10:45 a.m. and spent an hour with Krishnaji, after which she rested in Pupul’s cottage. Pupul then brought her to Krishnaji’s upstairs dining room, and left her with me while she went to speak to Krishnaji.’ i asked her about the jail she was recently in for a week. What was it like? She answered quite readily, a cell for six but she had it to herself, beds are raised, stone shelves. Hers had no mattress but a quilt to lie on and one over her. “I am used to a hard bed so it was alright.”’ ‘Food was brought from her home, newspapers were allowed, and she brought books. The bars on the window bothered her, which was a little surprising to me as all houses in India seem to have barred windows.‘But she hung blankets over the ones in her cell. It was the cell in which she had put George Fernandez when she was Prime Minister.‘On Christmas Day, she invited an Australian girl in an adjoining cell to have lunch with her, thinking she must be a Christian. The Australian turned out to have been converted to Islam.’ ‘She was in on a drug smuggling charge.’‘

Krishnaji, Mrs. Gandhi, Pupul, and I were at the lunch table. Krishnaji went out of his way to be the host; to entertain her, he told her some of his best funny stories. She listened expressionless until the joke at the end, then smiled.’ ‘It was as if she were barely listening until the cue came to smile. Krishnaji tells these stories with such charm and enjoyment that it is always a pleasure listen to him, but there was no relaxation with her. Mrs. Gandhi is a smallish, very held-in woman. She wore a black and white sari, not the taste of Pupul’s, but she has nice neat feet and cared-for toenails.’ ‘She was uncertain about removing her sandals outside the dining room and followed what Pupul did. After lunch, she went off in her car accompanied by an enormous, tough-looking bodyguard. She reappeared in the big hall shortly after 5 p.m. when M.S. Subbulakshmi had begun to sing. Pupul went to sit by her. She listened without expression. One felt a woman in whom there was little enjoyment or affection. After about forty minutes, she left quietly and Krishnaji got up to see her to her car. In the morning, she had spent an hour with him, and he said that they talked for only about ten minutes of that time; the rest was sitting silently. I had the impression that if she gave up politics, she would be left with nothing, without inner resources.

January thirteenth. ‘There was a discussion at breakfast on what Krishnaji means by "no recording". I asked if he meant no recall. He said, “In insight, there is no recording.” I asked him about The Notebook that he wrote, in which he describes what happened earlier. He said, it was not written using memory. The words "happened" at the moment of writing.

The sixteenth. ‘At breakfast, a discussion on reincarnation of which this is a rough summary: There is a "stream", which is thought, attachments, etcetera. Thought is a material process. If when the body dies, attachment, etcetera, has not been understood and ended, that attachment, that thought continues as part of the stream. It can manifest in another but it is not the reincarnation of a total person. Ego is an illusion.’ The desire for reincarnation—the wanting another chance is part of attachment, thought, the stream. Karma—cause and effect, is meaningless if one sees this.

At 4 p.m., I went to tea with Mr. and Mrs. Rex Henry at the Olcott Bungalow in the TS. We sat on the porch outside and were joined by Dick Clarke. He was more than willing to discuss Esoteric Section meetings when I said I knew nothing about it. It seems they meet weekly, members only, and they must be punctual at 8 a.m. and give a password to get in, sign an attendance book, then facing the pictures of the Masters, they recite together some sort of salute, sit, and then the one conducting the meeting (usually Radha) addresses them, speaking on something for forty-five minutes, after which there is some sort of pledge, and it is promptly over.’ ‘He went on to say that Radha would speak on something like probation and the Masters, and he once asked her how she reconciles such things with her interest in Krishnaji, but got an inconclusive reply.’

‘Krishnaji said he would like to ask the only surviving person who “knew the boy” [meaning himseslf] when he was found, Dick Clarke, about what happened. So, it was arranged that Jayalakshmi would invite him for lunch. ‘Toward the end of lunch, Krishnaji began to ask Dick Clarke about what Krishnaji was like when they found him. Clarke seemed to remember it all clearly. Krishnaji kept at him with questions, holding Clarke’s left hand and ticking off the questions on his fingers.’ ‘ Krishnaji seemed to feel that what “the boy” was like and whatever went on in his mind—as he kept asking—eluded him.’ ‘But for me, the picture was a true line throughout; the dreamy child who when punished by the school master would stand on the veranda until told to leave, who often had to be fetched home by his little brother was a gentle, compliant boy who replied to his TS elders, “Whatever you say” when asked about doing something. He was polite and accepting, but not really touched by their world; it went in one ear and out the other. He learned outward things: manners, speech, witnessed the TS goings-on, but it left little mark; he was elsewhere. He remembers vaguely standing by the Adyar River for hours, staring at it, vacant. This vacancy was some otherness that protected him, let whatever he is grow, mature very slowly. It protected him from most of the pulls of life later on, from the brutalities of Rajagopal and Rosalind. In the Rajagopal and Rosalind times, he said he was sometimes physically beaten, but he didn’t resist their violence as he hadn’t fought against the wretched schoolmaster as a child. It all left no scars, just as the Theosophical beliefs did not condition his mind.

January nineteenth. Thinking of yesterday, I told Krishnaji that though he doesn’t talk definitively about what happened to him as a boy, what the concept of Masters really is, unless he makes some statement, his own words written as a boy recounting the initiations, going to visit Masters, etcetera, will stand as his testimony. I asked to read that statement to him and let him consider if he wishes to comment. He thought for an instant only and then said, “Alright. Remind me about all this when we get to Ojai, and I’ll make a statement.” We leave early tomorrow.’

January twenty-first. ‘There was a conversation at breakfast between Krishnaji, Pupul, Nandini, Achyut, Pama, Asit, and me on whether the “flame” of the teachings can be handed on. Is insight total, or can it be confined to a particular area or subject?

January twenty-fifth. Krishnaji talked about the events in Madras, and Ootacamund in 1948, in Gstaad and Malibu, etcetera’— He said he remembers none of it. Pupul described her and Nandini’s witness to the 1948 events, and I described similar things that had happened to Krishnaji in my presence. The conversation was taped on cassette by Asit. It will probably be kept as a confidential record for a while but no clear answer emerged.

February first. ‘I packed, and had a long talk with Dr. Parchure, who reported his conversation of this morning with Krishnaji. As his doctor, who has been given responsibility of Krishnaji’s health, he needed Krishnaji to tell him whether he wished to do everything as fully as he wants and then “disappear,” or did he wish to live a long time and conserve the body in strength. Krishnaji said he wanted to live a long time. In that case, said Dr. Parchure, the intelligence of the body was either not functioning or not being listened to. “Your body is giving you signs,” but Krishnaji pays no attention. The falling sick here in India with minor infections is a sign of the bodily resistance lowering. Krishnaji doesn’t give it the necessary rest to build his strength. His feet have been constantly swollen in India, another sign of lessened function. Krishnaji was somewhat impatient with all this, but listened. Dr. Parchure said he must have two days of total rest after each talk, with no two-hour discussions at the breakfast table; he must have at least one meal a day in bed, feet up and not hanging down. And he must rest before traveling to a new place and also on arrival. Krishnaji’s voice was hoarse, a sign he is overusing it. Today, he should’ve rested but tides of people came to pay respects and say goodbye, bringing useless presents of huge boxes of dried fruit that we can’t take

February fifth, 1979. Krishnaji and I are at Brockwood for a few days for Krishnaji’s usual stopover on his way from India to California

The new Ojai house was beautiful, filled with flowers, in exquisite readiness by Elfriede. The greeting committee soon left, and Krishnaji, quite wide awake, walked from room to room saying, “Do you feel the atmosphere?” and then “I’m glad you have a beautiful house to live in. It is more beautiful than Malibu, and you have a beautiful room in…what’s that place we just came from? Brockwood!”’ Krishnaji said he had felt the full atmosphere of this house almost to the point of fainting in bed yesterday. He said when he goes into the living room, it is so strong, “it is like a temple, one goes very quietly.” The living room is where the jewels were placed in the foundation by Theo at Krishnaji’s suggestion. Theo has given me a map of where “it” is in the foundation of the school main building—always to the northeast.

We got on to the subject of the Theosophical Society, the Esoteric Section, what the young Krishnaji thought, Masters or not, etcetera. Krishnaji said of his memory that he chiefly didn’t remember things about himself. He did remember, and corrected Erna, on where people were living in the TS headquarters. He said that that wasn’t about himself. He repeated the vague memory he described in India of standing as a boy by the Adyar River utterly empty, and “having a good time.” I asked if he could remember directly Dr. Besant, and he said he could a little, but only in her latter years.’

April twenty-first, ‘Krishnaji says I still move my hands and mouth unnecessarily, and is determined to help me stop it.’ ‘He now sits opposite me on the floor and I’m absolutely still for some minutes. He says Brahmin boys used to be taught this.’ ‘I find it very easy.

June fourth, ‘Mary Links and Amanda came and he talked about the biography. What had kept him “vacant” as a boy? Either some power that wished to manifest—like the Maitreya theory. Or was there an innate something in the boy, an evolution through incarnations, which Krishnaji said is superstition. Or was there a power of goodness, which entered the boy. “I’ve always felt protected,” he said. And then, “If I enter an airplane, it will not fall.” But he kept asking and asking the question of how was the boy vacant and what kept him that way? Toward the end of the discussion, he said that perhaps he could not answer the question, but perhaps Mary or I could, and if we did, then he would know if it was right.’ He said the Maitreya or reincarnated body prepared over a number of lives theories were “suspect.” It would mean that it was restricted to him, and the teachings say that all can achieve it or “It is not worth it otherwise.”

‘He went back to the health question and said he has always felt protected. Something, a “they” is looking after him for the purpose of the teachings. He feels that “they” will decide the time and manner of his death and he will know it. He asked Dr. Parchure how the Buddha died; apparently of eating bad food, but who knows, really.

Arriving at 4:45 p.m. to find Krishnaji looking out his bathroom window. He said, “I knew you were coming. The deva told me.”’
He said, “I want to talk to you seriously. Please listen. You must outlive me. I’m going to live a long time and you must be well. I can’t have another person look after me, so you must take care of yourself.”… “I am looked after,” he pointed up at the clouds.’ ‘“You understand?”…“You need to rest, to be alone. I see that is good for you. So when you go back to Ojai, you must arrange it and not the everlasting letters, typing, and Foundation things. I will write to you, but you mustn’t have all those nonsensical letters. In India I will give them to Sunanda.”’
‘I asked him, apart from looking after him, if he had another reason I should survive him.’
‘“I have no one else but you. I’m not being selfish.”’
‘I said, apart from that, was there something I must do when he is no longer alive.’
‘“Could be.”…“Someone must see to it that it doesn’t go to pieces”’

This post was last updated by John Raica Tue, 22 Aug 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Sat, 15 Jul 2017 #123
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

More selected fragments From Mary Z's memos of K

October thirtieth 1979 ‘In the morning, Krishnaji had make a note for when he returns. “When attention is profound it includes everything.” ‘At breakfast, he said, “Give fifteen minutes a day to sitting quietly, finding out what is attention. Go into it deeply.” He gave me a letter last night to read on the plane. His flight to Delhi on British Air was to go at 13:45, and Dorothy would bring him for his British Air flight to Delhi. He is due there nonstop at 3:30 tomorrow morning, to be met by Pama and Pupul.

‘My TWA flight left forty-five minutes late. Once airborne, I could read Krishnaji’s letter as he instructed me. It was short and said everything I care about: “Partir, c’est mourir un peu.” “Be exceedingly watchful. Be very attentive driving. This attention must flow from the inner to the outer.” Stia bene e sempre sia benedetta.”’

December twenty-third, he mentions this about his talk the previous day. “Pupul & the others said that what one said was totally new and Pupul bent down to touch the feet; after the talk etc. people were touching with their forehead to the ground where one had walked! … It’s too long & too complicated to report what the talk was about; it passed out of one, words cascading.”  

February fifth 1980 ( back in Ojai) Krishnaji told me of the something new that is going on inside him. It began in Rishi Valley. He said, “It could be the "committee"—or some 'other'. What "other"? I asked. He didn’t know. “We will write about it”…“I am further away”…“Pupul and Nandini noticed it, and said, ‘We have lost you, you are not with us.’”
There’s something that began in Rishi Valley that has given him tremendous energy. The brain is charged. “I have changed my idea of how long I will live, maybe much longer.”

The twelfth. ‘Krishnaji slept nine-and-a-half hours in the night, stayed in bed all day and slept on and off another three hours. “This is luxury,” he said.’ ‘He dreamt I said, “I must write a book!’”
‘He read some poetry. He asked for the Oxford book of poetry, for some Keats, Shakespeare, Swinburne, Hopkins, O’Shaughnessy. When I said that Hopkins was a Jesuit, Krishnaji said, “Oh, that rather spoils it.”’

February thirteenth. ‘Krishnaji wished me a happy birthday.’ ‘He said, “We’ve had a marvelous relationship. It must be that way always. I am speaking as the world teacher. You are blessed.

We sat by the fire and he put to us the question of his not being “used” enough here. “Am I just going to talk to the teachers who understand nothing for two months? It is a waste.”’ ‘He needs the challenge of someone who can push him deeper, someone who has gone into all this. How can we find such a person? He dismisses scientists as not really interested, artists, musicians, journalists, and religiously oriented people as already committed to their own beliefs, etcetera. The 'ordinary' individual is hard to find. Where are the serious, intelligent ones who go in his direction? “Maybe there aren’t any. Maybe this is the way it is supposed to be. I’m not frustrated, but it is a waste.” There is a danger, too, that he will get further and further away. He feels this. It is a 'lack' that confronts him everywhere.

This morning he had not gotten up by 6:30, as usual, so I went into his room. He had the covers up to his chin, lying, as he does so neatly, in a straight line, but he was not asleep. He spoke but was vague, disinclined to get up, and when he did, he said he was “elsewhere” and “not quite here.” I asked nothing but felt his “absence,” which seemed to last until he later came into the kitchen where his breakfast tray was ready. He did no exercise.’ Krishnaji dictated a description, which Mary L. had requested, of the change in Krishnaji’s meditation which began in Rishi Valley in November and continues here. He said it is completely different and new, a movement that reached the source of all energy, a sense of the absolute; the whole universe is in it. There is the perception that there is nothing beyond this. “This is ultimate, the beginning and the ending, the absolute. There is only a sense of incredible vastness and immense beauty.”’ When asked how one knows it is the source of all energy, he said, “One can only reply, with complete humility, that it is so.”’

And today he said, “The body feels very young. Meditation has done something to the brain. I am not tired. On the contrary. Something has happened to the body, something I cannot put my finger on has happened to the whole mind. It is not what it was. What it was, was alright, but it is something entirely different. You have no idea how I worked in India at Rishi valley—the teachers and school, but I wasn’t tired. I was like a flame.”’
We walked in the afternoon and he asked me why haven’t I “this thing.” ‘“What’s the point if someone so close to me doesn’t have it?” He then asked me if I thought like a woman - he meant did I think beyond the reactions and the nature of a woman. “Is that you? Is it that you do not see instantly the whole of a problem? I want to change you.”

After lunch, Krishnaji drove along the ocean, looking pleased and very young. He hoped for a train, and one came by, keeping us company as far as Ventura.’ He told me that years ago, when he used to drive by himself, when a train would be parallel with the road, he would drive fast. And the train engineer would shake his finger out the window at him, and he would stop racing.’

April first, The first dialogue with David Bohm Eventually he described his own meditation, which is not deliberate. He wakes up meditating. In Rishi Valley it happened that he touched what he described as the source of energy. Toward the end, he spoke of a destruction (of all self-conscious thought, etcetera, as we know it) and that is a beginning. “Is it creation?”

The sixth, Easter Sunday. ‘It was a beautiful day. Krishnaji watched TV all morning (zapping) from the Pope in Rome to the Reverend Schuller, whom he watches with incredulous amazement that people are so taken in.’ Reverend Schuller was a fascination for Krishnaji because he was so awful; he was one of those television evangelist preachers. He built the Crystal Cathedral and it went on and on. Krishnaji would stare at this in fascinated horror.

Krishnaji said again, “I am wasted here.” And later to me, “Why am I doing all this?” He said, “The Committee may say that’s enough.”

‘After breakfast, Krishnaji said that he wanted a serious talk with me. We sat in the living room. He said he’s wasting his time here with school problems and talking to teachers who don’t understand. He’s been here three months, and what? He has woken up with intimations three times that he is being wasted. Ojai, he feels, is a sacred place, and he likes this house, but it is a waste for him. He could write, but he should be having living discussions; someone to talk to who can help him to go deeper. Bohm helps, but he can talk to him at Brockwood. More is happening there. If he doesn’t do something, something else will take a hand, something will make it impossible for him to be here. He wants to prevent that. What to do? He said sometimes it is as if something very far were calling him. “Something beyond the stars.” then he picked it up and said, “I have been sent.”

Then, on impulse, we went for a drive up Maricopa Highway. Krishnaji was delighted, and declared it “a place to worship” and “house of the gods.”

At supper, Krishnaji spoke of the Rosalind and Rajagopal days from 1935 to 1947: the quarrels, Rajagopal’s angers, both trying to humiliate him in public, ordering him around. She knocked Krishnaji down the stairs at Arya Vihara and luckily Weideman caught him’—that was a man that used to live around here. ‘“They must’ve thought I was an idiot to put up with it,” he said. “If my mind worked then as it does now, I would have said, ‘Enough. Go, both of you.’ I could have then. I still had the power. Amma”’—that’s Mrs. Besant—‘“had told me, ‘You are the ultimate head.’ It was before Rajagopal got control.”’
‘I asked, “Why didn’t you?”’
‘Krishnaji replied, “I just didn’t care. That was the way it was. I accepted it. Once Rajagopal had been angry, [and] I told him he was a bully and he piped down. The next day it was the same thing all over again.”’

November fourth, 1980, we landed in Colombo. Krishnaji is again a guest of the state. Officials met him; and a minister, Dr. Adikaram, and he were driven into Colombo.’ Dr. Adikaram was a nice old man who was the head of the Krishnamurti Center in Sri Lanka, chancellor of the university, and had known Krishnaji forever. ‘Pupul, Nandini, and I were in a second car. We are staying at Acland House, a government guest house built by the British. It has large rooms with a dining room sixty feet long’ ‘Parameshwaram oversees the food cooking and three young Navy bearers serve. Krishnaji has the largest and best bedroom with hot water and air conditioning. Pupul and Nandini share another room, but have only cold water. I have a small but adequate room, but it has an air conditioner. The weather is very hot and very damp

At 9:30 a.m., Krishnaji went with Dr. Adikaram to see Prime Minister R. Premadasa. In India, the prime minister calls on Krishnaji, a religious leader being second to no one.’ But we were in another country.
Krishnaji doesn’t consider this, but he felt somewhat uncomfortable there. Meanwhile, Devi, Nandini, Sunanda, Pama, and I went with a friend of Dr. Adikaram to see the Kalema Buddhist temple. At 4 p.m., Krishnaji was interviewed by Minister of State de Alwis for television.’

Asit took Krishnaji and me for a walk by the sea. Krishnaji liked it better than the park, which he thinks irritated his eyes. The sea air is better. The air seemed un-refreshing to me; sticky and heavy.’

In the evening, Pupul asked Krishnaji how much his early life had influenced him. He replied, “Scarcely at all,” and went on to say that most change in him came about after he had left Rajagopal.
Pupul spoke of gurus, and said that Krishnaji was essentially a guru. Krishnaji spoke of 'light', and he   disagreed. “There is only light. You don’t say, "‘I have come to light. I am that light."’ just ''There is light'. This has deeper significance; that other is too childish,” he said. “After all, goodness is that: to have total light. I think that is logical, sense. But gurus in the usual sense is leading you to light.”…“Light is compassion. See the difference. Jesus is supposed to have said, ‘I am the light.’”…“I shrink from that,” said Krishnaji.
He then went on to ask how Rishi Valley can be made beautiful. "Ugliness is darkness, and here they don’t see that".

He told me “that face” has been with him for four days. Whenever he closes his eyes, it is there; and with his eyes open, he sees it in his room. On the walk, he wanted to stop, close his eyes and look at it. During the music, it was not there.’ ‘He also showed me a small gold locket with JK engraved on it and a photograph of him when he was very young. He had me open it very carefully, and inside there were tiny jewels, the jewels that are in Pine Cottage. He had told Radha about the bad atmosphere in Adyar. She got the jewels and gave them in the locket to him, and when he returns them in their locket to her, they will go into the northeast corner of the main hall at Adyar.’

The next day: Krishnaji talked of the need for a sense of sacredness, which he feels in Rishi Valley is being nurtured. Krishnaji told of the jewels put in the Ojai house and the atmosphere there. He told too of his having worn them for Radha this week so that she can place them in Adyar. Pupul said similarly they had been placed in the assembly hall here. “Then why are they not working?” Krishnaji asked. He felt it has been spoiled by 'activities'—by playing drums, etcetera, and that Balasundaram’s wife—‘had practiced black arts there. Something sacred must be respected, not begged for help. Then it can act.
‘Asit then asked if this sacredness, which can be given to stones, could be given to a living thing, a tree. And if a tree, why not a person? “I think so,” said Krishnaji. He said he was not 'positive', but it might.
Krishnaji spoke of energy which, at one level, is in both the good and the bad, but beyond is the "unlimited energy'', which is the source of everything—the universal energy and beyond good and bad.’

December seventh: ‘Krishnaji says he thought over in the night what he had said yesterday and it is not possible: A human being is different from a jewel. He said this briefly en passant. When I asked him later what had made him change his mind, he said, “It is obvious: Human beings are too corrupt to receive it. And if they are not, then they have no need of blessing. They have it already.”
I asked Krishnaji if the sense of power was still there. He said it was, but he is very careful about it.’ In the evening, Krishnaji said to me, “Love has no death,” and that he 'must go into that'.’

. Dr. Parchure is asking whether Krishnaji is awake to his dissipation of energy, his irritability at times, and an inattention. Krishnaji says it is not irritability; it is urgency. In the afternoon, he said he asked Narayan, if an angel appeared and asked him what he most wanted, what would be his reply?’ ‘“Enlightenment,” said Narayan. Krishnaji was pleased. Then Krishnaji asked, “More than that lady?”’
‘In the car, Krishnaji, for Asit, gave a chart of the Theosophic hierarchy: initiates, disciples, arhats, bodhisattvas. Krishnaji, according to Theosophy, is an 'arhat', i.e., beyond the opposites, beyond ego, a master. He said that an arhat, or bodhisattva, supposedly can live on in his body or give it up. He said that if he did not travel about so much and consequently wear out his body, he probably might live much longer ‘I said, what about settling down in one place right now and keeping the body as it is. “No, it’s too late,” he said. All this was said in an amused way, not seriously.

Narayan is to create, at Rishi Valley, a place where the catalyst that changed Krishnaji as a boy can again take place. “The door is waiting to be opened.” At Madras, too, someone must be there to provide the atmosphere, and it must be for students who are there for Krishnaji’s teachings, and nothing else. There will be no education to become engineers, etcetera, but only a total involvement with Krishnaji’s teachings. “If you do this, the door will open, something will take place. I say this with scientific clarity. This has not happened because I have not stayed in one place.”…“If I stayed in one place, I would do it, but it is not my dharma. My job is different.” There is no goal in this. “Either you are inviting something tremendous, or you invite the devil, like any little ashram.”…“That is the devil, the real dangers—the Rajneesh, the Mahesh Yogi, etcetera.” …“If you ask heaven to bless you, it will bless this. The Foundation is nothing without this, and the Foundation has not done it. The door is there to be opened. It is not me. The "thing" is waiting, hoping. It needs a global brain. Don’t say, ‘I haven’t got it.’ It is a child waiting to be born.” He said to Narayan, to Sunanda, to Upasani, and to Krishnakutti, “You have said you would do it, and there is no going back. You must have a vital brain, global and dynamic. If you are a woman, you are not a woman anymore, even if you wear a woman’s body. You may have been egotistic in the school, but not here. And if you are not here, you will not do all that there.”’

February eighth. At 6:15 p.m., Krishnaji gave his sixth Bombay talk, a very fine one. “Meditation is the understanding and ending of knowledge.” There was a frenzy of hands trying to touch him through the car window afterward.’ Krishnaji asked me if yesterday’s talk was special, and he said, “It has done something to me.”’

forward through the early 80's )

1981 June twelfth. ‘I talked to Saral and David Bohm on the telephone. He has been in the hospital for an angiogram and needs a triple heart bypass operation as soon as possible. ‘After our lunch at Fortnum’s with Mary, Krishnaji and I went to visit David Bohm at his office at Birkbeck College. Krishnaji then talked privately with Dave, while Saral and I waited outside in the garden. We have not seen them since Ojai. Dave has lost weight and looked pale and vulnerable. Dave goes into hospital tomorrow for open heart surgery and a triple bypass.’ David was obviously frightened to have the operation. ‘Saral is frightened but strong. I sat there and talked very factually about it on the lawn behind the college while Krishnaji was alone with David for almost an hour, trying to reassure him. Krishnaji put his hands on him in healing. He said later that Dave clung to him

The twenty-fifth. ‘David Bohm was operated on for a triple bypass today. He was in surgery from 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. They found arteries in worse shape than expected and there was some damage to his heart. The actual surgery went well, but afterward his blood pressure dropped critically. He was eventually able to be moved into intensive care and only late onto his own support system. On Saral’s behalf, Maurice Wilkins telephoned and reported at length to us. The next forty-eight hours are critical. Krishnaji, Dorothy, and I talked. It was a strong physical feeling of holding David with our combined strength—curious feeling of immovable strength, felt in the solar plexus, as if we were holding with total firmness something that could otherwise float out with the tide. It persisted all conscious hours. When we were alone, Krishnaji said that Dave is weak, is frightened. He described again how Dave clung to him.

( Later in Paris) We then drove down the Champs-Élysées, past Beauburg, which we hadn’t seen and found ugly.’ ‘The Marogers dropped us off by Notre Dame to walk home. “Let’s go in,” said Krishnaji. We walked around the left to look first at the western rose window, Krishnaji noticing the curve of the arches. He was disturbed by tourists turning away restlessly from a priest in satin vestments and dark glasses intoning a mass.’ . ‘We stopped at the blue east rose window, and Krishnaji was alive and eager at the fluted columns, massively holding up the huge cathedral. “They must’ve felt something to build all that,” he said. “But it loses its sacredness in the stream of tourists.” He noticed the crushed cigarettes at the door and was bothered by the empty faces. He would like to send them all away and let the cathedral be cleaned of them and be itself again. He talked impatiently, intently, and we walked along the little park; and he added that Indians, though it means nothing to them, would have lit candles with the rest.’

David Bohm is now in the normal ward and is up and walking. Krishnaji spoke of the book I am to write, saying that I must say who I am, how I came into all this, and how I went to hear a talk out of curiosity. ‘I told Krishnaji at supper of buying a booklet and being unable to finish a page because of arguing with it, then going to the next talk where it dawned on me not to argue, but simply to listen. “You must write that,” he said. “It shows you’re not a disciple, but understand something.” I also described to him my vivid memory of first meeting him alone on the path heading into the Grove just before a talk. The vivid cross of looks and that that is what I think of when he has said to me, “We should have met many years before.” He said we probably would have not been very passionate about the look, “but there would have been something continuing to this. We should have met.” Then he stopped. “No, it is right as it has happened. It is exactly right as it is.”’

( Later in Saanen) Krishnaji and I walked in a light rain to the edge of the wood and Krishnaji asked, “Why did Dr. Bohm care so much that I came to see him?”’
‘Me: “Because your affection, your regard, probably in a human sense, means more than anything to him.”’
‘K: “You mean he depends on me?”’
‘M: “I think there’s too much emphasis on dependence. Affection, friendship doesn’t have to be just dependence. You have known him a long time, and a few years ago I think he became quite depressed because you seemed to lose interest in talking to him. Then he cheered up when you renewed your talks. And two things have just happened: After knowing him for twenty years, when we were just in Ojai, for the first time you used his first name. And just now you went to see him. Something you would normally never do before his operation.”’
‘K: “When he is well I wonder if he can get some really serious people to talk about these things. More than always talking to the teachers.”’
‘M: “You do that over and over at each school you go to.”’
‘K: “Yes, but it should be more.” Later on the walk, Krishnaji said, “Let me ask you something: You have heard me talk so many times. Do you think this person learned it or is it totally new?”’
‘M: “He couldn’t have learned it, because it has not been said. Buddhist teachings have certain similarities, but fundamentally what you say has not been said before. Why do you ask that?”’
‘K: “Oh, I just thought of it.”’
‘A little bit later, Krishnaji said, “I’ve been thinking about consciousness for the talk.”’
‘M: “I’ve been reading in the book about computers and toward the end, he tries to define thinking and intelligence, answering all the criticisms people make of computers. He says that, in reply to most criticisms, humans and animals are equally programmed. Making a distinction between a program the baby is born with—breathing, moving, seeing, grasping, digesting, etcetera—and what is acquired.”’
‘M: “He is saying that they can do certain things laboriously, going through all the possibilities before choosing the answer, but man can see enough of the whole to choose without examining each option.”’
‘K: “But it is the same. Knowledge is operating and the computer does it very quickly.”’
‘M: “He seems to be saying that machines will be able to outthink man.”’
‘K: “Then what is man? What can he do that machines cannot?”’
‘M: “It seems to me the machine must always function in the field of knowledge. Man can go beyond, to another dimension.”’
‘K: “That is right. That is what I have said.”’
 “If ( Sheldrake's) 'rat theory' is correct it is as if a man can come along’—you, for instance—‘who can pierce limitations, see onto another plane, and that once it is seen, it is possible for others of the human species to see. In answer to your earlier question, you have perceived something not derived from knowledge. It is as if mankind sometimes, rarely, produces a human being with this ability to go beyond, and this becomes an opening in the total human consciousness. It really doesn’t matter if those people in the tent tomorrow understand what you will say or not. You see something, and you utter it.”’
‘K: “CWL,”’—that’s Leadbeater—‘“used to say it doesn’t matter if anyone understands.”’
‘M: “The TS believed an entity manifested.”’
‘K: “The bodhisattva came when the world was in a terrible trouble, every 2000 years or so.”’
‘M: “What I am saying is a little different, not that existing beings incarnate, but that the human species casts up one of its kind with this power to see beyond its limitation of consciousness. The TS wouldn’t have accepted it as intelligence manifesting, would they?”’
‘K: “No, they wouldn’t.”’
‘M: “They made it into personalities with names and lives outside of time. Even when I was very young, four or so, I had difficulty with the notion of God in the image of man. It seems somehow so petty. It had to be something much vaster than that.”’
‘K: “Yes, petty. Much vaster.”’
‘M: “Also, with you, I am not really interested in a bodhisattva who incarnates in the body of Krishnaji. You are bodhisattva. It comes from you, not from some other being.” On the return to the chalet, Krishnaji said, “Are you writing these things down? Will you write this?”’
‘M: “Yes.”’

July eighteenth, Jean-Michel brought a copy of All One, the first edition of the magazine that Alain Naudé is doing. Krishnaji picked it up and read parts of it, and said, “What has happened to Naudé? Oh no, he’s become a guru.” There are the bits about God that I looked at askance at Ojai in the sample he brought there, and the style is somewhat pontifical, but I will read it later. Krishnaji seemed saddened. “He was intelligent once. What happened to him?”

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 23 Aug 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Tue, 18 Jul 2017 #124
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

( continuing with selected excerpts from MZ's K memos )

MZ: I don’t know whether this could be linked with the episode in Ootacamund with Pupul and Nandini, when he went “off,” and then when he came to, he said, “Did you see the face?” …well, the implication was that it was the Buddha. And when they said they had, he said, “You are blessed.” They had seen “His” face. After a talk, he would sometimes ask, “Did the face change?”—meaning his face during a talk. I’ve seen…well, it’s hard to describe. I’ve also seen him change shape. I mean, I’ve seen him, though sitting, suddenly become a tall man. ( Things are so nebulous that I don’t like to take a position of what I know and don’t know or noticed, I mean… there’s a vast ocean of things I don’t know about, categories of things with regard to Krishnaji, which I have wisps of them in my mind, and I’m aware of them, but I don’t try and build a foundation of saying, “This is what was happening,” because I don’t know.) When he was in the hospital dying, one early, morning the light was just coming up over the hills and he turned his face and looked at the hills and it was the face of a very, very young man. I don’t know what to say. There was the Unknown - expressed in in a very simple way. I always felt that the extraordinary eloquence of the man, and the teaching genius that he had, was that it was "new" to him at that moment. He was…his voice, his mind, his perception was seeing something that wasn’t associated with anything else, and yet he was talking about the same things, in a way—it was the same area. He was talking about a dimensions of the human consciousness that most people don’t have. And it was new to him. He was not repeating what he’d seen twenty years ago or even last week.…and somehow this has, for me, has to do with his teachings. I mean, this was the way he lived and we should all live, in that things don’t repeat themselves. They are—they exist, "then". And they’re true, "then". He’s seeing, he’s talking about something that is there that moment—alive. And it isn’t repetitious.

August eleventh. We walked in the woods. He said, “I’ve had enough of Gstaad.” We flew on a Swiss Air flight to London. I am happily we are back at Brockwood. We went for a short walk. The country is soft with the fullness of late summer. I spoke to the Bohms, David is feeling better.’ ‘Krishnaji talked to David, then we all went for a short walk.’

Krishnaji talked to me at length about his odd memory. He says he has (only) two strong memories ( as a boy ) 1) Standing alone by the river at Adyar, empty of all thought; and 2) Mrs. Besant taking him by the hand, sitting on a chowki and asking him if he accepted as disciples the group present. He spoke of 'remembrance'. “No remembrance of Maria Z. I have fondness for you. It’s not a 'remembrance'. That is why it cannot change.”’
He used to say that he wrote me a lot of letters so that he wouldn’t forget me. But when we drove from Gstaad to Paris, he would remember where we had stopped in previous years on the road for a picnic breakfast, which Fosca used to make. And he would say, “Now, we are coming to it, it’s just down the road—it’s here.”

The eleventh of September . Krishnaji had a long, serious talk with me on what happened to him at 4 a.m. “The "door" opened and then shut.” He could have “slipped away.” What would I do if that happened in the future?’ That means he would have died. ‘He sees only Pupul and me to carry on the work. We talked for a long time, and he let me tape it.’

February sixteenth 1982 back in Ojai. ‘Krishnaji said at one point in India Dr. Parchure told him his body was deteriorating, so Krishnaji  “challenged the body,” and it responded with sudden strength and energy.’ ‘It is in him now.’ The body was always his responsibility, he thought. ‘We felt we have too much TV at supper, so we switched it off.’

The twenty-second. ‘ Krishnaji went down to the UCLA operating room before 7 a.m. He had showered with special soap as instructed, shaved, and lay in bed looking gleaming, immaculate. “One should dress elegantly before dying. Wasn’t it Haydn who put on his best clothes to compose?” I replied, “No talk of dying, please.” He responded, “Oh, I’m not going to die.” He said it very firmly. He laughed when I told him the chaplain had come by while he was in the shower to say words of encouragement before surgery. The chaplain, a pale-faced man in rimless glasses, said to tell the patient, “I’ll be rooting for him.”’ ‘Krishnaji laughed at the solemnness of getting on the gurney and went off down the hall on it. I asked the anesthesiologist to talk to Krishnaji during the operation. But it wasn’t until 10:30 a.m. that Krishnaji came down the hall. He looked pale, a little yellowish, and hardly spoke. An icepack on the wound. Krishnaji was in some pain and the spinal had not gone from his legs entirely. He asked me to hold his feet. Then he wanted to lie on his left side. Sometime after 11 a.m., he asked me, “Maria, talk to me. I could slip away. The door is open. Do you understand?”

‘At 2:15 p.m., he woke and looked vacantly side to side. I said he’d been asleep. Is he all right now? He said it had been very close. When I said 'he must shut the door', he hadn’t been sure he was strong enough. I said he had been given extra strength in India and he had it to use. He said I mustn’t order it, “If 'It' wants to go, It will go.”

At lunch at Arya Vihara, Krishnaji spoke of Goodness as an absolute, unrelated to any other thing; unrelated to evil; without an opposite. But evil projects an opposite: a pseudo-good, not the real. Thinking gets caught in these two, and so is untouched by the real good.’

July 1982 in Saanen

Vanda yesterday gave Krishnaji a letter from Rosalind and Rajagopal, which was to be read by Krishnaji in front of Vanda and then destroyed. Krishnaji refused to touch it. He had me open and tell him what it was. It was a six-page handwritten account of Rosalind’s life in relation to Krishnaji, Nitya, and Rajagopal. Rosalind had called Krishnaji a "congenital liar". And he asked (MZ) , “Do you consider me that?” He said, “I have lied when they attacked me, brutalized me. I’m not a violent man, and they were. I tried to avoid that.” He appeared shocked by the letter, but more concerned that I might be upset by it. This morning, he said that he had awakened thinking of the meaning of humility, to examine what one is or has done without a center.’

July tenth. This morning, Krishnaji asked me what actually are we fighting Rajagopal for. “Is it worth all this? Think of it afresh.”
Late in midmorning, Krishnaji came in to talk to me and to make me see, and therefore feel, as he does, that our going on further in this is to touch dirt. He is revolted by them and wants to have nothing further or ever to do with them. What are we fighting for? Are we to go on and on until Rajagopal dies with this? He said, “I am disgusted. Like that tennis court yesterday.” The Gstaad tennis tournament is on in the village, and was crowded with “meat-eating, vulgar people.”’

‘“I would do anything to get away from them”’—the two Rajagopals. ‘“I cannot be with having anything to do with them, and we are connected through this case. We were right in the beginning. I felt responsible to those who had given money, and it was right that we get the land and all that. But now it goes on and on. Don’t you want to be free of it?”

the first Saanen talk of the year, was to start at 10:30 a.m. It was very hot in the tent. Old faces. New faces. Krishnaji spoke strongly. Something new. “Living without a cause.” Toward the end, a tall, drugged-looking young man came into the tent, climbed over people until, grimacing, he reached the edge of the platform. Various people came quietly to prevent his climbing up, but Krishnaji said, “Don’t touch him.” The man echoed those words in a loud voice, and began an incoherent speech in German. A few in the audience yelled, “Be quiet!” but Krishnaji sat quietly. Then he said, “Shall we end the meeting?” But when the man ran out of words, he wandered out, and Krishnaji picked up exactly where he left off and spoke another eight to ten minutes.

Krishnaji and I walked to the river. He said he had felt something threatening in the wood when he walked there alone, but didn’t feel it with me there.’ He said that he would never walk in a wood at night because of 'something threatening'. And he also said how he wouldn’t go out at night alone. And I said, well, if I were with him, “Would you go?” Yes, he would
The twentieth of August. Krishnaji is reading The Elder Brother, the biography of Leadbeater, and is appalled at what went on.’

At lunch, he reported that he had had threatening dreams every night here. “What kind?” I asked. He said that in the dreams, he has to speak and is late; he is walking and there is a body of water suddenly that gets wider. He wonders what it is. Are the two Rajagopals threatening him? “Those two would be the only ones,” he said. He says he can close it off and not allow the dreams, but doesn’t want to close it off. Krishnaji said, “Rajagopal is playing a dirty game”…“He thinks I’ve done something to him. What have I done to him? I’ve done nothing.” At lunch, I said that Rajagopal responds only to being pushed. Krishnaji said, “We must push him.” I asked what should guide us this winter when he is in India and communication is difficult, and Krishnaji replied, “Whatever you think should be done.”

the ninth of February 1983 . Krishnaji’s arrival on flight 761 from London. ‘At Arya Vihara lunch, Krishnaji heard about the movie E.T. and that it was playing in Ventura, so he and I went with Erna and Theo for the 5:30 p.m. showing. Krishnaji liked it very much. “I like when there is something moral,” he said.’ Well, he also liked the little E.T. ‘We got back by 8 p.m., and had supper by 8:30 p.m Erna,
Fifteenth March. ‘Krishnaji saw a video cassette made from the Movietown News of a film of himself in 1928 in New York and 1930 in Ojai. He said, “I felt no relationship between that chap and this chap.”’

April seventeenth Krishnaji sat down beside me, and scolded me for being upset because, after ten days of concentrated work in New York and being too tired to get up yesterday, our first day at home, he said he would hold a discussion meeting with the Oak Grove staff tomorrow afternoon. Then he jumped to Mary’s book, the second volume of the biography, The Years of Fulfillment, which has just come out, and which the Indian Foundation members have criticized severely. He said, Mary does not deeply enough know about “all this,” as she had not been around with him in years. He has been thinking about it, and he wants me to write every day so that at some point, and it may be years from now, I will write a biography, which will be right. He said it must start with something about myself, that I am not some devotee. Then he jumped to the subject of memory; of how it had come up in discussions in New York this past week, and how he asked me the question, “Is there something in the brain that is not touched by memory?” He examined it Thursday night, and last night, he saw it—'there is' such a thing. Then he examined it—is it imaginary? Is it a projection, etcetera—rigorously, until he was sure. “From doubt to certainty, there is such a thing, and from that there is energy. When I got up this morning and did my exercises, I could have walked for miles. That is why I want to talk tomorrow. Now do you understand?”’

We lunched at Arya Vihara. “David Bohm is picking my brains,” he said. And later, as we left the kitchen, he had me stop in the hall and look into the living room northeast corner. “You asked what you can do when you are alone here. You must look quietly at that, not hastily.’ It is where the jewels are. ‘It has been neglected. It is a shrine and one must pay attention to it or it will fade.”’

The Bohms are here again. In the late afternoon, while I was marketing in the village, there was an earthquake centered in Coalinga near Fresno. I didn’t feel it and neither did Krishnaji, who was walking down Thacher Road at that point. I met him with the car. In the morning, at the Huntington, he had come to my room, and later he said he had awakened  “with something different” in his head, pointing to his forehead, “which frightened the body, so I came to you.” The feeling has continued, to a lesser degree, all day, but the fright is gone.’ The 'body', in Krishnaji’s terminology, is almost as though it’s another entity sometimes.
May twelfth. ‘It is Krishnaji’s eighty-eighth birthday, which he again ignored and brushed away with impatience. Everybody looks smilingly, but doesn’t say a word. He is, if possible, more beautiful, more endearing, and has that spring of energy that seems to keep his body going.

Yesterday, Krishnaji went into the west bedroom at Arya Vihara and said, “This is where I last saw my brother. This is where he died.” Krishnaji said he felt no connection with the photos of his young self. It was like watching someone else. ’

May ninth—‘Krishnaji told me that he had been awake that night on and off, and that Rajagopal had been in communication with him, when he was in Ojai, after the case. And when I asked what was its form, he said, “Oh, you know, when you feel that someone is thinking about you.” He said that two days ago it abruptly stopped. “This could mean,” said he, “that either Rajagopal has done something like sent the rest of the archives to the Huntington Library, or some other thing. Or it means that Rajagopal is dying.” But Krishnaji thinks it’s more likely the former.

May thirty-first. ‘The sun came out. In Doris’s car I went to Petersfield to get Apex flights for Krishnaji and me to Geneva on first of July. Krishnaji, Dorothy, and I walked; the grove is in full flower. The pink azaleas are blinding, and the handkerchief tree, late this year, is unfurling. I spoke to Betsy in London. There was heavy lightning and thunder and rain in the night, but I was too deep in sleep to be more than faintly aware of it.’

June fourth. ‘The Bohms came to lunch. There was a discussion between Krishnaji and David about doing two videotaped dialogues to be played in August, in Davos at the International Transpersonal Association Conference.’ . Dorothy is disturbed by the apathy and antagonism of some of the students and staff.’

June sixth. Montague had been told that Dorothy had had a heart attack. She will need to stay in the hospital for ten days, then rest at home for six weeks, and then be quiet and without effort for three months.

June tenth. ‘Years ago, Krishnaji had a letter from Svetlana Peters (Stalin’s daughter) and she was to have come to Malibu to meet him but called it off at the last minute. She now lives in Cambridge with her twelve-year-old daughter, Olga Peters. She read The Years of Fulfillment, wrote to Mary Links and subsequently to Dorothy about coming to Brockwood. A short, smiling, rather round woman with reddish hair and light blue eyes got off. We both smiled in recognition, as if we had met before, and talked easily on the way back. On seeing the Mercedes, she said, “Oh, I haven’t been in a good car in some time. I came back to bring her to meet Krishnaji in the West Wing. He came toward her in his warm, eager, welcoming way, and we immediately went off for a walk through the grove where the azaleas are still blazingly beautiful and the handkerchief tree flutters. We went the long way around the fields and came back by the lanes. She seemed in awe and also very happy to meet Krishnaji, to talk and walk with him. I invited her to tea afterward, but she seemed to need to return to her room. I talked to Dr. Reilly, who said Dorothy had a “severe coronary” and will have to remain in the hospital for some more days.’

On June tenth, 1983. The Bohms came to lunch. Svetlana Peters sat next to Krishnaji and Dave was opposite.’ A few people are aware of who she is, though not many, but they give no sign of it, which is as it should be, as one of the burdens of her life is the Stalin’s daughter image. Krishnaji and Dave talked a bit about international relations at lunch, and she kept silent on that subject. Svetlana Peters returns to Cambridge by bus.

( In Saanen) Krishnaji said, “Of course, mind reading is obviously possible.” Asit asked if Krishnaji could do it, and Krishnaji replied that he could, but that he refuses to. Krishnaji went on to say a person can block someone else reading one’s mind, reaching it. Rajagopal’s aggression is directed at him, but Krishnaji forms a 'wall' it cannot penetrate. On Krishnaji’s side, there is emptiness, which forms the 'wall', and within this, Krishnaji can function.’
Krishnaji went on to say that because Rajagopal’s sendings cannot penetrate, “It is like coming up against a rock,” and it returns to Rajagopal. “I do not want to hurt him. I am not doing anything to him,” but something may change, that stillness may reach him, or perhaps he is too full of hatred, it may not. “It will be interesting to see. That is one reason I want to go to California.” Krishnaji spoke in that way that may be serious or not, of those being high in Masonry, and to whom two angels are given. They watch over the welfare of a person or persons, though he may not ask for himself and may rarely ask an action from them. Krishnaji has never asked his until now. But he has “sent two angels to talk to Rajagopal” to make him turn from this ugliness.’ ‘Asit translated this into a force of goodness and Krishnaji smiled. He spoke of sensing an atmosphere when serious things are being discussed, which is different from the atmosphere when discussing computers.’ Asit asked if Krishnaji could convey to a friendly person instead of Rajagopal in ways that would change them. Krishnaji said that is what is happening in the tent, but the other person must be willing to 'listen'. (I understand this to be listening with emptiness, without the filter and chatter of thought). Krishnaji’s turning away Rajagopal’s aggressive projections seem to be empty and that emptiness creates the wall of privacy, which is impenetrable. His mind cannot be read if this happens. Krishnaji said he thinks the ancient Hindus knew about this. This is part of meditation.’

October twentieth ( 1983 in Ojai) Before going to sleep, Krishnaji said to me, “They are immature here. This place must become something marvelous. You must be careful. Look after yourself. Do you understand? I might die, and you must see that this place is marvelous. You must live as if I were already dead. Do you understand what I’m telling you? When I leave Ojai, it is out of my mind. The house, the roses, Rajagopal, and all that, and when I leave here, it will be out of my mind, and when I leave India, that too.” I asked him, “Are you telling me something more?” Krishnaji replied, “No, I’m not going to die. I will live a long time more, I hope. But you must understand how to live.”“The teachings themselves are the expression of truth which serious people must find for themselves.”

Krishnaji had a letter from David Bohm. His anxiety attacks began again on his return to England. It is a touching, sad letter.’
‘I spoke to Shainberg in New York about David Bohm’s condition. He has been in constant touch with him, and arranged for Dave to see a good therapist in London.’ .

on May eighteenth (1984) Krishnaji said that he dreamed that Rajagopal said to him, “Why didn’t you tell me you would turn out like this?” and Krishnaji told him, “Because you behaved like such a bastard.”’ later, we drove over to look at the new school building in the Oak Grove. Krishnaji kept saying,  “What a beautiful place,” and “Don’t those teachers see it? How can they quarrel about 'things'?”’

May twenty-fourth. ‘Krishnaji laughed suddenly in the kitchen at breakfast. “Why?” I asked. “I’m thinking of your smile. It made me feel very close to you.”’ In the car coming back along Grand Avenue, he said, “I may be going to faint,” but he didn’t. He just closed his eyes for a few minutes while I kept driving slowly. Then it passed. It is some time since he last fainted. As we stepped out of the garage, a green car rushed up behind us, and out jumped an aggressive, absurdly dressed German who had followed Krishnaji from the Grove, demanding to talk to him. Krishnaji had said no, and said it again here with the man shouting at him. I tried to stop the man and he turned on me, “Who are you? Mary Zimbalist?” “Yes,” I replied, but Krishnaji stopped me from saying all I wanted to say. He quietly told the man he couldn’t see him, and we went into the house. Later he told me that I mustn’t try to defend him.’
‘“Why not?” I asked.’
‘“Because they won’t attack me but they might take it out on you. I must defend you,” he replied.’
‘Me: “Isn’t it my job to protect you?”’
‘Krishnaji said, “Something else is doing that. And if you react…do you understand?”’
‘Me: “You mean that if I say something that it may jar that other thing?”’
‘Krishnaji: “Yes. I can tell by looking at their eyes how crazy people are. Of course, if they tried to break into the house, we would both act.”’
‘Me: “Am I supposed to just stand there if someone was physically attacking you?”’
‘Krishnaji: “No, that would be different.”’

July sixth. ‘I met Friedrich Grohe at the station and brought him to the chalet. He is giving another large donation to the KFA and wants to buy the Zalk House in Ojai. I helped Grohe fill out bank forms, and we telephoned Erna in Ojai with the news. Krishnaji is moved by Grohe’s generosity, and disturbed by the lack of responsibility at Brockwood. In the afternoon, I drove the car to the tent, walked to Saanen station, took the train back to Schönried, and walked up the hill to the chalet.

July thirtieth. As we come to the trees, Krishnaji says, “May we come in? You don’t mind?” He is also watching cars for the color of a possible 190 Mercedes he increasingly thinks we should have in place of my old gray diesel in Ojai.’‘He said, “I will live at least another five years,” but next year he wants to come here earlier and rest more before the talks.’

This post was last updated by John Raica Thu, 24 Aug 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Sat, 22 Jul 2017 #125
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

( Brief excerpts from MZ's Memos - the second half of 1984)

October twelfth 1984 . ‘Krishnaji slept well. He said that in the last two nights he had vague dreams of “the brother.” He “couldn’t see his face, but we were going somewhere, a doctor’s. He went to the doctor, then he went somewhere and I didn’t know where, and then there were a bunch of people saying, ‘We’re for Theosophy. Krishnaji felt it was funny. .

Asit asked him why there has always been turmoil around Krishnaji, TS people, Rajagopal, etcetera. Krishnaji said it was not surprising, “In good soil the tree grows and so do the weeds.”’ ‘There was talk too about the “quiet room” in The Study at Brockwood. There was rather a challenge from both Pupul and Asit. Krishnaji said it was “entirely different” from a meditation room or a temple. “It is a place to be quiet, not to bring problems, thoughts,” said Krishnaji. He said he had found it very difficult to live at Brockwood, in a house full of  “a hundred” people where there is turmoil. I went back to the hotel, afraid if I give in to sleep I wouldn’t wake up in time for a walk. So, I read, the archive correspondence I had brought from KFA to KFI, copies of correspondence between Krishnaji and Annie Besant, also with letters to her from Nitya. It was interesting to read in his letters of February seven, 1924 that Krishnaji, during the process, had said, “In one of the messages Krishnaji repeated from the Master, it was said that this house’—Arya Vihara—‘would become a center and that they will watch over it.”’

The twenty-seventh of November. ‘Dr. Parchure left early by train for Madras. At 9:30 a.m. yesterday’s discussion resumed with the addition of Rinpoche Samshong.’ That’s 'our' Tibetan Rinpoche. ‘Krishnaji went into what he means by 'mind', which he says is “totally different” from brain: when the brain is still and the self is not, then there is "mind", which is love, intelligence, compassion. Because of thought and self-centeredness, we live in disorder. Death must be the most marvelous thing because it ends disorder, and so it brings order. I queried this and he said "there is order in the universe" and my perception made the jump from the personal ending by death; so there remains the order of the universe. How far ahead he goes. Rinpoche stayed for lunch and Krishnaji, who had spoken eloquently of the highest use of all the senses during the morning discussion, several times asked why celibacy is insisted upon in various religions. Rinpoche did not respond very much to this, but he did describe the steps of the Tibetan Buddhist monkhood. Seven years of probation and many vows, etcetera. Krishnaji asked him about the Dalai Lama and his view of him. Rinpoche said that the Dalai Lama is in a "guru" position to him, as the Dalai Lama was involved in his ordination. He said he would obey the Dalai Lama, and Krishnaji took this up as "obedience" “is a terrible thing.” “Why should I obey? If I’m wrong, I’m wrong, and I will find out for myself.” He maintained that help is harmful because it weakens people. “Then why do you talk so much?” asked Rinpoche. Krishnaji says he does not want to 'help' people. “But Buddha continued to talk,” said Rinpoche after quoting the Buddha in similar lines to Krishnaji’s. He maintained that there is only "pointing the truth", not "help". The ( perception of the ?) truth is the only authority.

the first of December Krishnaji went in the afternoon to see the storm along the beach.’ I did manage to go with Krishnaji to the beach in the late afternoon and walked partially. Radha has had hepatitis but is up and around.’
December third. With a big wind still blowing from the fringes of a new cyclone, Krishnaji went to see the sea and came back exhilarated, hair flying.’ ‘Huge waves close in the sand, he said. It was getting dark but he said he hadn’t minded. At Rajghat he had talked to me about his unease when it begins to darken. He has always felt this way, he said, “I feel like a skeleton wandering.” If someone close to him is there, he feels more protected.’
Next morning we left Vasanta Vihar for Rishi Valley and reached here at 8:40 a.m. I settled into the same room I’ve had these latter years, next to the dining room and across from Krishnaji in the old guest house. There is great quiet in the valley; remoteness, and an ancient rhythm. There is also a drought as it is another dry year. The big old well is almost empty, and the streambeds are dry.’

The next day. ‘Krishnaji pursued the question he put yesterday to Uma and others: “How do you regard K? Is he different from you? And if so, why?” He was asking the family members, but they had no answer to it any more than the rest of us. Krishnaji teases Uma about her "sociologist" point of view. She smiles and was restrained in her replies. In the afternoon, Krishnaji, Radhika, and I walked toward Tetu. The simplicity of the earth, the hills, sky, and a sort of stillness. “This would be a good place to die,” said Krishnaji. It was dark when we got back, but he didn’t mind because Radhika and I were with him. The valley is moist from yesterday’s rain.’

The sixth. ‘I worked almost all day at my desk. Krishnaji, Radhika, and I again walked on the Tetu Road as far as the little temple. Krishnaji is moved by the beauty of the country.  “One could die out here.”’ He said it again.

The eighteenth of December: ‘On the afternoon walk with Krishnaji were Nandini, Bakul, Radhika, and me. We went on the Tetu Road where days ago Krishnaji had said that he was so moved by the beauty of the country that “One could die out here,” but today, we went as far as the small temple, where the head and torso of a goddess is fashioned in clay on the base of a tree and where the villagers sacrifice goats. One other day we walked there, and Krishnaji asked us if we felt something about the atmosphere. Radhika said she felt nothing. Nandini said she had once walked there with her son, Gansham, and they had not wanted to stop near that temple. There is something unpleasant about it. I have always been drawn toward the country there because it is beautiful, totally country, with fields, orchards, and a red sandy road and Rishi Konda at the end of the valley. But I’ve always tread carefully, feeling alien in the eyes of the land and the dark Telugu faces, even though the children offer a handful of groundnuts as a present, and once some custard apples were offered by an old, bent twig of a man. I would walk there alone, but warily, somehow. Today, Krishnaji and the rest of us stepped into the temple, which is a stone box, not very deep, empty except for a row of lingam-shaped stones, and there, after showing Nandi and Bakul the statue of the goddess at the base of the tree, we turned back on the road toward the school. It was late afternoon. The sun had dropped behind Rishi Konda. The sky was pale gold, but dark was beginning on the path.

About halfway back, Krishnaji asked me if I had felt anything behind us. I said I had felt I wanted to move away from the temple. He said he had felt something following him. He watched what he felt, and then he said to it, “Enough”…“I did something and told it to leave, and instantly it was gone.” He said the school land of Rishi Valley is peaceful, but the land beyond is not. “It is a dark land. There is "danger" in those villages. We must keep them at arm’s length.”

Leaving India is a desirable thought. Something dogs me on this trip, though everything is done to make my visit pleasant with great thoughtfulness. There is something about the country that is, as Krishnaji said, “ a dark land.”’

oDecember twenty-second. ‘Krishnaji had an extra discussion with students, at the students’ urging. As usual, the mid-aged ones were the talkers.’ That means twelve year olds. ‘He had six come to join him one after another on the dais. Unfortunately, the video equipment had gone to Madras and so, the lively, funny, and very good discussion was only on audio recording. Afterward Krishnaji was engulfed in children. “Can we talk again sir?” and “Why don’t you stay here, sir? You should be our principal, sir.”’
‘The older silent students now want a meeting, but they have waited too long, and Krishnaji will rest until he leaves on December twenty-sixth.’ The older students had that sort of adolescent embarrassment in making fools of themselves in their thinking they’re superior to the younger ones who chatted away and were wonderful. But when they finally decided they wanted to get into the act, it was too late. ‘I took photos as I have at other meetings. Krishnaji, later in the morning, saw Mr. Naidu with his three children. . I came back in time to walk with Krishnaji, Narayan, Rita, Grohe, Radhika, and a male teacher, Alo, along the Tetu road, past the temple to the crossroad. Krishnaji strode purposefully around the back of the temple. And when later along the road I asked him if he had felt anything following him, and he said, “No, I went deliberately around the temple, did certain things, and said ‘You stay here. This is your place."
‘Then I asked, “Did you feel a resistance?”’
‘Krishnaji, “It didn’t like it, naturally.”’

The twenty-third. ‘Pupul leaves today, so she, Radhika, and I had supper with Krishnaji last evening. During supper, there was a long talk about his life and some occult matters, and Pupul’s book on Krishnaji. She had given me an article supplied by Radha Burnier that Krishnaji had written sometime in the twenties after Nitya’s death. It describes his concept of Masters, not as remote, strange, beings, but as part of himself and his daily life. He said he had not seen them often and only “as the flash of a passing bird.” We spoke of whether Leadbeater could have made the vague dreaming boy imagine these things. Pupul says there is little direct testimony from Krishnaji in those days. Much of the accounts are by CWL. We even speculated whether Leadbeater might have given the young Krishnaji some drug that made him both sleepy and suggestible on the occasion of the “Initiation.” Radhika and I leaned to feeling that Leadbeater was an absolute charlatan. There was talk about the Ootacamund experience. Pupul and Nandini wanted to call a doctor, but Krishnaji refused. He said, “Both of you have had children. You can’t stop the baby from being born.” Pupul said that when she had returned to Bombay, on three nights running, she had gone to bed and felt death enclosing her as though in birth, and her body had fought back. It never came again.

‘Krishnaji had then gone on about “cleansing” the apartment of a presence. He then spoke of what he had done on the walk in the afternoon. He said he does and says certain things that he never was taught but has come upon it by himself. He spoke of cleansing the room in the hospital at Cedars-Sinai when we went there for his operation. He said someone had died in that room. I and he felt it, and he acted on it. He said he 'does things' to the car before a long trip like Madras to Rishi Valley. He asked Pupul if she knew a “real mantra,” and she and Radhika spoke of a mandala, which means a protected space. Krishnaji spoke of violence in animal sacrifices. What seems to make this killing of animals more dark than the usual widespread killing for food, etcetera is that this is done for "religious" ends. Radhika said that she uses what she calls “alertness” as a protection. Krishnaji said he would have difficulty in walking from here, the old guest house, to her house in the dark.’

‘Once in Ashdown Forest he had a bad time at night. When he had been speaking of his young days, there came into the room that curious atmosphere that so many times has seemed to appear when something innately concerned with him and his origins is discussed. “Do you feel the atmosphere?” he asked. Even Radhika said that she felt it, but when we began to speak of evil, it vanished, and instantly Krishnaji spotted it. He said that to speak of evil invites it. That good attracts evil, that one shouldn’t discuss evil in a room but out of doors, and not at night. He said he has never discussed what he does to dispel evil but asked Radhika if she would want to know, bearing in mind that there is danger in it. She backed away, and said she wouldn’t ask. This morning, I asked him if the same offer was open to me. He thought for a moment and said, “No.” I asked if it was offered to Radhika because she must protect this place. “Yes,” and that I would want it only to protect him, and something larger is protecting him. One cannot protect oneself.

He said also that I am not always sufficiently, deeply attentive, and therefore it would be "dangerous" for me to know these things. He said I must not get mixed up in these things. I said I was not interested in occult things, was not afraid. But he said the danger would be “if it gets into my mind without my realizing it,” so we left it at that. But he said that last night he had gone around and "cleansed" this whole house. The real protection is to be without anger, antagonism, envy, hatred, and self.’

December twenty-fourth. ‘Later yesterday we took what was planned as a long walk. Krishnaji is still exhilarated by having been able to walk to the mouth of the valley the other day, and seems rather pleased, as a child might, with his powers. So Dorothy was invited. “Can you stand a long walk?” she was asked, which arouses her mettle and also her wish not to be regarded by Krishnaji as old and enfeebled. Rita and Grohe, both long-distance walkers, Narayan, Radhika, and I went. The plan was the Tetu Road to where another branches to the right and joins the main road to the valley, if one can call it that. Passing the horrid temple, Krishnaji walked purposely, with a dominating stride around it, and told me later, “I have pulled its sting.” We turned right, where a wide road appears. The school van met us, but Krishnaji wanted to go on, so we walked as far as the village on the main road. He didn’t want to walk through that, so we all came back in the van.

December twenty-seventh. In the night, I decided not to stay in India till Krishnaji goes to Bombay but to go with Dorothy and Rita on January thirteen/fourteen. My spirits lightened. I’ve had enough of India. I am weary of the difficult food, the weather, the sights, the sounds, the tastes, and the smells. Nothing seems clean to any of the senses. Even the sea, the rolling surf off the Bay of Bengal, smells polluted to me. There seems no freshness in nature. Everything seems smeared with human insensitivity, soiled. The site of an old woman sweeping in the filthy streets with bare hands sickens me. So does the tolerance of it all. I cannot imagine wanting to stay alive in the conditions of life that millions and millions endure in this part of the world, and I am past the human capacity, if I ever had it, to do anything but shrink from all this. So I will flee to my infinitely cleaner, luckier, safety of life where atomic annihilation is as likely, but meanwhile, clean, sweet smelling fields, bed, house, food, and air is possible. Will I ever not wonder, as I have since childhood, why I have been so lucky, so blessed, really? And the supreme blessing is Krishnaji. How have I been allowed that?’ ever since I was a child, I thought, “Why am I so lucky?” Why have I got a clean bed to sleep in and enough food and beautiful things around me? I always felt that I’d have to 'pay for it' some day, that life would even things out.

December thirty-first. ‘I asked Krishnaji if his "meditation" has come to him here in India. He shook his head and said, “Too busy. One must be quiet for it to come.” There were showers on and off all day. At 7 p.m., Grohe went off to the airport to fly back to Switzerland. He spent a long time talking to me about building in Rishi Valley and at Brockwood. He thinks it is “bon marché” to build in Rishi Valley, so he is financing two bungalows, one for his own use when he is there and one for Krishnaji, even though Krishnaji says he prefers the old quarters. And the balance needed to build an “ashram” or study. He seems to think I can expedite having all this done by next year. I went with Prema and him Saturday to see a local architect’s work, and also another house. But I had to point out that this is India’s project and I would be intruding. He is curiously impractical.
So this year is ending tonight, with hardly a mark of its passing. I have said goodnight to Krishnaji and say only to myself how extraordinary is the grace and wonder of another year with him.’

This post was last updated by John Raica Thu, 24 Aug 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Sat, 22 Jul 2017 #126
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

THE K & MZ Story, 1985

January first, 1985, and we’re in Madras. A stubborn and determined rain gave no possibility of having the 7:30 a.m. question-and-answer meeting in the garden as usual, so everything took place in the big hall here at Vasanta Vihar. People kept piling in. ‘Krishnaji spoke wonderfully with power, authority, and what was called “a presence.”

January second. ‘Ninety-six-year-old Madahvachari came to lunch Krishnaji was amiable to him and invited him to come again. But later coming back in the car from the beach walk, Krishnaji said "how dreadful it is to live like that". I asked what choice Madahvachari had, and Krishnaji said he should “take a pill.”’ ( ‘Krishnaji seems to think that these lethal pills are available, so we muttered about ways of suicide all the way back to Vasanta Vihar.)

January fourth. To Krishnaji’s discomfort the rain held, so he gave the extra talk he agreed to give tonight, to replace the one that was rained out last Sunday, in the less crummy of the two halls, but crummy it was. It was a wedding place. And though he gave a good talk, it tired him because of the place. It was announced that the talks tomorrow and Sunday will be held at Vasanta Vihar and canceled if it rains. The drive past the slums along the beach disturbed him. These sights make me want to never come to India again.’

The next day. ‘At 5:30 p.m. in clear weather, Krishnaji gave his third Madras talk in the Vasanta Vihar garden.
The sixth. ‘Pupul arrived in the afternoon. At 5:30 p.m. Krishnaji’s fourth Madras talk in Vasanta Vihar garden. Very fine.’
January seventh. ‘At 10 a.m., there was a KFI trustee meeting held upstairs. Asit arrived for it, and Dorothy, I, and Dr. Adikaram were invited.’ He was the head of the Sri Lankan Krishnamurti world, and a nice man. ‘I sat feeling that talk of more schools was mad. The shortage of teachers is constant. So is money. And most of all, the energy of those who do come for Krishnaji’s teachings is siphoned off into academics or supporting academics and the feeling for the teachings, the essential of what should concern us, is spread too thin. I said as much, but Pupul disagreed. She thinks there should be as many schools “as the ground of different human beings.”

It seems to me we are all, for the most part, occupied with the usual, schools. When we got back, a seventeen-year-old musician, Ravi Kiran, played a rare instrument called gottuvadyam. It is said to be very hard to play. It is veena-like but without struts, and has twenty-one strings. The boy came with his father and younger brother and sister. At the end, when Krishnaji approached to thank them and present the usual garland, which Sunanda had waiting, the father and then the boy and then the younger ones prostrated themselves in the old total way: flat out, whole body and arms outstretched, touching Krishnaji’s feet, at which Krishnaji put his hands on either side of the prostrate head. It was, to me, very moving. The instant and intense fervor of it. Krishnaji was touched by it. “They are real Brahmins,” he said. This was the real, ancient prostration, the way he and Nitya prostrated themselves to their father when they came back after the years in Europe. I think Krishnaji was more impressed by the actions of the children and father then by the playing, but it had lasted one and a half hours, and it was by this time 8 o’clock, and he had had no supper and has been working, i.e., talking, for four straight days, plus a morning of KFI meeting.

January ninth. Krishnaji had said to me that there is so much division in the KFI that he’s not going to interfere. “Let them run it,” he said. I pointed out that this means a dictatorship by Pupul, and that he is perceived as being afraid of her. He finds her much more assertive these days.

Pupul brought me a letter found among Shiva Rao’s papers The note is possibly in Krishnaji’s handwriting, though Krishnaji is not sure after looking at it. It is dated London, 10 October 1925, and purports to be from "Maha Chohan" to Krishnaji, commending him for his work. Krishnaji has no recollection of it, and has no explanation to offer, though he said at one point that Leadbeater had invented the current concepts of the Masters.The tenth: ‘There was the second meeting at 9:30 a.m. of the two-day seminar. It went a little better. In the afternoon Krishnaji met Major Rakesh Sharma, the Indian astronaut who participated in a Russian space mission. He talked with him almost an hour, liked him, and invited him to come on the beach walk along with Radha, Dorothy, Pama, and me. Krishnaji had me walk and talk to Sharma. A very nice, intelligent, and easy-to-talk-to man. ‘Pandit Jagannath Upadhyaya arrived.’

January twelfth. ‘At 9:30 a.m. Krishnaji held a discussion in the hall with Upadhyaya, Pupul, Radha, Achyutji, and most others were onlookers. The long-winded Hindi of Upadhyaya and its translation, which often turned out to be, “The Buddha says etcetera, etcetera, etcetera” makes a fair amount of tedium. Krishnaji kept wordlessly catching my eye, and eventually he told Upadhyaya to "leave aside what the Buddha said and say what he himself thought". Major Sharma was at lunch and Krishnaji put him through quite a questioning. Was he a Brahmin? Yes. With that background, what did he feel about being in the Air Force? Sharma said it troubled him. That he had not killed anyone, and did not intend to, but when he was seventeen years old, all he thought of was flying one of those marvelous machines without measuring the implications he now sees. Krishnaji was cooking him a bit. ‘In late afternoon, Krishnaji, Radhika, who went to Palamaner yesterday and came here afterward, Radha, and I walked on the beach. For me it was the last walk. I am leaving tomorrow, and will put this depressing place away.

January thirteen. ‘Krishnaji has worn my rings and rudraksha on the chain for two nights and gave them back to me this morning after walking to the window with them.’ He did something, "magnetized jewelry. ‘It is painful to leave Krishnaji as always. He and I spoke briefly, then Dorothy and I left at 9:30 a.m., and I took a 2 a.m. Lufthansa flight out of Indi

February seventeenth: ‘Krishnaji’s TWA flight 761, arrived in LAX in time. Krishnaji came out quickly, because of the wheelchair, with Asit and luggage. Krishnaji came with me, and Asit went with David and Jack. Krishnaji wanted to go the quiet way by the sea, so again, we came through Malibu Canyon and along the beach with the yellow flowers in bloom.’
Krishnaji talked of his worry that the KFA will wind up, when we older ones are gone, in the hands of the current younger generation, which he does not want, especially as one has a wife becoming a bull in a china shop.’He has the idea of bringing in someone from outside of the US who would “run things( the 'dutch'- way ?) ”’

The eleventh of May. I heard him starting his day at 5:45 a.m. He had slept well in spite of the agitation last night when I returned to Ojai later than Krishnaji expected and he thought of motor accidents. He had made tea for Pupul, but was so upset his hands shook so much he could not carry the teacup. Pupul described finding at Adyar in the Theosophical Society archives, which Radha let her examine, a letter from Nitya to Mrs. Besant describing much more about Krishnaji’s pepper tree events: the "child entity" talking to his mother, describing “they” working on his body, "cleaning his eyes" so that he could “see,” and his telling some entity “beyond the wall” to go away. Krishnaji seemed to understand what this meant, and admonished Pupul and me not to inquire too far into esoteric things because if you 'open the door' to that, you also open the door to “what is beyond the wall.”’

‘After Pupul left he found it extraordinary that the guru of Upadhyaya’s guru, Vishudhananat, apparently had told Mrs. Besant that there was to be a "manifestation of the Maitreya", and later told Upadhyayaji’s guru that Krishnaji was that manifestation.’
Later, after supper, Krishnaji renewed the subject of what was spoken of last night: Upadhyaya’s telling of his guru’s guru’— Kavirath—‘foretelling a “manifestation.”’

The nineteenth. ‘Krishnaji gave this fourth talk in the Oak Grove to a huge crowd. Later he told me once again, “You must outlive me so you can look after me. After that you can follow me.”’ He said I must pay more attention to the way I sit, to my health, etcetera.

**May twenty fourth. ‘At 2:50 a.m. Krishnaji collided with the table near his bed and fell, hitting his left hip and scraping his leg. I heard it and came rushing in, put a dressing on his leg, and he slept again till 6 a.m. He only very rarely got confused when he got up in the night. In other words, he walked to the window instead of the bathroom, where he probably wanted to go

July fourth (Saanen) . ‘Krishnaji slept nine hours. Pupul left in the morning. Krishnaji had supper alone. He is hypersensitive. He said to me, “You’re not paying attention. It is very serious. The body is under attack.” He was very irritable that summer.

The seventeenth of July. ‘At 10:30 a.m. Krishnaji gave his fourth Saanen talk. It began in a remote voice, which deepened and strengthened as he went to greater depth. It was a special talk. “Self-centeredness is corruption,” he said.

July nineteenth. ‘There was the annual general meeting of all the International Committees held again at the Ermitage Hotel in Schönried. Krishnaji asked their opinion on moving the Saanen talks to Brockwood after next year. Then he spoke of Dorothy, her retirement as principal after this year’s talks at Brockwood, and of all she had done.
‘Then as he talked it developed that travel is too tiring, but he cannot stay too long in one place.’ there were all these conflicts in his needs. : ‘He has become hypersensitive. He feels people are impinging upon him, focused on him. If he stays in a place too long, there is a pressure he cannot stand now, and he must talk or the energy will 'go out of him' as he is here to talk. If not, he will weaken and end. “It wants to disappear,” and he needs someone to challenge him. Bohm used to do it and it made Krishnaji go deeper, but Bohm can’t now. Pupul can’t. No one can. No one we know.

July twenty-fifth. ‘Krishnaji held the third question-and-answer meeting and the last ever of the Gatherings in Saanen. There was no goodbye, just a profound silence as he sat for a few moments and then asked, “May I leave?”

July twenty-sixth. ‘There was a long talk with Krishnaji in the morning about all the foundations. “It is watching,” he said. He speaks as if that "something" is deciding what happens to him. “It” will decide when his work is done and hence, by implication, his life. He is disturbed by the divisions in the Indian foundation and their suspicion of the two Western foundations. He is disturbed generally by everything. He didn’t feel like walking but talked to me about KFA. Only the Lilliefelts and I are there, he said.Krishnaji said to me, “You are responsible for Ojai more than the other two.”’

After supper, Krishnaji had me wash and give him my rudraksha and gold chain, and he put it on for the night. Then he said, “Now, every day sit quietly. Don’t lie down but sit upright with a quiet mind. Do it for five minutes, but every day.”  Then, “I’ve never told anybody this.”’

In the afternoon, Krishnaji had me note a memoranda about making Brockwood a 'religious' place. “1: Look at trees, nature. Be aware of everything. 2: Study Krishnaji’s teachings to know (even intellectually) all he has said. 3: Are you really interested in this? If not, do your job well, as well as you can, but ease out.”’
He also had me note things he wants to tell KF India trustees. “1: If anyone gets hurt by what I’m about to say, they haven’t 'listened' to the teachings.”’ ‘“2: Organization has swallowed the teachings. 3: Krishnaji will be ninety-one in a few months and before he dies, he feels it is absolutely necessary to have a religious center. 4: Trust. K. questions whether you trust him. You have often said that K. is influenced, etcetera” ‘“5: Circumstances; pragmatism is not his way of action. 6: We—they. In publishing India considers it is separate from England.”

“You are responsible for Ojai more than the other two, Erna and Theo. You have been closest to Krishnaji. You must be sensitive to that. 'It' will go with K. when he dies, I think. I might have to stay in India or Brockwood or Ojai, but you are responsible for Ojai. You can’t ask for it. Just to be sensitive. Pay attention. Do you understand? This is very serious. You must keep the door open to That.”’

August tenth. In the Tannegg wood he felt well and away from the wrong atmosphere of the house.’ He really hated that ( Grohe's ?) house. : ‘On the way back he said, “The spirit has left Saanen. Probably that is why I feel so uncomfortable. It has moved to Brockwood.” He was more cheerful by evening.

Brockwood is beautiful and quiet. Only Montague, Doris, and Dominic were out on the driveway to meet Krishnaji.
I had trouble with the washing machine, and water came out on the kitchen floor, and in my efforts to mop it up, Krishnaji said I was not paying attention. “You start something and then you do something else. If you don’t learn to change, you may not be able to be with K.”’ ‘Later he had me sit quietly for a while.’

Since the end of Saanen,” something is going on in him. He said that if something has decided everything that happens to K., it is something extraordinary.” I asked if he thinks that all the foretelling that Upadhyaya spoke of is true. He replied, “I am skeptical.” I pointed out that he speaks of it as though it had impressed him. “I don’t know,” he said. The other day he had said in the very firm voice of stating a fact, “I am the World Teacher.”’ ‘Today I mentioned certain changes in him lately, and wondered if he was aware of them.’
‘Krishnaji: “What changes?”’
‘Me: “The hypersensitivity and manner.”’
‘Krishnaji: “What manner?”’
‘Me: “A roughness that is unlike you.”’
‘Krishnaji: “Am I rough to others?”’
‘Me: “No.”’
‘Krishnaji “Just to you?”’
‘Me: “Yes.”’ ‘He said he never did anything he was unaware of. I was "too hard to change", He was relaxed when he said all this, but it will recur whether through my own faults or other factors. Many things seem to be bothering him, notably the KF India situation. He wants the Patwardhans out, the publications done by the KFT, and Vasanta Vihar to be a religious center, which it isn’t with the Patwardhans in charge. He wants to end discord and set all things right “before I’m gathered to my fathers.”

The next day, ‘Krishnaji said, “I have to hold onto it. Death is always so close. “He mustn’t be seriously ill or it would be the end. No accident or it would be nip and tuck.”’
‘Krishnaji: “It is not a physical effort of the brain. It is something else. My life has been planned. It will tell me when to die, say it is over. That will settle my life. But I must be careful that ‘That’ is not interfered with by saying, ‘I will give only two talks.’’”
‘Me: “Do you feel how much more time is given you?”’**

‘Krishnaji: “I think ten years more.”’

M: ‘Me: “You mean talking?”’

‘Krishnaji: “When I don’t talk, it will be over. But I don’t want to strain the body. Also, too long a holiday is bad. I need a certain amount of rest but not more. A quiet place where nobody knows me, but unfortunately people get to know me.”’**

August twenty-eighth. ‘There was a discussion after breakfast with Krishnaji, Dr. Parchure and me about Krishnaji’s program for 1986. He feels he should give two talks on the East Coast of the USA. Boston?
August thirtieth. ‘I awoke wondering how to bring about what Krishnaji has said is necessary: a set of talks on the East Coast in March or early April. He has rejected so-called 'sponsored talks' (i.e., at a university), saying he didn’t want to talk just to students. That means finding a suitable hall in Boston or even Toronto, doing all the promotion, coping with the sound system difficulties, finding a place to stay, etcetera. All with the possible uncertainty of his being up to this after a heavy Indian tour. As it unfolded, the dilemma is, as he put it, the body exists to talk. If it doesn’t talk, the body will fade and that will be the end. But it needs rest too. What is the balance between these? He said speaking only in Ojai was not enough. He thinks little of discussions as people can’t be found to challenge him sufficiently. He seemed to accept the shape we worked out for Brockwood. June: arrive from Ojai, talk to students, and any other discussions. Rest in July till the Brockwood talks, beginning July nineteenth to August third. Go on holiday afterward. Return in September for an earlier school reopening. It was when I then brought up his Ojai winter that the extra talks came into it. Last evening I talked to Parchure, who is uncertain whether he will want such talks when the time comes. And then either he over-talks himself to fulfill the commitment or we have to cancel with all that that entails. Either would be a shock to Krishnaji. There was a heavy feeling all morning, and then after the massage, Parchure came to me and told me that Krishnaji had said he didn’t want the extra talks. It might be good just to rest in Ojai

Krishnaji was tense last evening, irritable just below the surface. He came to my room, sat me down, holding my hand, and said he was looking at his irritability. “I am not talking to you, I am talking to myself…Either I am getting old or have fallen into a habit of picking at you. It is my fault, and it must stop. We’ve been together a long time, and I love you deeply. The body has become hypersensitive. Most of the time I want to "go away", and I mustn’t do that. I’m going to deal with this. It is unforgivable.” Later he said of himself, “He’s had enough. If there were illness or an accident, he would slip out.” And then, “No one in all these years has changed.” And, “I want to give you a new brain. I love you; I will till I die.” Later he called me in: “Maria, I have a feeling it’s all been carefully planned. When the body goes, it may be tomorrow, it may be in ten years, but it is a strange feeling. It has all been completely planned.”’

September second: The K-Rajagopal settlement came for our signatures. Tilly von Egmond, who stayed till it came, signed for Holland. Krishnaji will sign for himself, KFT, and KFI. He had been in bed all day It rained too much for a walk.’
The next day, ‘Krishnaji signed the settlement agreement. Tilly left for Holland, and Dr. Parchure left for India. I mailed the signed settlement papers to Erna and telephoned her that I had. The house is becoming quiet and is almost empty.’
Now, for the next five days I don’t write much, partly because I had a cold, it seems. I don’t go on walks, Krishnaji talks with me about an 'empty mind'. I continue to work at my desk.

Then on September tenth, I asked him if he knew how long he would live. “Do you really know?”’
‘Krishnaji: “I think I do. I have intimations.”’
‘Me: “Are you willing to tell me?”’
‘Krishnaji: “No, that would not be right. I cannot tell anyone.”’
‘Me: “Is one to live thinking that at any moment you might leave?”’
‘Krishnaji: “No, it’s not like that. It won’t be for 'quite a while'....”’

The fourteenth: ‘After breakfast, Krishnaji talked to me about Ojai. There is no one we wholly trust to carry on, and we are all getting old. So what is going to happen there? What is he going to do there for three-and-a-half months? He can’t go on perpetually talking to the Oak Grove staff who don’t understand. He is sure he will settle things in India. Should he then return to Brockwood and stay there until the Ojai talks, even though it is winter? Ojai doesn’t attract people. They come for him. He asked, what if, after the rest, he were to hold open discussions every weekend for anyone who wants to come? He cannot, and will not, do nothing. “I am for it.” He wants to be in our own place, not elsewhere.

September eighteenth. Krishnaji said, “I have complete leisure.” He urged us for a week to write down everything, every thought, etcetera.” He said he used to do this, and Rajagopal tried to find the papers but never did: Krishnaji put them under a stone outside.’ Krishnaji motioned to me that I was putting out my tongue, another lack of awareness of what I am doing. He now calls for deliberate action by "will" as general awareness doesn’t seem sufficient. I feel like a robot at times but realize this is a defense.’ I don’t feel a shrinking from my own, as far as I can tell, but Krishnaji had admonished me over and over, “You must outlive me” to look after him, and each of us urges healthful things on the other.

Today he said to me during the tea in the kitchen before the walk that the unifying factor should be intelligence. “To be free in the real sense, that freedom is intelligence. Intelligence is common to all of us and that will bring us together, not organization. If you see the importance that each one of us is free and that freedom implies love, consideration, attention, cooperation, and compassion—that intelligence is the factor to keep us together.”

“How do you instantly, without time, make the students see that self-interest is the root of conflict?” He was talking about intelligence. If each one of us is intelligent, in the sense that he means (i.e., sensitive, loving, compassionate), then that intelligence, which is neither yours nor mine, is acting, and, therefore, though we are separate physical bodies, we act as one. And can you make the student see this? Not only see it but instantly be transformed? Then he mentioned that out of all the hundreds of students who have passed through Rishi Valley, not one has been different.
After the meeting in the room, I said that if no student in all these years had changed, one may ask what is the point of them? If no one, with all his effort, has changed, how can the rest of us, who apparently haven’t changed, expect to bring this about in others, the students? If you haven’t done it, is there any likelihood that we can change others? “I don’t know,” he replied, but it was said a little jokingly, not wanting to go on with a serious discussion.

September twenty-second: ‘Krishnaji spoke to the whole staff in the sitting room at 11:30 a.m. He went slowly into freedom of mind in the approach to students: freedom from problems, not adding to the students’ problems.
Krishnaji came to me in the early morning while I was doing my exercises and wanted to see what I do and corrected everything. He is a very demanding exercise master.’
September twenty-third. ‘Krishnaji again came in the early morning and taught me exercises and breathing. A hard taskmaster, but very touching

September twenty-fourth, 1985, ‘Krishnaji gave me another lesson in breathing and neck exercises. A severe teacher.’ ‘He also asked me to note, “Independence without freedom is meaningless. If you have freedom you don’t need independence.”
‘I was upset and Krishnaji took that moment to point out that I hadn’t finished the breakfast dishes.’ ‘I felt harried by his constant criticism of me “not paying attention.” And “Will you kindly listen,” followed by a slow reiteration of what you have heard and understood is wearing. He asked a question, but if you answer it too quickly, this happens.’ ‘He seems to need to say all his criticisms at length and get them out of his preoccupation. I was finally able to tell him that Mary Cadogan reports that Harper’s Clayton Carson wants an introduction by David Bohm to round out the next book, which is only two dialogues long, and Krishnaji agreed to it.

September the twenty-sixth. ‘“Did you sleep well? Did I bully you too much? We’ll have a nice quiet day today,” he said.’
‘I replied, “It doesn’t matter. Will I see you again after you go to India?”’
‘Krishnaji: “Why do you ask?”’
‘Me: “I don’t want to be apart from you. You said yesterday you knew when you would die.”’
‘Krishnaji: “Yes, more or less, but it is not right away. If I’m going to die, I’ll telephone you, and you can come. I won’t die all of a sudden. I’m in good health. My heart, everything is all right. It is all decided by someone else. I can’t talk about it. I’m not allowed to. Do you understand? It is much more serious. There are things you don’t know, enormous, and I can’t tell you. It is very hard to find a brain like this, and it must keep on as long as the body can; until something says, ‘enough.’ If I die, you mustn’t mourn. We’ve been very close, but you are beyond all that and you mustn’t mourn as you would have in the past.”’
He talked jokingly about “the committee.” I don’t know, obviously, but my thoughts tend to go toward a group of something because of a strange dream I once had.
I was being judged in the dream by a group of beings, and it wasn’t…it was just a sort of brief dream, but it was very vivid. It woke me up, actually. And what I felt at the time, and, probably still feel was that I was being 'judged' whether I was suitable to be with Krishnaji and do things for him and be useful to them. Because I always felt if there’s something protecting him that thing has to have an instrument or instruments. There has to be some human being who can do things for him. That was my interpretation of the dream. And sometimes he speaks, as in this, “it is serious, and he can’t talk about it". And other times when he uses the word “Committee,” it’s sort of joking.

Before supper, Krishnaji had me sit quietly, with him touching the back of my head. “I am trying to reach your brain but you keep slipping back. You have a habit of eating too fast. Pay attention.”’
‘Krishnaji supervised my breathing and other exercises again
‘At 11:30 Krishnaji spoke to the school. “Why do we need to study academics? What should we learn beyond that?”

These seem to be things that he said to me and I wrote down on little pieces of paper.
 ‘One: “To think simply and clearly.” Two: “To clear the brain of agreement and disagreement.”’ And then it says, ‘“Simplicity.”’ Then, in the same writing, so I guess it’s at the same time, is: ‘One: “Deliberation, to deliberate.” Two: “Decision.” Three: “Execution.”…“No political activity. Political equals to power seeking. No maneuvering for better power or salary. There is no climbing to higher positions or authority, for Brockwood represents not authority but the teachings. The 'captain' of the team could be, can be, and should be replaced if he is not moving in the right direction.”

“Samadhi—thought when necessary operates, otherwise the brain is quiet. "K—quiet" equals no association, recognition, reaction, planning, no time in sense of remembering. Maybe I may change it. It is a state that is always deep but has no depth.
‘“There are two kinds of energies in those who are committed and those who are not committed and are therefore free. The committed—missionaries, priests, monks—their energy becomes committed and therefore is limited.”’

This is about India: ‘Before he dies, he feels it absolutely necessary to have a religious center. The trust. Krishnaji questions whether you trust him. You have often said Krishnaji is influenced…’ This is what he’s going to say to them.

The third of October. ‘Krishnaji got a little more rest. When I brought in his breakfast, he said he had just had a remarkable meditation. Perhaps that will wipe away some of the sense of problems that have harassed him. The soft 'Indian summer' has fled, and a strong wind is flailing the trees, rushing in from the Channel.
‘ After supper Krishnaji again said to me in a most serious voice, “Will you listen? I am watching for you, but you must pay attention on the walk. You are not walking on the sides of the road.”’ ‘(my shoes had picked up a lot of dirt).’ Then, ‘“You must watch everything you do.” It is at the end of the day when he is most tired that the least thing seems impossible to him. Things seem black and white. The least thing is irritating, seen as part of larger wrong things.

The next day, ‘There was rain in the morning, but Dr. Rahula and friends came to lunch. At 4 p.m. Krishnaji gave an interview to a Lella Russell Smith for articles in the Friends Journal, a national Quaker magazine in the United States. Then tea and walk.’
It was a bright beautiful afternoon with cool air and a light breeze. Krishnaji had turned on the lights when I brought his supper tray and said he wasn’t tired. After supper he said to me, "as long as we live together he will point out things to me. After that, it is up to me".

Krishnaji asked us how to bring about trust in the Indian Foundation. He said they do not trust each other or him, and he has been unable to change this. He spoke again about the teachings being put second to structure in Ojai, India, everywhere. I said that was an unfair indictment, and it was a damning thing for anyone who has been close to Krishnaji to put the teaching second to organization. Krishnaji said he was not making an indictment. I say he may not have meant it to be, but to me it would be a shocking fact or act to put the teachings second to anything. I said some people (by implication Ojai) had situational trouble, which they had to cope with, but it didn’t mean they felt the teachings were secondary.

The ninth of October: ‘Krishnaji, in the elegance of one of his blue suits, and I, in my tweed coat that is descended from an old favorite brown one, went to London on a bright autumn morning and on the 10:23 a.m. train. Both Mary and Joe met us at Waterloo and took us to Huntsman for Krishnaji’s fitting. Then Mary came with Krishnaji and me to Fortnum’s for a leisurely lunch. We stopped at Hatchards for books and took a taxi to Waterloo. A simple day in the warm, gentle mold of so many almost identical ones. I rode down White Hall with Krishnaji holding my hand in a haze of happiness. The clear country air was part of it when we came home,
‘At 4 p.m. Mrs. Barbara Jackson brought the venerable Ananda Maitreya and two “attendant monks” to see Krishnaji. They brought a nice plant offering, too, appreciated more by me.’ ‘It seems the venerable Ananda Maitreya has also arrived at ninety years and seemed to wish to share this eminence. I provided tea. Krishnaji was charming and joking, but impaled the venerable with the question, “What did the Buddha really say?”’ ‘He went on to enlarge on the fact that no one really knows. The venerable giggled a bit’ ‘but gave nothing much in return.’ ‘The attendant, Mrs. Jackson, seemed to enjoy this. “He needs to be talked to this way,” she said.

This post was last updated by John Raica Fri, 25 Aug 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Sun, 23 Jul 2017 #127
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

The K Story ends here...

(Last part of MZ's Memoirs )

October fifteenth, 1985, ‘Krishnaji came into the kitchen for tea and talked to me about "trust". Are there a few we trust to carry on the work and to protect the teachings? He spoke of there being virtually nobody in Ojai except the Lilliefelts and me. India is pulling away and is still a concern to him. He trusted Mrs. Besant.
He never said, “I trust Amma,” but from the way he spoke of her; it was with veneration and affection, and in that there was obviously trust. Even if she would get gaga—which she did later on. He also talked about what I should do after he was gone, and it was to guard the teachings. And I’ve said this to various trustees in both Foundations I’ve been in. I’ve said this is what I feel my function is because this is what he told me he wanted.

October eighteenth. Krishnaji, he, and I made an audiotape about what Pandit Jagannath Upadhyaya had told him about the ancient text that the Pandit had been told by his teacher to find and which, after decades, he found, foretelling a World Teacher manifestation. After Krishnaji described it, he said, “I could probably investigate this, but I don’t want to. It wouldn’t be right.”

The nineteenth of October there was a videotaped discussion with Krishnaji, and me on what is the ground of a religious place, of something sacred in a center or a school. He finally said, “It should be a religious center. A center where people feel there is something not 'cooked up', not imaginative, not some kind of ‘holy’ atmosphere; a religious center, not in the orthodox sense of that word; a center where a "flame" is living, not the ashes of it. If a flame is alive, and if you come to that house, you might take that flame with you; or you might 'light your candle' and be the most extraordinary human being, not broken up; a person who is really whole, has no shadow of sorrow, pain, and all that kind of thing. So that to me is a "religious center".”

October twenty-second. ‘In the early morning, when I went in to see Krishnaji, he asked me to lie down quietly, and I did for a while. When I got up, he said, “I’m glad you lay down. It calms the body.”’ I just lay there, and the 'presence' seemed to do it.
‘When he falls asleep during the day, what he calls “shouting” comes upon him. He cries out, and it wakes him with a start. He had been doing that, and apparently my lying quietly calmed and quieted him. But he was tired.’

Krishnaji didn’t want any book at the airport, they are due to land in Delhi in the morning at 10 a.m. This flight has a single seat, the one Krishnaji likes on the right side forward. It is a nonstop flight. ‘The first letter from Krishnaji arrived, written October twenty-eighth to November eleventh in Delhi, Benares, and another letter from Dr. Parchure reassuring me about Krishnaji’s health.
On the twenty-fifth, Krishnaji went back to Delhi.

December twenty-seventh. ‘I got a letter from Dr.Parchure about Krishnaji’s health written on December eleventh.’
Krishnaji wants to give two Madras talks (today and tomorrow) and one question-answer and two days of KFI trustee meetings.’ And then it says: ‘Krishnaji gave his first Madras talk on this date.’
He is giving three talks in Madras, then attending KFI trustee meetings, then he leaves. Bombay is canceled.

On the first of January, 1986. I am in Ojai, and Krishnaji is still in India.

January tenth: ‘I made final preparations of the house for Krishnaji’s arrival tomorrow. Krishnaji’s flight from Singapore and Tokyo arrived at 9:30 a.m. He came right out in a wheelchair looking very frail and very, very thin. As soon as we were alone in the car he told me that for two to three days I must not leave him, even for a moment,  “Or he may 'slip away'.” He told me that in India he had said to himself, “I mustn’t be ill because then I wouldn’t see you again,” and “‘It’ doesn’t want to inhabit a sick body, one that couldn’t function. We must not have an accident because if I were hurt that would be the end.” Later he said to me, “While I am here I want to share my meditation with you. I’ve never said that to anyone”…“I came back to see you and to die. If I die, it’s alright. If I live, it’s alright. But one must not invite death, and I don’t. I came back to be taken care of by you.” I stayed with him constantly, sleeping on cushions on the floor by his bed. In the evening, his fever was 100.9. He slept fairly well that first night. But his fever went to 101.6, so Dr. Parchure gave him aspirin and it dropped to 98 by evening. He remained in bed.

Thirteenth January: I drove to Santa Paula where Dr. Deutsch examined Krishnaji at 11 a.m. He found Krishnaji’s prostate to be soft and thinks that’s a possible site of the infection behind Krishnaji’s fever. Krishnaji’s blood sugar count is 243. He doubled the dose of Rastinon to bring it down, and prescribed Restoril instead of Halcion for sleep. We went to Santa Paula hospital for blood chemistry, etcetera, and were home by 1:30 p.m. for lunch. Krishnaji had some energy for the trip and then slept all afternoon.’

January fourteen: ‘Krishnaji was weak and drowsy, with a fever of 101.4. I stayed by his bed constantly, as I have right along, and it was a difficult night, with him needing to get up many times.’
Wednesday the fifteenth. Dr. Deutsch wants a sonogram of Krishnaji’s liver, gallbladder, and pancreas.

The seventeenth: ‘Dr. Deutsch wants a sonogram done in the Ojai hospital Monday. I stayed close to him. “I need protection,” he said.’
The twentieth of January: ‘Krishnaji had a sonogram in the Ojai hospital. Dr. P. Miller reported to Dr. Deutsch a 'mass' in Krishnaji’s liver. Dr. Deutsch says he cannot tell if the 'mass' is malignant or benign and wants a CT scan on Wednesday, which should tell.’
The twenty-first of January: ‘Krishnaji finds the food uneatable and blames it on Michael’s cooking, but it isn’t that.’ Michael was cooking so delicately, I remember. The new medical scale I purchased ‘says Krishnaji’s weight is ninety-four pounds. Krishnaji got up and looked at the new rose garden. Then he walked with Dr. Parchure to the end of the drive, and Krishnaji wanted to go on. So they went up McAndrew and into Arya Vihara, resting on the way. Then across the new stones in the drain are of the orchard and to the pepper tree. Krishnaji rested, and then he entered the house.

January twenty-two. ‘Krishnaji began to have pain across his upper abdomen, which woke him at 2 a.m., but though I asked, he denied it till 4 a.m., when he accepted a Tylenol. His temperature at 5:30 a.m. was 98. At 7:45 a.m. another Tylenol, but he still had no relief. Krishnaji used to say to me when I first was with him to never let him go into a hospital. He always said, “I’d rather die at home,” was the way he put it.
At the Santa Paula Community Hospital, Krishnaji was put into intensive care. He was given Demerol and an IV. X-ray and blood chemistry checks begun. Dr. Deutsch came to meet him. The X-rays showed a bowel obstruction. Krishnaji agreed to a tube through his nose into the abdomen to pump out the fluid and relieve the pressure. Rocephin and high alimentation were given intravenously. Krishnaji is severely undernourished. I spent the night on a reclining chair by his bed.’

I telephoned Vanda in Florence to let her know Krishnaji was sick and in hospital.’ I thought she should know and she might want to come. I thought she would come, but she didn’t do that.
‘Late in the afternoon, Parchure had told Krishnaji that he might die. I had wanted to wait till the CT scan on Monday, but Parchure said he had long ago promised to tell Krishnaji if medically he, Parchure, saw a danger of death. When I came in after Parchure told him that, Krishnaji said to me, “It seems I’m going to die,” as though he had not expected it so soon but accepted the fact.’. When Parchure was telling him this, Krishnaji kept saying “What? What? What?” in a louder-than-usual voice, as though he was astonished to be hearing this. But he seemed to be most surprised because “the other” hadn’t gone.

. January twenty-fourth. Parchure, told me in the car that he had noticed jaundice beginning in Krishnaji and feared a hepatitic coma.
‘I telephoned Vanda and Mary Lutyens and said it was uncertain how long Krishnaji could live. The latter is coming when she can get a visa. I told Vanda the uncertainty of how long Krishnaji might live, but Krishnaji seemed better by evening.

The twenty-sixth of January. ‘I spent the night with Krishnaji in the hospital. He had many awakenings but spoke of meditation having been present. I barely dozed, waiting to help him, watching the pattern, like Sanskrit, of his heartbeat on the monitor. Life becomes that beat. The rise and fall of his breathing. He is alive and so all the ugliness, the violence, the wretchedness of the world seems held at bay by that small body and its vastness of spirit. He is, as always, infinitely beautiful. He turned his head this morning and looked out the window where he could just see the hills, and his face seemed suddenly thirty years old. Dr. Deutsch found him well this morning. The jaundice is gone and he has gained two-and-a-half pounds on the IV hyperalimentation.

Yesterday, Krishnaji said almost to himself, “What have I done wrong?…I’ve tried to take care of the body,”
Krishnaji said to me, “I want to tell you something. It is hard to find words. You must have an insight into it. I will die, and I want to leave you something. In India they are too quick to think they understand these things. I am skeptical. One must be. But Americans are immature. You must just listen without trying to understand. I feel it is something more vast than one can ever put into words.”’

‘Krishnaji had a CT scan that showed a three-inch mass in his liver but cannot show if it is malignant. Dr. Deutsch wants to do a liver biopsy tomorrow. Krishnaji is still running a fever and is on antibiotics and hyperalimentation. Parchure stayed in the hospital with Krishnaji. I slept at home.’
The twenty-eighth of January. Krishnaji is feeling stronger, and he talked to me most of the morning about how I should live when he is gone. He says he will probably live until the end of February. “You must not grieve as you did before. You must be strong. You have a lot of work to do. You reflect me.

I stayed with him till late, but he insisted I sleep at home. “It is alright. The pain pushed ‘it' (‘the other’) away but ‘it’ wants to come back. It is beginning to come back.” I said to him, “You told me this morning do not let him slip away.” Krishnaji replied, “Nothing will happen tonight. I know what I’m talking about. You must rest. When I’m home, you will have a lot to do. I don’t know why ‘it’ wants to come back.”’
‘In the morning he had also said, “It is strange: ‘the other’ doesn’t want to 'let go' of the body. The last two nights ‘the other’ has taken control.” And then he said to me, “I want you to live as when I was your companion. Go to Brockwood. The West Wing is yours. I have said this before.” And in the afternoon, he said, “I wonder why ‘the other’ is not finished with the body.” And then, with humor, he said, “Who was it that said, ‘I cannot imagine a world without me?’” …

January twenty-ninth. ‘Krishnaji had a restless night. Dr. Deutsch gave him a steroid for strength and talked to him about what he, Krishnaji, wanted. It was a bad day. Pain came again. Krishnaji asked, “Can I last till they come?” meaning the three he has sent for from India, Dr. Krishna, Radhika, and Maheshji. In the evening, Dr. Deutsch persuaded him to try a catheter and then he slept undisturbed all night. Deutsch said that…some test C19 The normal reading of this test is 0 to 40. Krishnaji’s is 105,000. That is the final piece of knowledge. Krishnaji will go home tomorrow. He said to me, “There is so much love and so much pain in the air.”’ That was the deciding day. That was the end of the hospital. Nothing could be done. He could go home.

January thirtieth. Krishnaji came home in an ambulance through heavy rain. “I feel better here,” he said when he was in his room again. And soon he began to read in his Golden Treasury. And then Paul Theroux, The Consul File.’
‘He wanted something to eat, and I brought him some clear soup and a little homemade ice cream. Later he had tea and asked for a sandwich, “with a little green,”  meaning watercress and “something tasty,” tomatoes. But it was a mistake and later there were gas pains. He asked too for music, “something gay.” Pavarotti singing Neapolitan songs was chosen, and for a bewildering time the house rang with Napoli.
In the afternoon, he talked a little about a responsible group to hold the three Foundations together and see to the teachings. Later, there was pain again in his stomach. It was a hard night until 2:30 a.m., when he slept. He had said to me, “Don’t be unhappy” and “Maria, will it be this all night? I want to go.”’

January thirty-first. ‘Krishnaji was in almost a stupor when Dr. Deutsch telephoned. He thought it was the effect of the morphine and came at 2:30 p.m. to see Krishnaji and counteract the morphine. Krishnaji was better. Dorothy, Jane Hammond, Mary, and Joe arrived from London.

The first of February. ‘Krishnaji was weak, sleeping most of the morning. He barely spoke when Pupul, Radhika, Asit, and Dr. Krishna came in briefly in the morning. But he was free of pain and very lucid at 2 p.m. when Deutsch came, and Krishnaji then saw Radhika and Dr. Krishna, two of the four he had summoned. Deutsch answered Asit’s questions. All are in agreement for giving whatever Krishnaji wants to help the pain and sleep. In the evening Krishnaji slept without morphine or sleep medicine.

The second of February. ‘Krishnaji slept without morphine or sleep tablets and was alert and without pain all day. He talked to me about being strong when he is gone; that I reflect him; and that I must live the way that I have lived with him. Deutsch came to see him in the morning, and Pupul came to meet Dr. Deutsch. Krishnaji saw, in the course of the day, Pupul, Mary Links, Radhika, Dr. Krishnaji, Asit, Mary Cadogan, Erna, Dorothy, and Jane Hammond.’

February third , 1986. ‘Krishnaji was without pain. He held a meeting on publication matters with representatives of all three Foundations. Only England is to correct his works. Pupul was not there, but her certain opposition was expressed. Krishnaji has energy but wants “to go.” He said he had a marvelous meditation in the night. In the afternoon, in a wheelchair, we took him outside, down the path to the pepper tree, where he could see the hills. He asked to be alone there and sat motionless and silent and then asked to return indoors.

The fifth of February. ‘In the morning Krishnaji spoke to a group: Pupul, Radhika, Asit, Krishna, Maheshji (just arrived), Dr. Parchure, Mary L., Mary C., Jane Hammond, Erna, Theo, Mark Lee, and David Moody. “As long as the body lives, I am still the Teacher.” He wept. In the afternoon, he spoke alone with Dr. Krishna and Maheshji and recorded his wish that no one be president or secretary of the Foundations who is not doing that primarily—not people who have other jobs.

February sixth. ‘Krishnaji slept through the night but had nine awakenings during the evening. He talked to me in the early morning, “Who are your friends? I want you to be looked after when I’m gone. K has protected you, but he can’t when he’s gone. I love you and want you to be protected. You must be careful. You must drive as if I was sitting beside you. Who will go to Huntsman with you?” ‘“Will you and Mary lunch at Fortnum’s? I have been your companion. We’ve done things together. I want you to be looked after. You must go to Paris, the Dordogne, on holiday to Switzerland. You must use the money in the Teacher’s Trust, it is yours. I give it to you to use as you choose. Have you enough money? You mustn’t go to India anymore. India is bad for you. I love you, and K loves you. That is why I’m telling you this.”
‘His voice was high, and he cried when he said some of these things. I couldn’t control a rain in myself. A little later he saw Mary and Joe alone and apparently asked them to look after me. Pupul and Maheshji sat in the living room, she waiting to see Krishnaji. But after his bath, he wanted me to clean his hair with a hot washrag, dry it, massage in it the Biokosma lotion’—that’s his hair tonic. ‘which he rubbed in himself. He is caring for his hair as he always has, but he said, “I’m becoming a zombie, having to let people do all these things for me.”’

‘Pupul had gone when all this was done. I am sitting by his bedside. It is around noon, and he sleeps. Earlier he spoke of walking such a short time ago in Madras. ‘I like to see air,’ he said. I asked or said that perhaps one of these days we might be able to drive to the beach in the car early in the morning. He said, “I have been watching the dawn, a new day beginning. It is good to watch the dawn.”
‘Later, lying on his side, looking out at the sunlight and wind in the trees, he said, “What a beautiful day.” The large eyes seemed all-seeing as always for a few minutes then folded, with the long dark lashes covering them.”’ He had extraordinary eyelashes, and I go on about it because I once asked him, “Krishnaji, don’t you need dark glasses?” And he said “No.” He said, “I can’t wear them because my eyelashes are too long.”
3 p.m. Mary and Joe have just come to say goodbye.’ I was writing while sitting with him. ‘They fly back to London tonight. Krishnaji’s nephew, Narayan’s brother, Krishna’—that’s the name of Narayan’s brother—‘came to see him briefly. Then around 6 p.m., unexpectedly, Gary Deutsch came soon after Krishnaji had wanted to walk to the living room but had been too weak, so we took him on that wheelchair. He sat by the fire in the living room for about forty-five minutes. Gary found him weaker and ordered full Surex for sleep instead of a half-dose. He may try an internal catheter on Saturday.’ I don’t seem to have written it here, but when Mary and Joe said goodbye and went to the car and I went with them to wave them goodbye—when I came back, Krishnaji wanted to know what kind of a car it was.

February seventh. ‘Krishnaji slept with a full Surex pill and only three awakenings in the night. He watched the light on the hills. He said, “A fresh new morning. I looked for the old brain.”’
‘Then I said, “Did you find it?”’
‘He replied, “Only a little.”’
‘Me: “Did meditation come in the night?”’
‘He shook his head. “The sleep was too deep,” he said. Later he said, “You have been very sweet to me. You are the only person very close to me. You must be with me till the very last, till they put the body in the incinerator, with me till the end of my life.”
His voice was weak.

Asit, Dr. Krishna, Jane, and Dorothy are leaving today. They came to say goodbye. Krishnaji has begun to have pain. Morphine relieved it. He spoke on the cassette about the energy and intelligence that has gone through the body for seventy years.’ That was that day. ‘He was too weak to get up in the afternoon.’
The eighth. ‘Krishnaji at 4:30 a.m. told me I must walk, so I went around the block at 6:30 a.m. with Erna. Dr. Deutsch came to see Krishnaji, who talked to him at some length, “as a friend, not a doctor.” Higher alimentation with a pump machine was started. Krishnaji saw Sarjit Siddoo briefly, Pupul, and Radhika. Pupul is not leaving tomorrow but is moving to Grohe’s. Krishnaji woke up five times in the night.

February ninth. ‘Krishnaji saw briefly Mary Cadogan, then Pupul, Radhika, and Maheshji. Radhika later left to see her daughter, Sunanda. Gary Deutsch came around lunchtime. He gave Krishnaji a more permanent catheter, and Krishnaji then wanted to go in the living room, so we brought him in that little contraption, his wheelchair.

The tenth. ‘Krishnaji slept better with the catheter. He sent me on an early morning walk. Pupul, now staying at the Grohe’s, came with Maheshji. Krishnaji was in the living room on the sofa. She stayed briefly. Krishnaji was able to stand and to get in and out of the wheelchair. He spent the whole day in the living room. At 10 p.m. he had pain and morphine.’
The eleventh. ‘Krishnaji slept but restlessly. After a bath, I washed his hair in bed then he wanted to go into the living room, where he stayed all day. Pupul and the Grohes came by briefly. Also Maheshji. Lailee telephoned. I rang Vanda. Dr. Deutsch came in the afternoon and stayed a long time and took blood samples. Krishnaji had only one morphine in the night at 7 p.m.’

February twelfth. ‘Last night Krishnaji had pain. At 7 p.m. he took morphine, which quieted it, and he slept the rest of the night. The nurse, Patrick Linville, said he was amazed at Krishnaji’s strength in being able to stand for moments. This morning Krishnaji was clear, maybe because of no Surex sleeping pill. He asked me to file his nails. He did his teeth and face. He wanted to be in the living room again, so I moved him in there, but within minutes his stomach bothered him and he had to come back to bed.His fever went to 103, but Tylenol brought it down. By phone, Deutsch ordered a resumption of Rocephin, the antibiotic
Krishnaji was too weak to see Pupul when she came from Grohe’s with Maheshji. Later Krishnaji told me to tell her, “Don’t wait around, he has gone for a walk in the hills.”

‘Gary Deutsch came in the afternoon. Krishnaji had said half an hour earlier to me, “I want to go. I want to die.” And when I could only say, “I know, I know,” he said, “You say you know, but you don’t do anything.”’ I didn’t know what he meant by that. ‘If he gets antibiotics now, it only prolongs his time a little until the next fall in the state of his body. I suggested Deutsch talk to Krishnaji, who was quite lucid, and ask him his wishes. This he did.’ ‘Deutsch came back and said that Krishnaji had understood. He doesn’t want to go on as he is and said, “Do what you think is right.” So what seems right to us was not to bring all extreme ways of medicine to prolong his life, with death inevitable, but to continue the IV feeding, relieve pain, fever, nausea; then the natural death that Krishnaji had spoken of earlier will come about on its own time. Krishnaji seemed satisfied when told this. I sat holding his hand a long time, and he had me press my hand on his stomach in the evening.’ He felt it relieved the pain somehow.

‘He asked what was going on in the world, “What is the gossip?” and we turned on the evening news with Dan Rather. Sharansky has been freed by the Soviets and was tumultuously welcomed in Israel. “The Soviets are cruel people,” said Krishnaji. Deutsch had said the results of the blood tests yesterday do not show much difference from when he was in the hospital.

The thirteenth. Krishnaji had a second morphine around 11 p.m. last night, but it failed to help with sleep, and the nurse gave him Surex at 1 a.m. I got up soon after 3:30 a.m.,, and I carried him in a hammock of sheets to the couch in front of the living room fire.

Maheshji, Pupul, and the Grohes came briefly to see him. Krishnaji told Pupul he was sorry he didn’t see her yesterday. “He was off in the hills all day.” He looked all beauty lying there. He had me read to him from the Paul Theroux’s story. but then switched to the newspapers. He had a fit of shivering, then fever. Parchure massaged him, and he fell asleep. In the living room he had suddenly said, “Do you remember the place in Holland? The ducks. How each day there were fewer of the baby ducks.”’ ‘He was thinking of the place where we used to walk near the thatched farmhouse in 1967. A very happy time. Later he said, “I am very fortunate.” Yesterday he asked me obliquely—the nurse was present—“I suppose you haven’t heard from 'that person'. Meaning Rajagopal. We never heard one word from those people.

February fourteenth: ‘Krishnaji slept without pill or morphine till 2 a.m., but at 4 a.m. the pain returned. A new nurse, gave morphine. In the ten minutes it took to work, he had me press on his stomach. “Too good to be true. Sorrow, I thought I’d lost you.”
The high voice groaned with pain and the low voice came in, “Don’t make such a fuss about it.” At 4:20 a.m., he said the pain was gone and I must go to sleep another two hours.’ At one point, when he had me press on his stomach, I must have said, “Can’t you heal yourself?” you know, the pain. And he said, “Put your hand, and I’ll put my hand on your hand,” so mine gave the pressure, and his hand would do whatever it did. Of course, it didn’t work for the pain. ‘We took him again in a hammock of sheets to the living room, where the fire burned beautifully and outside the heavy rain fell. We were having a big, big storm, and I was afraid we would lose electricity, so I have rented generators and rigged them so that if there was a power failure he would still have light and warmth in his room, and the infusion pump to his vein will carry on.

We had carried him back to bed when Gary Deutsch came in to see how he was and to bring him a bunch of Clint Eastwood films he had taped. He ordered light morphine, one milligram, to be given routinely while Krishnaji is in pain because Krishnaji admitted to me this morning that the pain doesn’t come all at once but builds up before he lets us know it is there. If this amount is insufficient and pain occurs, more can be given. He also changed the sleeping prescription from Surex to Restoril. This Krishnaji took at 8 p.m.’

The fifteenth. ‘Krishnaji slept through the stormy night.
Pupul and Asit came in the morning while Gary Deutsch was here. Deutsch came with slides of Yosemite for Krishnaji to look at. For a while he did but fell asleep, and Deutsch left, not before talking to Pupul, Asit, Erna, and Theo. Pupul leaves tomorrow morning. She saw Krishnaji in the afternoon, and so did Radhika, who had arrived this morning from Philadelphia. She, too, leaves tomorrow for India. Asit asked me if it was all right for him to stay for as long as Krishnaji lives. He will stay at Grohe’s. He said he felt he could no more leave then if his father were dying. I said of course; he should stay if he wished and is welcome to come to the house whenever he likes. Also he can use the gray car.

Krishnaji asked me to wash his hair; clean it with a hot towel—a hot washrag, brush it, and in the evening massage almond oil into his scalp. This evening I stood doing this, behind the top of the bed, holding in my hand, this warm, beautiful head that holds the brain that is the light of this world. It is there, alive, marvelous, beyond any knowing. The source of his teaching is an endless giving. My hands, when he said the massage was enough, held the scent of his aliveness, a perfume. The last time Deutsch was here, that they were talking alone and when we came in, Krishnaji was telling him about knowledge, intelligence, compassion, and what 'love' is. His voice was rather high, and he paused with the effort. But he kept on. It was his last teaching.’ That’s the end of the big book. And as Dr. Deutsch had said, he felt he was Krishnaji’s last pupil.

‘Krishnaji didn’t want to go to the living room. He remained in bed and watched part of an Eastwood movie brought by Gary Deutsch but was tired and stopped it and slept by 8.’
February sixteenth: ‘Krishnaji woke at 3 a.m. with pain in the abdomen. Morphine was changed to a drip. In spite of the morphine, Krishnaji was clear. Pupul came to say goodbye before lunch and left after for a flight to London. Radhika had left earlier in the morning. Deutsch thought there was a hemorrhage in the liver that was causing the pain. Restoril for sleep was taken at 7 p.m. The pain lessened, and Krishnaji slept, but it became a coma. Deutsch came at 11 p.m. and Krishnaji ‘s breathing…he was breathing only three times a minute.

February seventeenth: Krishnaji’s heart stopped beating at ten minutes past midnight. We bathed his body, wrapped it in a cadi silk and an Italian embroidered linen sheet. He lay on his own bed which was in his sitting room till 8 a.m. when I rode beside him to the crematorium in Ventura.’

This post was last updated by John Raica Fri, 25 Aug 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Tue, 29 Aug 2017 #128
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Recycling a few interesting anecdotes on K as related by P Krishna in his recent book A Jewel Offered on a Silver Platter

In the early 80's K entered the TS campus at Adyar for the first time after 48 years . He was walking with Radha Burnier by the Garden of Rememberance, where the ashes of many TS leaders are buried. At the entrance to the garden K stopped and said : Something has been altered here !
So Radhaji went to John Coates who was the president at that time, who said that there was an architect who came from Europe and wanted to improve the setting of the garden When he tried to move one of the pillars he found a box containing several jewels kept inside the pillar. Later K said: That's it, those jewels were 'magnetised' by me and Amma for the protection of the TS and placed there. They should never have been removed.

Radhaji offered to bring them to K to magnetise them again. K said, No, they are useless now. But you can bring a new set of jewels and I will magnetise them again and we should place them else where in the TS building and they will protect. So this was done

Narayan recollected that once K came to the Rishi Valley campus , walked around it and said. Narayan, I'm not getting the right vibration from that hill. Tell me what is wrong in Rishi Valley ?
Narayan said ' Sir, the teachers are divided in two groups and are 'fighting' with each other. That's it ! Said K

In 1948 Achyut Patwardhan was alone with K in a cottage in the Himalayas ; One day, K told him
Achyut, your entire life lies before me like an open book : the past, the present and the future ! Tell me, how did you happen to kill someone when you were 22 ? Achyut said, Yes it is true, I was driving a car when suddenly a villager came in front of it and I could not stop before the car hit him We took him to the hospital but could not save him. But nobody knows this, so, how did you know ?. K smiled and replied : It is all written some place !

One day K was going with Radha Burnier in her car when he suddenly asked her : ' Do you believe in Masters, Radhaji ? 'She said: yes
He replied : No, not like this You know what it meant to Amma ? She would give her life for it !
Knowing that, , now tell me, do you believe in the (existence of?) Masters ?
'Yes' said Radha emphatically. K held her hand and said 'Good !'

A question was put to K in 1926 : Q : Sir, is reincarnation a fact ?
K : Sir, reincarnation happens to be a fact for me, as I remember certain things, but I do not want you to 'believe' in it !

One day K said : 'You know, sir, all the sorrow in the world is because we have never loved from the bottom of out heart !'

Mr Grohe and his wife bought a house in Ojai and he told K : ' I spent a lot of money buying this wonderful house here , but we are not able to get (a quiet) sleep in it.
K said : You take me there and I will 'set it right' so that you will be able to sleep' K went in the room and 'did someting' to it . Next day he asked Friederich : Were you able to sleep 
Yes, sir, but I wonder if it's not someting up here (in my head) . K said : 'Me too, sir' !

At a Foundation meeting in '86 someone started asking K a question with ' Sir, when you walked out of the TS...' K suddenly interrupted him :
' Just a minute, Sir, let me make it very clear : I never 'walked out' of the TS. They did not want me there'

In another KFI meeting in Jan 86 K was talking to the trustees about Creation :
' Sir, it all started from the tiniest of points. All this which we see around came from there'

One day K was asked at the end of a dialogue : ' Sir, don't you think all these dialogues tend to become just an intellectual activity ?
K answered ' Where is even the intellect, sir ? It is not a first rate intellect !'

When once asked why is it so difficult to understand his teaching he replied :

' The teachings are not 'out there' in a book. You are not (supposed to) understand the teachings ; you are to understand yourself. The teachings are only a means of explaining the necessity of understanding ourselves. What the speaker says acts as a mirror in which you can look at yourself. When you look at yourself in that 'mirror', the mirror will not be important. You will be able to throw it away'

Once K was asked to summarise his entire teaching in one sentence. He said : ' Attempt, without effort, to live with death in timeless silence'****

One day K was asked : Sir , I've read in your biographies that you were very shy as a young man ; how did you overcome it ? He replied : I have not overcome it, sir, I am still shy !

Once K was invited to witness a play staged by the students from Rajghat. K told PK in private:
'They have invited me to see the play this evening. You know how I hate these ( festive) things, but I will go !'

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Tue, 29 Aug 2017 #129
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Professor Krishna's interview with Achyut Patwardhan in March 1988 :

Q : Why do you think K left the TS ?

AP : The TS provided a very good intellectual perspective for preparing the mind for understanding him, but the idea of the World Teacher was personalised by saying that K is going to be this world teacher. This created a climate of (strong) belief and disbelief and I shall believe and all that. It had nothing to do with (self-) understanding but it was dependent upon the revelations brought by Annie Besant. The matter became further complicated when various cults grew up of people who were near to AB and those close to K and by the hierarchical order of spiritual progress. So an atmosphere was created in which faith had submerged reason. This reached a point of absurdity when AB anounced that the World Teacher had chosen certain persons to be his closest disciples and the word 'Apostles' was used and they were claimed to be 'Arhats' . Also this atmosphere of a 'chosen few' was not conducive to the freedom K was talking. So the gulf was widening and it seems that even Leadbeter did not coroborate what she said, by saying that some of the named 'arhats' were not even 'initiates'. But K questioned this whole edifice of faith which has begun to dominate the TS and he just blew it by a breath and it collapsed like a castle of cards. So the break from TS was inevitable and I think it was good that K freed himself of it.

Q : What was the impact of his decision on AB ?

AP : She must have been dismayed. She fell ill but she was willing to go with him to whatever extent it was possible- she even closed down the Esoteric Section. And when she opened it again it was clear that it was for those who could not go along with K the whole way and she felt she could not leave them in the lurch

Q : What do you think of Leadbeter's prediction that K would be the manifestation of a divine entity called Maitreya ? Or was K an ordinary being like us ?

AP : There's no doubt in my mind that Leadbeter had an extraordinary moment of clairvoyant insight when he discovered the young boy and said 'I have not met another human being with so little ego dominating as in him'. When they named it as Maitreya it was because the TS had its own mythology where a big place is assigned to Lord Maitreya. It is not possible for us to verify this but undoubtly K was a 'channel' through which a tremendous Cosmic Energy – which is also Insight and Compassion- flowed throughout his life.

Q : But was he before his mystical 'experience' in 1922 an ordinary being with an ego, with self interest, attachments, sorrow and conflict- and then moved out of that or he was out of it right from the beginning ?

AP : I think that K was undoubtly an extraordinary human being and he must have had moments of ordinariness and moments of transcendence. But the important thing is that his body was capable of receiving and holding such a force which any normal being would not be capable of holding. As he himself said, the brain had to be 'prepared for it' and he had to pass through a period of novitiate in which he ( they?) prepared the body to be strong enough to sustain this. It required extraordinary purity and goodness and I think he had both these qualities in abundant measure. Whether you differentiate that Cosmic Energy from the body is not important because there is such a thing as the 'body elemental' which does its normal operations K put in a more direct way : When this is , 'That' is not' So he had moments of total subsidience of his own consciousness as a separate individual and therefore his teaching is the manifestation of an Energy which is both Light and Wisdom.

Q : But my question is : If he he was in a sense a 'divine' being , why did he tell us that everybody can make the transformation in consciousness that he was speaking about ?

AP : I think that every ( spiritual) phenomenon like K is a paradox wrapped in mystery.. My feeling is that K wanted us to understand that he is he was expressing the human potential in its absolute, so he was not a 'freak' individual but a positive demostration of what the human principle is capable of. It is not to be taken personally but it has to be understood : what is man ?
The whole problem is that today we think that man is only the (physical) body – that's what any average man thinks, inspite of his 'beliefs'. He tried to show that the body is like a wonderfully tuned musical instrument. The 'music' that comes is not your own because the 'self' cannot even touch the infinitude of that 'music' . It is your business to perfectly 'tune-in' the musical innstrument to that (cosmic) harmony . I think he was a man who lived only in order to 'fabricate' ( perfect?) this instrument and to keep it in the very best condition a man who had absolutely no other wish or will of his own and no caprice. Everything that was inconsistent with this (purpose) was surgically 'cut out' of his life. It was an 'extraordinary' life in the sense that he has shown what a (spiritually awakened ?) human being can get. I think that it is very important to see that 'truth' is not a continuum, and that freedom is not at the end of our evolution. I believe he's saying that moments of that ( spiritual clarity of?) 'Insight' can flash through any person who is capable of that elevated state where there is a total 'subsidience' of the 'self' (- identified consciousness )

PK : I have heard that K had healed several people of physical diseases just by touch ? Is this true ?

A : I had the occasion to talk to him about this. That he was able to heal people was first discovered by Annie Besant- she asked him to give her some massages and she received physical relief, and even for her eyes she received help when her sight was diminishing. Once he explained to me what this 'power of healing' is. He told the story of a man who took him by force, pulled him into a room and made him touch a spot on the spine where there was pain. He was 'healed', but within 6 months that man was in jail for some perversion ; so, K said that healing is a dangerous business because man's pains and ailments are related to his mind, and sometimes it is the mind that has to be healed (in the first place) , not the body. But K was uncompromising in saying that no other person can heal your mind- you must heal it yourself. But where it was a case of possession , some evil spirit dominating some person, he was able to rid him of that. He could just get the spirit out and say : Get out and don't touch this person again'.

I have never seen him so sad as when he said to me ' Look, this chap is ill and I've healed him. He was living stupidly and I gave him a chance , but will he take the chance or he will go back and live as stupidly as before ? To him the pity of it was heartbreaking.
He accepted that healing was a fact, but he told me that healing powers are not a sign of spiritual insight. So, man may have healing powers though he may not have any spiritual enlightenment. And also he warned about using these powers for ends which are not desirable. When asked 'Have you got healing powers ? He said 'I don't know Then he told me that ''there is a moment when I am face to face with a person in sorrow and something happens'', some Compassion flows through his hand and That does the healing.

Q : Coming to another enigma around him, one wonders how is it that a man with such (spiritual?) insight could not distinguish a wicked or fraudulent person from a sincere and truthful one and was often wronged in his own life ?

AP : He explained it like this : that if he wished he could 'see through' a person. He could see the past the present and the future (of that person) if he so wished . But he said 'Just as if somebody is dressing in a dressing room and you turn your back, so I like to be utmost respectful of the people's private selves and I have no desire to look into it.'
He said that once a woman came to him and said : ' Krishnaji you speak of (self-) images- do you see my 'image' ? He did not say anything, but the person insisted : 'You must be seeing it , so please let me see my 'image' . So K said something to give her a sketch of that 'self'-image . He said : ''That person never came to see me again.''

Q : Yes, if someone would reveal us totally we may not like to face that. But what do you think was the real reason for the break between K and Rajagopal ?

AP : It is a complex phenomenon and it cannot be explained. I 've found Rajagopal very opinionated and I found that he was kind of an impresario to K's 'prima donna' . K was incapable of managing his own affairs and more or less he has 'opted out' of that. So he needed someone, but that someone could not manage him and anyone who thought he (or she?) could manage him, was out of the picture. I think K was a man who wanted nothing from anybody. He did not want anyone to form a 'sangha' (spiritual community?) and to further the teachings. He said : ''don't do anything for another unless it is an authentic expression of your own uniqueness''.

Q : May be he did not want to give any comfort to the 'ego' by accepting someone as a disciple or giving someone encouragement ?

AP : Not only that, but even about himself and about everybody else he said that an 'eternal vigilance' is absolutely essential and there is no knowing when a lapse will come unbecknown because that is the nature of the 'self'

Q : Do you think it was wise for K to leave behind him the organisations which now bear his name ?

AP : I think that Krishnaji has sown a seed, but he (his teachings?) need researchers dedicated to that in the utmost measure.

Q : Even if there were 5000 people in the hall, he said he was talking to each one individually. ; on the other hand he has created these 2 or three organisations (K-foundations) which are now to carry on the work. To many people it appears as a dicothomy .

AP : No, it has a very material aspect : He wanted the Teachings to be handed over to posterity undistorted and some 'guardians' (custodians?) who will see that his word is not twisted out of its context. Second part is to make the Teachings available to people who were not fortunate enough to listen to him and also to make available the ressources for 'listening'
But apart from this, that has set in motion a 'transcendental psychological laboratory' .
Once he said that a mother's love performs the miracle of transforming the body's plasma into milk.
He says that in the process, (of sharing insight) your brain cells will be transformed, as well as those of the student.

Q : You said that K could see the entire past, present and future of someone.. Does it mean everything is predestined ?

AP : No, no. He has explained it like this : whatever you are at this moment is that which has emerged out of the 'seed of the past' embedded in your psyche, but this is not a continuous (predestinated) process. So every moment of your life you are putting into the soil the 'seeds' of your own doing

Q : Why is it that no-one has been able to make this radical transformation in consciousness he was talking about ?

AP : Annie Besant said that this (transformational) process should not be understood in the framework of one life's span. This is an ongoing destiny of many, which is unravelling itself and you have a role to play. I think K has indicated : ''Don't wait for the ultimate liberation or mutation, but at every moment unbecknown to you if you can rise to the full stature of your manhood and negate the factor of the 'self' (centredness) then in the total communion with 'what is' there is a release'' . But don't try to hold it for 'that' (liberating experience?) is out of time.

Q : What would you say is really new or unique about K's Teaching ?

AP : I have pondered over this matter for years When I was studying the teachings of the Buddha I felt the tremendous potential for it, and that K has opened a (new) window to it. Several people who studied Vedanta and yoga said the same thing : that when you listen to K a 'window' opens, a clarity comes to your mind so that you could see more in it that you could have seen by yourself. Apart from that, K has some unique insights of his own

The entire Teaching can be summed up in a single word -'attention'. I would say that the Ground of everything is this 'Cosmic energy' which renews itself and which is totally beyond our comprehension.. When it is expressed, it is (crystallised as) 'matter'. That ( pure spiritual ?) Energy is incomprehensible and it permeates everything. Now this Energy passing through the human brain-which is subjected to the principles of pleasure, continuity and security- you can become conscious of it. Now K says that this faculty of 'attention' is not of the brain. Though it operates through the brain it is not of the brain. And this 'faculty' can see the biological reflexes , it can see what comes through the brain. So this 'attention' is really a 'flash' of the Cosmic Energy, like a high voltage (frequency?) is tied. We cannot (usually) touch this 'high voltage' (& frequency?) because we are on this 'low voltage' ( temporal mode)

Q : Yes, so this has to end ?

AP : First you must see this whole phenomenon in its totality and 'do nothing' about it.. Now, with this ('non-doing' inner attitude ?) you turn away from all this without any 'achievement' or orientation. You are observing the sky, the sea without wanting anything, and sometimes in this communion with nature this whole (thought-time) process stops. But before it stops you have to come to the ( objective inner ) perception of a 'camera lens' which is an absolutely accurate recording without the desire to change 'what is' . The brain is only (passively) recording. In this state of 'only recording' there is a miracle - the miracle of (total) attention. It is this 'attention' which- if you are able to put a foot onto it- is already free.

Q : Because then, that is the 'new' ?

AP : That is the 'new' . Now this is a teaching which I have not got anywhere else

Q : What do you thing it was K's aim in starting these schools ?

AP : You see, Annie Besant started with the feeling that you have to rear human beings who bear witness to this great process. If there are human beings who can be reared with affection , they may come and go independently but out of this harvest there is something that comes to you unsought. But as K said, the peasant who sows the seed in the soil must not pull it out to see if it is sprouting. So, what one does for man is an act of faith- not in this person (K) but in man. I think that very few people in these schools have grasped that underlaying all our efforts is this tremendous 'faith' of the man who sows the soil of the human mind and cultivates it , tills it, with his affection and dilligence and plants the ( spiritual) seed and offers it to God.

Q : Would you think that the physical absence of K is not a great deprivation for someone ?
AP : I would not say that, because even his physical presence could not impart that 'something' to you.

Q : Finally, any advice for those seriously interested in K's teaching ?

AP : I feel that you must observe how a ( mental) prejudice and a word born out of it can put a 'distance' (a barrier) between people .One must see that these walls between 'you' and 'me' are created by my words. And I think this 'wall' can be washed only by the 'tears of the heart'. Unless you are washed in the tears of your heart- which brings you close to a sense of affection with those you are intimately working with , I don't think you can get anywhere.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Wed, 30 Aug 2017 #130
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Excerpts from Professor Krishna's interview with Radha Burnier (July 2001)

PK : Radhaji, you have known K for a very long time, so I would like to ask you a few questions so that we can keep an accurate record of what K was as a person and as a teacher. What are your earliest memories of him ?

R : I was a very young child when he lived in the TS compound at Adyar, in the beautiful second floor apartment which Annie Besant has got constructed for him. K always seemed to have a special feeling for children and my brother and I were in Adyar, enjoying the beauty of the compound and living close to Krishnaji. We used to frequently wander around there. I have vague memories of K walking there or playing tennis , going to his appartment and playing games with him, or of his coming occasionally to our house for a meal. He used to play games and in the 20's we loved to go to the tennis court to see him play and to pick up the balls for them.

PK : And who would he play with ?

RB : : There were various people who were playing tennis in those day: Rajagopal was there and perhaps Jadunandan Prasad.

PK : Was he a good player ?

RB : No idea whatsoever but my mother used to go there and I remember his telling us ' Amma playing tennis, by Jove !' so we learnt to say 'By Jove !' it was one of his favourite exclamations. . The curious thing is the feeling his contact created of an exceptional joyousness, of meeting someone with a "special" atmosphere around him.

PK : When did you meet him and have a talk with him ?

RB : From time to time I've heard him speaking- for instance in Benares in 1948. I could not understand much of what he was saying. It was only much later when he spoke in Rajghat that I went regularly to hear him, but I never made attempts to meet him personally.. I always had this feeling that if one really grasped what he was saying there was no need to question him further. What one had to do is to ponder over what he said, experiment with it and know it for oneself.

Around 1960 I had gone to Saanen with a couple of my friends. I used to walk around the little stream to hear him talk. After the talks, people would chatter and chatter, but I did not care much for that so I used to walk back to Gstaad slowly along the stream. On one occasion Madam Scaravelli's car passed by with K in it and stopped . They were looking back and called me . I went up to them and K said : 'How is it that you are here ?' The way he said it it sounded as if he knew who I was. He said : "We will meet, I will give you a ring". Later I received a phone call and was invited to have lunch with him . So I went to the chalet of Mrs Scaravelli and an italian lady who cooked was also there. K asked me what I did and I told him I was the general secretary of the Indian section of TS in Benares. After that, whenever I went to Saanen he would invite me for lunch. I started going to other places to listen to him, but I felt that just hearing him over and over again was not of much benefit, that one's ability to assimilate what he said was what mattered ;
Incidentally, I wish to say that in a sense no one could really 'know' him- the depth of his consciousness was such, that one was not really 'knowing' him. I feel everybody knew him from different angles

PK : In your listening and interacting with him you had the feeling that he was a great scholar or teacher or was something dimensionally different about him ?

RB : I don't think he was a scholar at all. He frankly said he never read books- which was not strictly accurate – he told me once that he read the Bible, not so much because of the contents, and he certainly knew some of the beautiful phrases in the Bible

PK : It is true that he said he had no recollection of the books he read, but it is inimaginable that a young man growing up in that TS athmosphere never read any books.

RB : Obviously he read some books, like the Bible . He said Dr Besant asked him to read it to get a feel of the English language at its best. But I have been told that Leadbetter made it a point not to inculcate anything into him because they were so deeply convinced that a great Voice was going to speak through him. But probably in what was known as 'the 'process' some of the memories recorded in his physical brain might have been washed out. Annie Besant said that the 'Maitreya Consciousness' would blend with that of Krishnaji and his message and influence would pervade and go out to the world through him. So from the earlier days there was a great respect for this vehicle which was being prepared and perhaps they did not feel that they should tell him what to think. And Madam Blavatsky had even mentioned in her writings that the Teacher had to be prepared to teach in a way that would be right for such a changing world.

PK : Was this documented, did they keep a record of what he was put through ?

RB : I do not think there are such records But I think that CWL imposed certain ideas about health on K, and they brought him up perhaps according to the limited ideas of 'health' and 'good upbringing' of those times. Particularly CWL, since Annie Besant was too busy at that time with her manifold work. What she gave was abundant love and advice as a mother would have done.

PK : Now, K advocates that we should observe each reaction in the mirror of relationship and to question it in order to learn about ourselves . But if he did not go through this whole process how did he come upon all the wisdom which he so obviously had ?

RB: I think wisdom is in every consciousness in a 'germinal' form. Otherwise for a man like Krishnaji to talk to audiences would have no meaning. He himself accepted that the door is open for every person to become free. To be free inwardly is to open up to the well-spring of Wisdom , so I think that in his case there was no barrier for this to happen. The outer mind being a pure mind, with almost no traces of selfishness- which is what CWL noticed for the first time in his aura- created no blockage and the inner wisdom just came up when the time was ripe. I remember him saying about his early interests in cars and clothes : ' Yes the time was not ripe for anything to well forth from him'. Then someone asked ' Who decided when the time was ripe ' ?' He said : ' The Powers That Be 'When asked :who are 'the Powers that be' ? He would not answer and just waved his hand.  To me he was refering to what he sometimes called ' the Powers of Goodness' There are energies at subtler levels, in dimensions of (consciousness) which we have very little or no concept, which are perhaps 'watching over the world'

PK : You mean something like the universal Intelligence, beyond the field of thought and knowledge, which cannot be explained ?

RB ; Yes you can't explain the Source of Things. In the last few years of his life he kept asking 'What is the source of Life ?' There is a dimension from which something comes down here

PK : So when the theosophists talked about the Masters, were they supposed to be personifications of this larger Intelligence ?

RB : Madam Blavatsky said that she was doing whatever work she did under the inspiration of certain Masters of Wisdom. One of the prominent theosophists at that time, AP Sinnett received a number of letters from the Masters and they said something about what the Masters are : One is that they are completely unselfish. The qualification for becoming a Master is is the daily conquest of the self. In other words, to give up the idea of a separate self. In another letter they say 'only your evolving spiritually can bring you near to us .They say that there is a latent meaning and a hidden purpose in every individual existence- not just human existence. The whole universe is 'happy' and you wake up in that ( creative happiness?) when the mind gets cleansed of all selfishness, any desire for yourself. This purification of the self means the practice of what K might have called 'attention'-which in the first book he wrote is called 'discrimination'- it means you are constantly giving attention to what is real and what is not real, . Madam Blavatsky asked: What people who say 'they want to see the Masters' mean ? Because the Master is not a physical body, it is a state of consciousness and it is everywhere.

PK : Krishnaji has also talked about the 'Other'. Mr Mahesh Saxena asked him a straight question, as to whether he denies the existence of the Masters and K said : ' No, Sir, I have never denied the Masters, but some of the theosophists brought what was sublime to the ridiculous, and I denied the ridiculous'

RB : But the Master perhaps implies that vast consciousness which you call the 'other' manifesting itself through an individuality

PK : In that sense, do you think K was in contact with the Masters or himself was a Master ?

RB : Both. There was a conversation in 1976 whan K wanted the trustees to meet in Ojai and we were invited to dinner in Mary Z's house in Malibu. At the dinner table K himself asked ' What is a Master ?' I said  "from the theosophical point of view a Master is someone who have come to a state of inner freedom, but out of compassion remains in contact with ignorant humanity- to help and to teach them, like Bodhisatva" And I added, "Sir, I believe you are a Master". That put an end to our conversation. There was a period of silence and then he turned to something else ; But I think he was in contact wit other (invisible?) people, perhaps they were his teachers, perhaps there is a veil after veil that lifts. So it is possible that K himself had been guided by certain 'people', because if you read Pupulji's description of the 'process' she noted down that he spoke about 'they' ; Who are 'They' ?

PK : Yes, that is a mystery.

RB : Mark Lee said that just before he died, K said "I'm ready to go. 'They' are waiting for me, but the body has its own programme". So, who were the 'they' who were waiting for him ? I think he was in contact with 'people' (spiritual entities?) who were at that level of consciousness.  Apart to what he said to Mahesji, on one occasion he said to me that the mistake the Theosophists did was to make the Masters into something 'personal' and 'concrete'. They are not that.

PK Why do you think he left Theosophy ?

RB : I think because there was a lot of folly in the TS at that time. There were many people who imagined, or maybe pretended that they were in touch with the Masters, bringing 'messages' , claiming occult positions and K rebelled strongly against that . But I am wondering also whether the 'Powers That Be' did not intend that he should associated with any organisation. But it was Annie Besant who prepared the ground ' Now Krishnaji is out on his own and he needs people to assist him so you go and help him'. That was how Sanjiva Rao left the TS and began to work for Krishnaji

PK : It seems to med that Annie Besant had this larger vision and the relationship between her and K was not based on agreement or disagreement.

RB : I think there was a deep feeling of love which bound them together. But in her last years when her body had somewhat broken down, her mental powers were not on the same level. She became much more subject to the influences of other people. So it was a shock to her when Krishnaji left and there was all this commotion of breaking up. Once I asked Krishnaji : "You have been talking for so many years and nobody seems to have undergone that 'total revolution' Is there anybody you feel was near it ?" He said : "I think if Amma had been younger it would have taken place in her" He referred to Annie Besant as Amma

PK : I remember that in his last visit here the only person he asked me to read about was Annie Besant . Normally Krishnaji never asked anybody to read about someone . So, would it be correct to say that K was not particularly against theosophy as it's commonly maintained by many people, but that he was against all 'crystallised' forms of belief ?

RB : ...and against creating ( a climate of spiritual ?) 'authority' , and the TS was in danger of going in that direction at that time.

PK : I personally feel that he had a great affection for the TS.

RB : Yes, I was told that when someone in a dialogue spoke in a derogatory way about Annie Besant and CWL , K corrected them saying : ' You know, they were very serious people'. Once he asked me : what is going on in the TS ? Who is going to succeed your father as president ?' So I picked up courage and said : Sir, why do you ask all these things ? I thought you have written off the TS . And he answered ' You know, I have a great affection for it.

PK. People have asked me how do you reconcile being the TS president with being a KFI trustee ?

RB : I don't think there is anything for me to reconcile. For example the fundamental work of the TS is to establish a nucleus of brotherhood for humanity, irrespective of religion, chaste, etc. Now how can that 'brotherhood' come unless one is free of all prejudice and barriers ? If the mind is free like that, is it very different from the 'unconditioned ' mind that K spoke of ? So, I see no contradiction : the TS has officially said, years ago that there is no authority in the society, not even Madam Blavatsky. Every person, through his own reflexion, purity of life, enquiry, has to discover the truth for himself.

PK : Were you shocked by reading Radha Sloss' biography ?

RB : It took me by surprise, specially since K said so many times about the normal, wordly living : ' You people you have gone through all this but this person has never gone through all that' So, I called Mary Lutyens and she confirmed that it was a fact. But the more I thought about, the more I've felt that K's words were true. Once I was walking with him on the Adyar beach and asked him' You have said that you never suffered- but Shiva Rao who was with you in the ship cabin when the news of your brother's death came said that Krishnaji cried and cried for three days. So, you went through that sorrow of parting, but after those three days you were completely at peace and radiant with happiness. So I understand that the consciousness who went through (the pain of) parting was not the Consciousness that came out of that ; He only said : Yes, that's right'. So, when he said I've never gone through this', that explains it

PK : Much of what K said is there also in the Hindu scriptures. So, what would you say is 'special' about his teachings ?

RB : Well, first of all the (ancient Hindu) scriptures are so mixed up that for the average person it's impossible to say what is true and what is not. And even for the non-average person, since the mind is conditioned, we can't say that our idea of what is true is actually true. So I think that when the teachings come directly (from an original source?) as it did for K, that mixed 'adulteration' is not there . The second thing is that he 'explained' things that were put in brief or epigrammatic form by various other people. One time in Saanen he asked : Has anybody said this before ?. I said 'yes' and gave him a concrete example: In Yoga-Vasista there is a verse which speaks about 'a mind which is completely in the present, which never wanders off to the past or to the future' and it says 'to live in the present is immortality'. But it is only a short verse and I don't think I would have understood anything of that if I had not heard Krishnaji. Maybe between the ancient teachers there was someone who explained it, but that was lost. Here was something authentic

PK From someone who was living it...

RB : Living it and speaking out of his own perception. Take this other thing : they say that "listening, pondering or reflecting makes for constant learning" ; What traditionally is called 'listening' is 'listening to the scriptures', but having heard Krishnaji we can understand the deeper meaning of it. Also K was speaking (in the context ) of the modern world and he was giving something which would help humanity to emerge out of the (psychological) disaster of the modern way of life- and all that didn't apply in the old days. So I think the ancient teachings came in a new form with all the power of personal knowledge and clarity.

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 30 Aug 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Wed, 30 Aug 2017 #131
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Excerpts from Professor Krishna's interview with Vimala Thakar in 1995

PK : Vimalaji, for all of us who have been students of K, both the man and his teachings are an enigma. When did you first come across K and what was the impact of this first meeting on your mind ?

V : I came across Shri J Krishnamurti in December 1956 at Rajghat, where I was a guest of Shri Achyut Patwardhan and his brother Rao Saheb. I was in Varanasi in connection with my lectures on Bhoodan (donation of land) but Achyutji asked me if I would like to attend K's talks. I have not heard the name, but Achyutji' request was enough for me. I cancelled my talks and went to attend his talk. Krishnaji entered the room and the first impact of his presence was an indescribable integrity and purity of this person. There was no difficulty to understand his discourse, or 'dialogue' as he called it. It gave me the confirmation of many truths that I perceived but not understood clearly. I attended two talks and on the third day, at Rao Sahib's suggestion I went to see Krishnaj. The first three talks have moved me very deeply. There was nothing to ask. Every word was the breath of clarity and what he had to say was verbalised sanity. Our dialogue which lasted for one hour and a half was so free and frank that the young woman from a middle class Indian family had not imagined to be so affectionate and simple. At least twice someone entered the room to tell him that it was an hour, and he would say, Yes, sir, wait a little more. His glance could hold you spellbound ; there was such a depth in his looking that it reminded me of my communion with the oceans and one felt that the eyes were not focussed on you, but were seeing through you.

PK : We have heard that K healed you of your deafness in one of the ears ?

V : In 1959 I was returning from a visit to Nepal when a car accident took place and I hit my head against a tree trunk. There was profuse bleeding in my ear and was taken to hospital for an operation. When I returned to Kashi K was visiting the Rajghat centre of the 'Foundation for New Education' as it was then called.When he saw me in one of the meetings looking like a ghost of myself- after months in the hospital- he asked Achyutji : What's wrong with that lady ? And after he was told he said : send her to me. I went and he said : Look here, my mother used to say these hands have a healing energy. Shall we try ? It might work, it may not. I said, sir, if my ear gets healed I would feel obliged to you for the whole of my life He said : 'Oh, silly girl , I am not going to do anything to you ; it is the 'power'- it may work or not work. I felt reluctant to accept his offer, but after 3 weeks Vinoba arrived and said "Vimala, why did you refuse ? You have not asked for it. It would have been wrong for you to ask, but it was a spontaneous offer of love ; It is neither the person of K nor that of Vimala who are important in it. Will you go back and apologise to the great person ? Do you know what the energy of love is ? He does not even need to touch you. Haven,'t you read of the life of the Christ ? K 'is' that energy of Love."

So I went to him next day and apologised. K smiled with that beatific smile and said : Come tomorrow morning. So the sessions began : I would sit on a chair and he would stand behind me, put one hand on my heads and the other on my ear. I don't know what he did because by the time he would sit behind me there were vibrations of energy and my eyes would get closed without my knowing and they would open when he would come around and stand in front of me and say 'Vimalaji, open your eyes' The energy that I have experienced through the presence and the touch was something that I had not experienced before . Three sessions per week, I had six sessions in Varanasi. Then he said, come to Bombay, we'll have some more sessions there. In between those 2 months the bleeding had stopped after the first three or four sessions. The hearing had not returned but there was something like a movement in the artificial ear drum ( they had cut some skin from my hand and inserted as the artificial ear drum) .Very faintly I began hearing faint sounds. Then I went to Bombay in Pupulji's house and he gave me three more sessions. When I went for the fourth I said : Krishnaji, I can hear ! He said, You are not imagining it ? 'No sir, I can hear ! He was very glad, one could see the joy in his eyes : 'Oh yes, take it easy ; Don't talk about it to anyone' He gave me 2 more sessions and then asked me to go to the surgeon who operated and go through a test for audition. And give me the report before I leave Bombay. So I went to Pune for the test and the hearing recovered to 65 percent ; The doctor was stunned : What have you been doing ? I said nothing but took the report to K and he was very happy.

PK Scientists today would regard it as a miracle.

V : I myself called it a miracle and so did the surgeon. And because they could not understand the phenomenon they sent me to London for another audition test. There was a 75 pc recovery !
So I told K about this report and asked : Sir, was this a miracle ? He said : "What miracle ? What are you calling a miracle ? It is just an interaction between energies. It takes two to happen and it has happened. Why don't you keep it simple ? And you don't have to feel obliged to me ; I have not done anything . It has 'happened'" .

So I came back with this explanation 'interaction of energies' . One energy I could understand : that of the extraordinary phenomenon called K- but the 'other' energy I did not know what he was refering to. But I thought it would be audacious to ask himagain, so I kept quiet. To me, whether you call it a 'miracle' or not is is an inexplicable phenomenon on the cerebral or rational level. It is non-rational. Krishnamurti himself was more of a phenomenon than a person. Though I have not known him closely I understood that he was more of a (psychic?) phenomenon arising in response to the needs of human evolution, along with being a 'person'.

PK : But reading his biography one finds that he went through several illnesses and suffered a lot physically...

V : According to Yoga and Ayurveda, such healing powers cannot be used by the person for himself , or else they fade away

PK : Another mysterious happening is the 'process' which he went through at various periods of his life. Do you think this is the same (phenomenon) as the awakening of kundalini ?

V : No, the awakening of kundalini does activate unconditioned (psychic?) anergies in the body but not for a prolonged duration. It must have happened to him for 6 months of his early life in Ojai when they spread mattresses in the room- he would roll when not able to bear the intensity or the agony caused by the pain. Now for K as a person it seems to me that he was 'manipulated' by the Supreme Intelligence with the help of invisible powers or energies left into orbit of the Earth by exceptional human beings of spiritual attainments. So they must have found this boy in South India who had that completely innocent, vacant mind. That innocent mind was not 'passivity' or 'blankness' but a very rare quality So 'they' could shape this consciousness , refine and sensitised as the world was needing a (spiritual) teacher that neither belonged to the east or to the west, an unprecedently independent consciousness.So this person (in his own words) was used by these 'super-powers' .

So there seem to be 2 'K entities' – the boy with his family conditioning of hindu conditioning or indian racial consciousness and the other 'entity' was developped by the 'process'. He had not asked for it; but it was 'forced' upon him because of a cosmic need.. It was a very precious (mind) instrument that they came across. So he had to go through the torture of that 'process' for a very long time. He did not need it for his transformation ; it was a 'sacrifice' made for the Supreme Intelligence.. I haven't come across a sannyasy like K.

PK : In the last tape recorded on Feb 7 1986 he mentions that there was this 'supreme intelligence' that operated through the body and also the body was developped over a long period of time and one may not find a body like this for another few hundred years

V : I think he was entitled to say so. I don't know about 'thousands years' but 'they' surely worked at it throughout his whole life. I call it a 'torture' because he was of a poetic nature, so gentle, so sensitive, and the austerity that was demanded of his living was so sharp. And he had to live both. He had not much time for himself to live the 'poetic gentleness', the 'humane' aspect of his personality. I feel sympathetic for the person who went through all that.

PK : So you think that he had to sacrifice himself for completing the rôle of the world teacher ?

V : I have no doubt about it , sir. May I mention an event which no one around me has known up to now ? I was a guest in England, of Mary Lutyens in the 70's and one day I was given a bundle of letters written by K to Mary. Some ( biography) book was in press and those letters would have been included in it. They were like any other love letter a young person would write to a girl that he loved.. Publishing those letters in that stage of his work around the globe was something, my sensitivity could not stand. So I threw them in the fireplace, willing to to go through any consequences. I wanted - not to 'save' but to help the teachings of K, the only teachings of sanity and clarity from 1930 onwards and the people who listened to his words could be misled. The human race - in all the countries- is stupid to a great extent- they would misinterpret them, as if he had no right to love anyone or live a normal life. In one of the letters he had said : ' Why was I picked up, otherwise I could have married you ?' It is not relevant what I went through for doing that, but I don't regret having done it ! His life was a (personal) sacrifice since he was discovered by Leadbetter. Till 1925 perhaps he was not aware of that but after that what he did and withstood was a sacrifice gone through willingly at a great price for his emotional life.

PK : From some of his bios and his writings it seems that he was in contact with some 'divine' powers. Why then did he deny the Masters ?

V : Deny ? When and in which way ?

PK : He didn't publiclly acknowledge his contact the Masters, didn't want to.

V : Yes, sir he didn't acknowledge his contact with the 'invisible masters' as he would say with a little sarcastic smile on his lips- that was up to 1930, but between '25 and '30 he seems to have transcended these 'super' powers and was in communion with what he liked to call 'the supreme Intelligence' (the Lord?) - which I call the 'divinity of life'. Why he did not acknowledge that, or talked rather sarcastically – if not in a derogatory sense about the Masters was because of the 'milieu' surrounding the intellectual and scholastic world (of his time) . The organised religions have vulgarised these 'powers' and dragged them down to the level of being exploited by (personal) psychic ambitions and motivations. Maybe he was afraid that if he would acknowledge the Masters that would be a sanction given by him that he was the World Teacher' . That rôle he had to play, everything was set for it ands he could not budge an inch from it. So perhaps he did not want to use that divine sanction. His was a 'scientific' spirituality .

PK : Can it be due to the realisation, at the time of his brother's death that these messages from the Masters can sometime be mistaken because one's own imagination can distortthe message or even create a message where none existed? Therefore it is necessary first to free oneself of the distortions of the ego ? Rather than try to have communication with 'super' powers

V : Yes, you have put it rightly . But prior to that journey, that event of the Flame of the Buddha entering the centre between the eyebrows was a very significant, mystical event. So the transcendence from the clutches of the 'super' powers and and the communion came about through the interaction between what he calls the 'flame' – what I call the Buddha Consciousness- the fusion between the two that has given him the authenticity. So what happened on the ship, the sorrow of Nitya's death confirmed to me that the 'transcendence' has taken place

PK : K, like Buddha, seems to have seen the whole nature of freedom and freed himself of it. Why doesn't this happen to us ?

V : Because for them perhaps the 'personal' suffering caused by the irreversible separation by death had not too much importance. So when the suffering invaded K- he must have shed tears for Nitya. But this transported his consciousness into the fact of vulnerability of human life. Thinking gives continuity to the emotional sting of suffering, but one who has seen the limited utility of thought and does not allow that thought structure to intrude, then the 'sting' of suffering subsides by itself.
K used to say 'Ending the psychological suffering is the essence of religiosity ' So it ended to him ; that one death was representative of millions of deaths happening And that one betrayal of those who had given him assurances in the name of the Masters was the betrayal of the whole humanity. He lived the life of the whole humanity perhaps in those three days- and the Buddha perhaps in three hours- and so that suffering ended. We get stuck in our own suffering : it's the personal consequence in our daily life of loneliness. So it seems to me that we don't end suffering because it gives us the sadistic pleasure- to feel it, to talk about it, the self-pity

PK : I have read that during these 15 days he spent travelling to India he suffered, but he learned from this suffering and freed himself. He wrote a letter to a friend saying : ' I have experienced personal sorrow. I'm through with it . I have cheated death.'

V : Yes sir, we do not learn and he was busy learning. For him living was equated with learning.

PK : It was mankind's sorrow, it was not 'his' sorrow.

V : Exactly.

PK : What would you say was 'unique' about Krishnaji- both the man and the teaching ?

V : I don't think I am entitled to talk about the man. But in all the religious teachers, all the spiritual celebrities – none of them were self-reliant in their enquiry. My quest for truth began when I was five and there is not a single Ashram that Vimala has not visited before she was 25 out of the love of enquiry. And none of these teachers were self-reliant - they were tethered to the Vedas, the Upanishads, etc. And here was this person I call a 'phenomenon' because of his non-authoritarian enquiry and totally self-reliant transformation . This was the need of the 'nuclear age'- the synthesis of science and spirituality. A human being who lived with that self-reliance, without any fuss about it, not trying to show it off in any way for more than half a century ! He would rather conceal it .
So K's life cannot be compared with any one of those I've come across in my long quest. In the teaching I find traces of Upanishadic truths in his communications. He had not read them, but it was in his blood.... So, it is incomparable.

PK : Yes, he repeatedly told that one has to be a light to oneself...and to such an extent that there is no teacher and no taught ; That is the extent to which he carried Buddha's precept 'Atmadipo Bhava'- Be a Light to oneself' . So you think that the care and nurture that the TS gave to him was a contributory factor, but not a determining factor ?

V : Yes sir, you have said it. It was surely the most valuable contribution because if the world teacher had lived in a small vilage in India as Sri Ramana did, what would the West have done? How would it have bearing on the challenges that the 20-th century world was facing ?

PK : In your view, what has been the impact of Krishnaji on human consciousness ?

V : Krishnamurti, with his own life has paved the way for one global, human religion, one global ethos, one global way of enquiring into truths and living those truths . Because all the 'organised' religions are (eventually?) going to collapse ; they have lost their relevance. If K had not lived and not taught, there would have been a vacuum in the orbit of human consciousness. He has paved the way for the 21-st century

PK : For the serious enquirer ?

V : That's right, such people come for the 'few'- for "the salt of the earth".

PK Do you think K was born like an ordinary man, with an ego and eventually became free or was he, in some sense, born free ? I am asking you this question as he asked himself' Why did the boy K not get conditioned and trapped (in time?)

V : I am too small a person to answer this question. But I think that one who does not want anything from this world or the other- from humanity or from divinity- does not get conditioned. K must have had his 'ego-structure' -the mischief that the 'ego' plays in ordinary trivialities of daily living, but it was non-operative when it came to the realm of spirituality, the realm of truth . And I have faith in his words when he says : ' The boy never got conditioned'- the wealth, the prestige, the fame- nothing touched him- and yet the tiny little ego of that boy who never had the opportunity to live a normal childhood, to enjoy the various expressions of youth it was there in his life. That's why he remained so human.

PK : How did it happen that Leadbeter and AB pick out K ? His brother was much brighter than him ?

V : As far as my perception goes, there are 5 bodies  within this gross physical body : those who felt that the boy was 'unintelligent' saw only the outer layers, while Mr Leadbetter must have penetrated beyond them. We must give credit to his (spiritual) perceptions, refined by his occult practices, were sensitised by them and he must have perceived the 'core', the existential essence in that boy.

PK: Do you think K succeeded in his mission to set man unconditionally free ?

V : What are 70 years of one person's hard work against thousands of years of human evolution or civilisation ? Neither the 'success' or the 'failure' is perceptible. He has sown the seeds, has ploughed the human psyche on the global level and inserted some truths into the orbit of human consciousness. They are taking time to sprout, to express, to function in the normal society, but it seems to me that they have sunk deep.

PK : Whereas most religious personages collected a group of (remarkable?) people around them who were friends or disciples and collected a community around them, K appears to have 'fallen out' with most people he was close to. What in your view is the reason for this ?

V : Well, didn't he say that he did not want followers or disciples ? He did not perhaps wish to leave behind him any organisation or a rigid group .That is one aspect. The second may be that temperamentally he was not a person of socialisation. Like a true sannyasi he did not relish much people coming close to him. I might almost call him a loner. So his ways of expressing the truth, which was very sharp, his strategy of throwing people back on themselves and merely compelling them to become self-reliant in their enquiry, positively discouraged their dependence on him. Now, tell me, such a person how can people be around him ?

PK: But he also talked about the need for co-operation, that a true co-operation is out of love... He once remarked that he will never desert anybody but they will all desert him

V : Well, it was his destiny to live in isolation- affluence isolated him, the rôle of world teacher isolated him...The austerity of his truth was frightening ; people went near him, they enjoyed the company, but when it came to his teachings, the razor like sharpness of the truth, the austerity of the non-authoritative approach and unconditional self-relance frightened ( dissuaded?) them. They were attracted towards it intellectually and they were frightened emotionally

My dear friend, I feel human beings are very much afraid of freedom : attracted towards it intellectually, but afraid of it emotionally ; this inner division did not allow them to remain with him, to his side. The moment they understood the (inward) implications of the teaching, the withdraw.

PK : It was said that K as a person was very different from K as a teacher, that he may have been a 'medium' of some sort for another Consciousness to operate. What do you think ?

V : I am inclined to agree that there were 2 streams of consciousness, but they were operating simultaneously. He would 'slide' from one to another so spontaneously and people would remain stuck with one or the other. So, I'm inclined to say that his life continued with these 2 parallel streams. That his consciousness has been used by some 'power' has been said by him in so many ways : I'm a telephone, so take the message, don't worship the telephone .

PK : Some people say that what K is advocating is inherently impossible to do.

V : No, sir, it's not impossible, and Vimala's life is a proof for it. But what is 'impossible' is total dedication to living the truth as soon as it has been perceived. Even if it is grasped academically or verbally, if you don't allow any time lag between your understanding and you allow it to live, then I think there is no problem. But the 'time-lag' (delay ) is created by so many factors, and that's why it 'doesn't happen'.

PK : But for the man who is caught up in the 'ego' field there is a vicious circle- the 'ego distorts the perception...

V : The vicious circle might have existed in the pre-K era. In the K-era, the educated, intelligent person has been pointed out to him how the 'ego' has no factual substance. So why is not there the (liberating) energy ? Somehow one feels that it's maybe the 'attachment', maybe the sense of security, maybe the sense of 'individuality' that one gets out of the 'ego' - that doesn't allow it to drop away. Krishnaji used to say : Sir, it is not difficult to perceive the 'truth', but you do not allow the 'untruth' to drop away' That's the difficulty.

PK : Some people feel that because K had a sexual affair in his youth, therefore he can't be a 'holy' man. What do you think ?

V : What has ( spiritual ?) holiness to do with sex relationship ? Sex itself is a 'divine' energy, but if it's gone through with a feeling of guilt, then it becomes wrong. But we don't know about his life... (this spiritual) transformation transports you into a Consciousness where the sex-consciousness is absent. The non-duality makes you into a non-sexual person

PK : He says somewhere that "Love is both the personal and the impersonal and that it makes no distinction , that it is a state of mind out of which it functions and then everything that is done is part of that love, of that state of mind". Once I've asked him : 'How can you know about sex when you have never experienced it ? And he said : Sir, I get the same joy in holding your hand as you do when you do that'

( To conclude our discussion, ) Would you have to narrate some of your personal interractions with him, for posterity ?

V : As I've told you, I have been brought in a totally Indian surroundings, so When K asked me "Come for lunch tomorrow in Gstaad" I said, "No, sir, I don't know any (western) table manners !" So he said : "come and do as I do". So I went. He said : I've cooked spinach and put curds over spinach. He made Madam Scaravelli also eat the Indian way !

Another day he tells M-me Scaravelli ' Go and fetch Vimala'. He was sitting under a tree of the chalet and he beckoned me to sit by his side 5 minutes 15 minutes, half an hour- doesn't even look at me. After half an hour he said : ' Wasn't it wonderful ? Now you may leave!'

Once he was in England, he gave me an appointment ar 2:30 pm. I went to Wimbledon. He opens the door wearing an apron 'My God, did I give you an appointment today ?' Yes sir. ' Would you mind having the interview in the kitchen ?' I said ; no, but would you allow to help you in the kitchen ? So whatever conversation we had it went while working. Then at the end he said 'You Indians are notorious for your addiction to tea. Would you like a cup of tea ?' Yes sir. ( he could be mischievous like a boy) So I allowed him to make a cup of tea standing there in the kitchen and there was only a stool on which he was sitting. So I had my cup of tea, 'So long' and I went away.

Once he was a guest of Dr Kharan Singh in Kashmir and there is a palace in Srinagar – he was a guest there. So we went to see him. He was not well. So Dada said, Krishnaji, I was in Srinagar and I thought I could make a courtesy call' K said ; Courtesy call on me ? Sir, I'm not a 'social animal' ! But do please sit down. And said ' I apologise for receiving you in a palace ! ' He had a subtle sense of humour. These occasional meetings with him lasted 10 or 15 minutes and are nothing worth anyone to know, but the human touch was superb !

PK; Thank you Vimala for sharing these sacred things with us.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Sat, 02 Sep 2017 #132
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Here are some 'recycled' pages from Mrs Evelyn Blau's interview with David Bohm (cca 1995)

EB: Dr. Bohm, could you say how you first came into contact with Krishnamurti or his teaching?

DB: Well, the background is that in my work in physics I was always interested in the general philosophical questions as they related to physics, and more generally, universally as it might relate to the whole constitution of nature and of man. One of the points arising in physics which is somewhat related to what Krishnaji is doing, is in quantum theory, where you have the fact that energy is found to be existent as discrete units which are not divisible.

EB: Could you clarify the word 'discrete' in that context?

DB: One view is that matter is continuous, flowing, and the other view is it’s made of atoms, which are discrete, but there are so many atoms that it appears to be continuous. Like grains in an hourglass, they flow as if they were water. But obviously they are made of discrete units. So the notion of the atomicity or discreteness of matter had already been common for many centuries, but in the early 20th-century there arose a discovery that energy is discrete as well. Energy comes in units, though they’re very tiny; therefore, we don’t easily see them, and the number is so great that they appear to be continuous. Now this has important consequences because it means that things cannot be divided from each other. If two things interact by means of an energy that cannot be divided, that link is indivisible. Therefore, fundamentally, the entire universe is indivisible, and in particular, it means that the thing observed and the apparatus which observes it cannot be really separated. Now, we already had this point that the observer cannot be separated from the observed. In fact, whenever you observe, the thing observed is changed because it cannot by this interaction be reduced below a certain level. Therefore, you have the transformation of the object observed in the act of observation.
I had already noted the similarity to our consciousness: that if you try to observe your thought in any detail, the whole train of thought changes. That’s clear isn’t it? So therefore, you cannot have the separation of the observer and the observed in consciousness. The observer changes the observed, and the observed changes the observer, therefore, there was a mysterious quality which was not really understood in physics.

EB: Was this part of your observation, scientificallv, as well as philosophically, when you first came in contact with Krishnamurti?

DB: That’s right, let me add one more point. My interest in physics...l had always had a tendency to say that what I was thinking about in physics should be taking place within me. I felt that there was a parallel between what is in consciousness, and what is in matter in general, and I felt 'movement' was also a question, that the movement that you see outside, you 'feel' inside. In general therefore, I felt that we directly apprehended the nature of reality in our own being.

EB: Had you pursued this through contacts with other teachers, or philosophers, or was this a purely scientific matter and vour own self-observation?

DB At that point, it was probably mostly my own. The question of "the observer and the observed" was obviously looked at in quantum mechanics as to its implications, especially by Nils Bohr, who in fact was influenced by the philosopher William James, an American who had developed an idea of the "stream of consciousness", along the lines I have been saying. But as a matter of fact, that idea occurred to me independently as soon as I read about quantum theory. There was an analogy between this "stream of consciousness" and the behavior of matter. That was the background of my interest in science. I was also trying to understand the universal nature of matter. Questions like causality and time and space, and totality, to grasp it all.

EB: Is this something that is shared by other scientists, are there similar observations?

DB: Those who are inclined that way do, but most do not. Most scientists are very pragmatically oriented, and mainly want to 'get results'. They would like to make a theory that would predict matter accurately and control it, but a few are interested in this question. Say Einstein. I should say that I had some discussions with Einstein on the quantum theory when I was in Princeton. Most physicists know the quantum theory cannot be understood, they take it as a calculus, as a way of getting results, predicting. They say “That’s all that really matters, and that a deeper understanding might he nice, but it is not really essential.

E B: So with the background of this kind of interest, you came to reading a book by Krishnamurti?

DB Yes. As I said, scientists have an interest in cosmology, many of them are trying to get a grasp of the totality of the cosmos. Einstein particularly wanted to understand it as one whole. What happened in regard to Krishnamurti was that my wife and I were in Bristol. We used to go to the public library where I got interested in philosophical or even mystic or religious hooks, such as those of Ouspensky and Gurdjief because I was somewhat dissatisfied with what could he done in the ordinary sphere. My wife Sarel and I came across The First and Last Freedom. She saw a phrase there, “The observer and the observed,” so she thought it might have something to do with quantum theory, and she pointed it out to me. When I read the book, I was very interested in it. I felt it was a very significant one, and it had a tremendous effect on me. That the questions of the observer and the observed were brought to the psychological level of existence, and I had the hope that one could tie up physics and psychological matters. I also read the Commentaries on Living. Thev were the only other books in the library. I wrote to the publisher in America, and I asked whether one could get more books, or whether Krishnamurti was around. Somebody sent me a letter suggesting that I get in touch with the people here in England. I wrote to them and they sent me a list of books.

EB : Do you remember what year that was?

DB It could have been about 1958, or 1959. Then somewhere around 1960, he came hack to England and gave talks. It could have been 1960. In my letter ordering books, I asked if Krishnamurti ever came to England, they said, in fact he was coming and there would he a limited number of people who could come to hear him. I came with Sarel and, while I was here, I wrote a letter to Doris Pratt, asking if I could talk with Krishnamurti, and then I got a phone call from her arranging to make an appointment. They were renting a house in Wimbledon, and I waited for him with Sarel. Then he came in, and there was a long silence, hut then we began discussing. I told him all about my ideas in physics, which he probably couldn't have understood in detail, but he got the spirit of it. I used words like 'totality', and when I used this word 'totality', he grabbed me by the arm, and said, “That’s it, that’s it!”

EB: What was your initial impression? You had read books by Krishnamurti. What was your impression as vou first met this man?

DB: Well, you see, I don’t usually form those impressions, I usually just go ahead. But the impression I got was that when see we remained silent, which was not usual, but it didn’t seem odd to me at the time, and there was no tension in it. Then we began to talk. Now in talking I got the feeling of close communication, instant communication, of a kind which I sometimes get in science with people who are vividly interested in the same thing. He had this intense energy and openness, and clarity, and a sense of no tension. I can’t remember the details, but he couldn’t understand very of what I said, except the general drift of it.

EB: You were speaking on a more scientific level?

DB: I was speaking about the questions I was talking of earlier, like quantum theory, and relativity, and then raising the question of whether the totality can be grasped. I should also say that my interests had turned toward understanding thought, which I’ve forgotten to mention. I gradually began to see that it was necessary to understand our thought. In going into philosophy, and going into causality, and questions like that, it was a matter of how we are thinking. I had earlier been influenced by people who were interested in dialectical materialism and when I went to Brazil, I talked to a man who had read a lot of Hegel, and raised the question of the very nature of our thought. Not merely what we are thinking about, but the structure of how our thought works, and that it works through opposites. Our thought inevitably unites the two opposite characteristics of necessity and contingency. When I got to Israel, I met another man who was very interested in Hegel. What he said was, “ You should pay attention to your thought, how it ’s actually working.” So I had become very interested in how thought proceeds. Considering thought as a process in itself, not its content, but its actual nature and structure.

EB So you found similarities between what Krishnamurti was saving, and someone like Hegel.

DB: There is some similarity, yes. I found a relationship, and that was the reason I was fascinated by Krishnamurti. He was going very deeply into much deeper than Hegel, in the sense that he also went into feeling and into your whole life. He didn’t stop at abstract thought

EB: So over a period of years you became deeplv acquainted with Krishnamurti’s thought. In the course of that how did you look at the source of Krishnamurti’s teaching?

DB: Well, I didn’t raise the question for a while. What happened was that we began to meet every time he came to London and had one or two discussions. In the first year I wanted to discuss the question of the "universal and the particular" with him, and we raised the question “Is mind universal?” and he said, “Yes.” We used the word 'individual', is intelligence 'individual', and he said, “Yes” at the time. We had quite a good discussion on that. When we left I had the feeling that the state
of mind had changed, I could see that there was no feeling, but clarity

EB: When you say "the state ol mind had changed", do vou mean both of your states of mind?

DB: I don’t know, I assume that he was similar since we were in close communication. I said that I had no feeling, and he said, “Yes, that's right,” which surprised me, because I had previously thought that anything intense must have a lot of feeling, and then when I went out I had a sense of some "presence" in the sky, but I generally discount such things...saying that it’s my imagination.

EB: Was that a physical sense?

DB: Yes.

EB: You actually could see some... ?
DB : Feel. Not 'see' anything there, but 'feel' something there, something universal.

EB: Had vou ever felt anything of that nature before?

DB: I had hints of that, but my whole background was such as to say, I didn’t tell mv parents or anybody, they would have said, “You’re just imagining that.”

EB: Did you feel that there was any relationship between the intensity of vour discussion and what was happening?

DB: Yes, I probably felt that they were related. In fact I might have explained it by saying I was projecting the 'universality' into the sky, this I might have done as a child.

EB: When was your next meeting?

DB: I didn’t see a lot of him, but we had discussions every year in London when he came in June, and when I went to Saanen in Switzerland. We began to have discussions in which at least for a while I could feel that was some change of consciousness, but by the time I got back to England, it went away. When you go back into ordinary life.

EB: What would you say are the salient characteristics or qualities of his teaching that differentiate it from that of others?
DB: Well, first of all, the total concern with all phases of life and consciousness, and secondly the question of something beyond consciousness, which began to emerge in our discussions in Saanen.

E B: Did Krishnamurti ever describe any particular influence on his teaching? He says today that he doesn’t read books of a religious or philosophic nature, but in his earlier years he mav have come into contact with that.

DB : Well he didn’t describe it to me, but I’ve heard people say that he read the “Cloud of Unknowing,” which was influential, and probably other books. My feeling is that he must also have been familiar with what the Theosophists were saying. The other things he’s read or heard may have awakened him to some extent.

EB: Did you ever feel that he was drawing you awav from vour scientific interests?

DB: No, because I was going on with my scientific interests, at that time I wanted to understand this whole question of the "observer and observed" scientifically, and the question of dealing with the universe as a totality. So it didn’t really draw me away front the scientific work. I became more and more interested in the question of the nature of thought, which is crucial in everything, including science, since it was the only instrument you had. When I was in London with Krishnaji, I did discuss what to do about scientific research, and I remember he said, “Begin from the unknown. Try beginning from the unknown.” I could see that the question of 'getting free of the known' was the crucial question in science, as well as in everything. For example if you take scientific discoveries— I’ll take a very simple case: You may have heard of Archimedes and his discoveries. He was given the problem of measuring the volume of a crown of irregular size in order to see whether it was gold or not by weighing it, and it was too irregular to be measured and he was very puzzled, and then suddenly when he was in his bath he saw the water displaced by his body, and he realized that no matter what the shape, the water displaced is equal to the volume of the body, right? And therefore he could measure the volume of the crown. He went out shouting “Eureka!” if you recall.
Now, you consider the nature of what went on. The basic barrier to seeing was that people thought of things in different compartments, one was volume by measurement, and two, water being displaced would have nothing to do with that, right?

EB: Exactly.

DB: To allow those to be connected, the mind would have to dissolve those rigid compartments. Once the connection was made, anybody- using ordinary reasoning could have done the rest, any schoolboy of reasonable intelligence. The same happened with Newton. Obviously Archimedes, as Newton and Einstein were in states of intense energy when they were working, and what happens is that the moment of "insight" is the dissolving of the barrier in thought. It is "insight" into the nature of thought, not into the problem. All insight is the same. It is always insight into thought. Not its content but its actual physical nature, which makes the barrier. And that is what I think Krishnamurti was saying, that "insight" transforms the whole structure of thought and makes the consciousness different. Now for scientists that may happen for a moment, and then they get interested in the result, working it out, but Krishnamurti is emphasizing "insight" as the essence of life itself. Without coming to a conclusion. Don’t worry too much about the results, however important they may be.
Insight, fresh insight is continually needed. That insight is continually dissolving the rigid compartments of thought. And that is the transformation of consciousness. Our consciousness is now rigid and brittle because it’s held in fixed patterns of thought due to our conditioning about ourselves, and we get attached to those thoughts, they feel more comfortable.

EB: Krishnamurti always seems to be able to make the distinction between using thought as a tool and then putting it aside when the tool was no longer needed for a specific reason. Putting it aside leaves space for further inquiry.

DB: Yes, one could feel this space was present in our discussion

E B: What would you say are the most characteristic features of Krishnamurti’s teaching?

DB: I think there are several features you could say are characteristic.The emphasis on thought as the source of our trouble. Krishnamurti says that thought is a material process, he’s always said that. Most people tend to regard it as other than that, and I don’t see that emphasized anywhere. Now it’s very important to see that thought is a material process, in other words, thought can be observed as any matter can be observed. When we are observing inwardly we are observing not the content of thought, not the idea, not the feeling, but the material process itself. If something is wrong with thought it’s because erroneous things have been controlled in memory which then control you, and the "me" has to be changed physically. You see with a tape you could wipe out the memory with a magnet, but you would wipe out the necessary memories along with the unnecessary ones.

EB: Krishnamurti seems to indicate that a certain tabula rasa can be achieved through clear perception.

DB: That’s right, but it’s necessarily happening intelligently, so that you do not wipe out the necessary memories, but you’ll wipe out the memories which give rise to the importance of the self. He says that there’s an energy beyond matter, which is truth, and that truth acts with the force of necessity. It actually works on the material basis of thought and consciousness and changes that into an orderly form; So it ceases to create disorder. Then thought will only work where it’s
needed and leaves the mind empty for something deeper.

EB: People often raise the point that they lack sufficient energy to continue this investigation in their daily lives. How would you respond to that?

DB: That’s probably because there’s not an understanding of the nature of energy. They 'see it' at certain times, but it goes away. You have to see what is essential and universal, and that will transform the mind. The 'universal' belongs to everybody, as well as covering everything, every possible form. It’s the general consciousness of mankind. We come now to energy, this whole process of the ego is continually wasting energy, 'getting you low' and confusing you. In other words, the individual’s perception of themselves as a separate being, is a waste of energy.
Yes, because if you see yourself as a particular being you will continuallv try to protect that 'being'. Your energies will be dissipated.

EB: Earlier you were saying that since thought is a material process, it’s necessary to observe the process of thought rather than its contents. How is one to do that? How is one to make that shift anti observe the material process when it appears as if the only thing that consciousness is aware of is content?

DB: Well, there are several points. Before we get to that, another important difference of Krishnamurti is his emphasis on actual life— on being aware of everything— and also his refusal to accept authority, which is really extremely important. There were Buddhists who said, Krishnamurti’s talking much the same as the Buddhists, but he says, "why do you begin with the Buddha, why not begin with what is here now?" That was very important, he refuses to take seriously the comparison with what other people have said. Now to come back to what you were saying, about observation of the material process. You have to see what can be observed about thought asitle from the pictures and feelings and its meaning. Whatever you think appears in consciousness as a "show". That’s the way thought works to display its content, as a "show" of imagination. Therefore if you think the 'observer' is separate from the 'observed', it’s going to appear in consciousness as two different entities. The point is that the words will seem to be coming from the "observer" who 'knows', who 'sees', and therefore they are the truth, they are a description of the truth. Thatis the illusion.
The way a magician works is exactly the same, you see. Every magician’s work depends on distracting your attention so that you do not see how things are connected. Suddenly something appears by magic 'out of nothing'. You do not see how it depends on what he actually did.

EB: You miss that missing link ...

DB: By missing the link you change the meaning completely.

EB: So what appears to be magic is actually not realizing the connection ol all of these links.

DB: Yes, and that kind of 'magic' take place in consciousness, the observer see things appear and the observer appears to be unlinked to the 'observed'. Therefore it comes out as if from nothing.
Anti if it came from nothing it would be truth. Something that suddenly appears in consciousness out of nothing is taken as real and true. But if you see the link to thought, then you see it as not all that deep.

EB: You’re saying then that thought is more shallow than we believe it to be.

DB Yes, in fact it’s extremely shallow. You see, most of our consciousness is very, very shallow.

E B And what we see as our most profound insights are really rather superficial observations.

DB: Yes, or not even observations. Many of them are just delusions, a great deal of what we 'think about ourselves' is just an illusion. The analogy that is often made in Indian literature is if you have a rope that you think is a snake, your heart’s beating, your mind is confused, and the minute you see that it ’s not a snake everything changes. The mere perception is enough to change the state of mind, and the perception that, for example, the ol r and the observed arc not independent, will mean lie things which the observer is thinking arc not regarded as truth . more. They lose that power. Now if you see the whole, you could say the whole energy of the brain is ''aroused' and directed bv the 'show' which thought makes of it’s content, it ’s like a map. There is a 'show' in which this whole content is regarded as truth, as necessary. Then the entire brain is going to restart up around this show. Everything is going to be arranged to try to make a better show. Now the minute you see it ’s only a 'show', this all stops. Now the brain quiets down and it ’s in another state. It’s no longer trapped and therefore it can do something entirely different. But to do that it’s necessary not merely to say so, but to see it in the way we've been suggesting.

I thought of another case where you can see the ( liberating ) power of ( direct ) perception.
It was this case of Helen Keller you may have heard of her, she was blind, deaf, and dumb. When she couldn’t communicate she was rather like a wild animal. They found this teacher, Ann Sullivan.
What she did was to play a game, as it were, to put the child’s hand in contact with something, that was her only sense, and scratch the word on her hand. First it was clearly nothing but a game she didn’t understand what was going on. Then, Helen Keller recalls that one morning she was exposed to water in a glass and the name was scratched, and in the afternoon to water in a pump, and the name
was scratched, and suddenly she had an insight, a shattering insight, and it was that everything has a name. If water was one thing in all its different forms, this one name “ water” could he communicated to the other person who used the same name. From there on she began to use language, and in a few days she learned words, in a few days she was making sentences, and her whole life was transformed. She was no longer this violent, wild person, but entirely different. So you can see that this perception transformed everything. Once she had the perception there was no turning back. It was not to say she had the perception and then forgot about it and had to have it again. And I think Krishnamurti is implying that to see that "the observer is the observed", would be a perception enormously beyond what she had. It would have a far more revolutionary effect.

EB: You feel then that the concept of "the observer is the observed" is a key one in K's teachings.

DB: Yes; in fact they are identical.

EB: I wonder if you would recapitulate some of the other key factors in his teaching?

DB: Well, the question of time , psychological time being merely produced by thought. You see, ending 'time' is just the same thing as the observer and the observed. The ending of the (division between) observer and the observed is identical with the ending of psychological time and therefore a timeless state comes.

EB: And with the perception of the 'observer and the observed as one'; all of the phenomena of suffering, the human difficulties that we all go through are ended.

DB: That's right, because they all originate in ignorance of the true nature of this question. Then, the emphasis on compassion arises. Passion for all, not merely passion for those who are suffering. That is part of the passion which goes beyond suffering.

EB Authority is certainly another major factor in his teaching.

DB: Yes, you can see now why 'authority' is so important. One of the points you have to add is the enormous power of the mind to deceive itself, which he recognized . Authority is one of the major forms of self-
deception. That is, the authority in the mind , not authority in other matters, they are not necessarily self-deception. If somebody comes out as an "authority on truth" , the danger is that you say that you had begun to doubt certain things yourself but now you take what he says as true. Because you want it to be so. It’s basically that 'truth' for me is what I need it to be. I feel uneasy, frightened, worried, and on, and so the authority— the religious authority- comes along and says, “God will take care of you as long as you are good and you believe" and so on. Therefore I "want to believe" and therefore I say that "that’s the truth". I was on the point of having to question all this and along comes the "authority" who makes it unnecessary. You have to ask why you accept authority. You see, the authority gives you no proof whatsoever, so why do you accept it? Because you want to, you need to, right? I must have comfort, consolation and safety . And here comes this impressive figure, very nice looking, perhaps clothed in certain ways , with certain ceremonies, and vert nice music and consoling thoughts and a good manner, and he says, " You're alright, everything’s going to he all right. You just have to believe"

EB: One of the major characteristics of authority is that it has great power, and that power displays itself, as you said, in rituals, in ceremony. Just as a worldly power, a king, would show himself through his trappings, through his crown, etc.

DB: That’s right. But you see, it’s an empty 'show'. The whole point is that authority builds an 'empty show of power' around itself. A 'display', as you called it. There’s nothing behind it whatsoever, except our belief that it’s there.

EB Have you been able to observe in Krishnamurti’s writings any 'breaking point' where his teaching deviated or went in a completely different direction?

DB: No, I can’t see any fundamental change.

EB: Even as a young man, this teaching was implicit within everything he said ?

DB: Yes, yes.

EB: And there was no learning from other models?

DB: No. I think it comes from a Source beyond the brain which is, in principle, open to everybody.

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 02 Sep 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Mon, 04 Sep 2017 #133
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Another recycled Evelyn Blau interview with Mrs PUPUL JAYAKAR(cca 1984)

P J : Krishnaji returned to India in 1947, after the war and an absence of several years. In January of 1948, I had gone to see my mother, a social worker, who had an interest and was involved in politics at this time, but no interest in anything at all connected with a religious life. My father had died a few years earlier and my mother had never got over the shock. There was an old friend of my father’s, Sanjeeva Rao, who had been connected with Dr. Besant for many years, who at the time was responsible for organizing Krishnaji’s visit to India. He had come to see my mother, and when I went there he told me that he was taking my mother to see Krishnaji. As a child I had been in the Theosophical girls school in Benares. I remember seeing Krishnaji for a minute and being overwhelmed by the extraordinary beauty of Krishnaji as a person. As I had nothing else to do, I thought I would go with my mother to see this very beautiful person. We went to Carmichael Road where he was staying and after a little while Krishnaji walked in. If you had seen him at the was like a sudden explosion of a presence, the sudden entrance of a presence unlike anything that had ever be seen before. He had great beauty, which he still has, but seeing it ; the first time, the impact was total.

He was dressed in Indian clothes. I remember he used to laugh a lot in those days, and he was laughing when he came in. Sanjeeva Rao introduced us and Krishnaji sat down and my mother started telling him all about my father. After a little while he turned to her and said, “Amma, you’ve come to the wrong person. I have no sympathy to give you.” This came as a blow, I didn’t know what he meant. He said, “Which husband do you miss? the husband you married, the husband who was the father of your children, or the man he would have been if he had been alive. Do you miss the memory of the man?” It was all confusing- I felt a little disturbed and distressed and a little angry he couldn’t give my mother the solace she needed. Then he looked to me and asked, “ And what do you do?” I said, “ I do social work " He started laughing. I was again very disturbed as to why he should laugh at this. He said, it’s like a person who takes a bucket to a well, the bucket has a hole, and the more water you put in the more water flows out. He talked in this way for a little while. We were there for about one hour. When we came home I swore to myself that I’d never go again, but I couldn’t keep away and when I heard he was giving some public talks I went to hear him again. I couldn’t understand a word of what he said, but went again. Then Sanjeeva Rao came and said to me that Krishnaji wanted me to come to his smaller talks. I started going and after that there was no turning back.

E B: What was said at that time that was decisive in your thinking ?

PJ: Right from the beginning he had very small group discussions in India, where twelve, fifteen people used to gather round him. In those days he used to sit every morning and evening and people would walk in, sit round him, and ask him questions. There was a tremendous openness, and a tremendous compassion which flowed from him.
It deeply moved me. I remember he used to speak to individuals, relentlessly challenge them, question them, till listening to him, there arrived a point when one could see. This instant of 'seeing', which itself is impossible to describe, transforms the whole nature of the self. It happened to me and I think that instant of seeing, listening was for me the most significant thing which took place, I actually saw myself as I was in that instant.

EB That must have been an overwhelming experience, and that was what you felt you could not turn back from?

P J : Yes, and from there the teaching started unfolding. He was quiet.. .there was this tremendous outpouring of energy. He gave a lot of time, he met people in groups mornings and evenings, had small and large discussions, gave public talks, and a number of private interviews. Krishnaji is totally different in each of these areas, and when he used to give private interviews it was as if he literally became a mirror which he held up to you. The individual Krishnaji was not, it was just a m rror in which the very presence of Krishnaji made you look at yourself for what you were. He refused to allow you to move away from the seeing of what you were. In the discussions, one of the most interesting things for me, was to see this man start at the same level as all the people who sit around him. As he questions, he questions himself as much as another. He’s prepared to withdraw and look at what he says. I think another very vital clement was the quality of 'listening' which was manifest in Krishnaji. One was not used to that type of listening. I don’t think it exists in the world. A 'listening', in which there is no movement of the self. A listening which takes in the totality. You felt it. It is something that is tangible.

EB: During those years were you able to see him in another context, other than as a teacher, in a more informal way?

PJ : Yes. He used to go for drives with us. He often came for dinner at our house. Two or three things I remember very vividly. It s difficult to say that Krishnaji has 'personal' relationships. Each individual feels a sense of uniqueness in his or her relationship to Krishnaji. He responds to each individual by supplying that which each individual lacks. He laughed a lot and my mother, who was a very good cook, used to specially cook for him . He enjoyed good food. He enjoyed excellence, whether it was the way a house was arranged, or the way a meal was prepared or served. He would participate in situations in a very human way.

EB You mentioned his relationships, and said that there is a line or perhaps something where people are not capable of being in total relationship with him .

P J : No, I say that when he is the Teacher, sitting on the platform, gjving his talks, you cannot imagine yourself having a relationship to him because there is a 'totality' ; he is an empty vessel, and yet there is fullness in him. There is no personal element in him at all. When he gives an interview, even though you feel the warmth and compassion, gentleness, and love of the man, there is nothing 'personal'. When you meet him at a dinner table , or you drive with him he would tell and listen to jokes, ask all about India, all about our children, our families and our problems. He was also concerned about the position of women in India. You could see this concern reflected in many of the talks he gave.

EB: Would you say that his understanding of the position ol women in India was allied to an understanding ol the extreme poverty there?

P J : No, it had nothing to do with the poverty of India. It was the social position and the economic position which the Indian woman had at the time, where she was dependent on the husband. Inheritance laws had not made her a sharer in the inheritance of the father. Krishnaji’s talks were full of sections where he expressed his distress at the plight of women in India.

EB: You mentioned that he likened social work to "carrying a bucket with a hole". Does he still view it in that light? Is there no other action worthy of complete attention in the social sphere?

PI : He used to often tell me, “ Why are you wasting your time, Pupul?" Yet he was greatly interested in the weaver and crafts, I was concerned with. It was very strange, after I gave it all up, which was last year, he said, “ You know, you have created this over the years, are you going to abandon it?” I said, “ Why do you ask? It ’s over now.” He said, “But are you going to abandon it?” I think, to him , the creative moment is very important. Out of that creative moment things happen

EB: Would you say that Krishnamurti has had close friendships in his life?

PI : Yes. I would say so. He in fact said a very strange thing to me very soon after I met him. He said, “ People usually adore me, treat me like their divinity, or they hate me. To be a friend is difficult.”

EB: Krishnaji has shown a great interest in a variety of things over his lifetime, in automobiles, in clothes, would those be areas where he might be more playful?

P J : He would be playful. There’s a side of him which relaxes, laughs, is human. Sometimes an individual who doesn’t kow Krishnaji misunderstand his capacity to relax. l don’t think that side of Krishnaji is as spontaneous as it was. He has become much graver.

E B : You said previously that you and your sister were with K
at Ootacamund in 1948. Could you tell us about that ?

PJ : Well, I had known Krishnaji for just five months. I was beginning to know him but, he was still very much the 'unknown stranger', if I may put it. He asked us to come to Ooty. We had no intention of going to Ooty

EB: Could you tell us first where Ooty is?

PJ : Ootacamund, or Ooty, is a hill-station in the south, in the Nilgeris at a height of about eight thousand feet. It is very heavily wooded . It has great avenues and forests of pines and trees, meadows green. Krishnaji agreed to stay with a friend there for six weeks or so.
I suddenly got a letter from him asking my sister Nandini and me to go to Ooty. We went. Nandini had many domestic problems, a whole family, but we went. After about a fortnight he suddenly asked us if we would mind staying on in the evening. He asked us to come to his room. We went to his room. He said, “Whatever happens, don’t be afraid. Under no circumstances be afraid. If I faint and my mouth remains open, close my mouth. Just sit at a distance of about four feet from me. Just keep on watching me.”

EB: Just you and your sister were present?

PJ : Yes, just the two of us. He first started complaining of tremendous pain in his tooth. We thought he had a toothache but, he said “No no, you don’t understand. No no, sit quietly.” So we sat. Then he complained of a tremendous pain in his head and in his spine. There was a stream of poetic language that came from him. He used to keep on moaning and then this stream of marvelous language would flow

EB: Was that language part of his teaching?

P J : He used to talk of nature and leaves and stones, and then he would sav. “They’re having a great time with me. Do you know what they’re doing? They’re completely emptying my mind.”
I’ve got it written out, I don’t remember the exact words today. He implied there were some 'forces' that were working inside his brain, cleaning up the brain, making it totally empty so that it could receive. This used to go on for hours, it went on for sometimes four hours, five hours, sometimes six hours.

EB: Over a period of successive nights?

P J : Fifteen or sixteen nights at a stretch. There was a tremendous sense of sacredness in the whole place. We were quite new to it, but we couldn' t help feeling this tremendous sense of being in a temple. Not an ordinary temple, but in a great Presence. There was another very strange thing. He kept on shouting his own name. “Krishna has gone away, he’s left me. Oh no, no, he’s told me not to call him. I mustn't call him, he’ll be very angry. I mustn’t call him.” Then one day he said, They' re back, don’t you see them? Washed by raindrops, spotless. After this went on for some time he would faint. Then he would come to and he would be completely Krishnaji again for a little while. Then again he would start this and the three things were the tremendous pain, the tremendous sense of 'presence' in the room and the great flow of language.

EB When he spoke in that way was he speaking in his own voice?

PJ : When he spoke about nature it was his own voice, but when he used to call out for Krishna it was a different voice. It was a voice which was an empty voice. Totally empty as if it were... how shall I put it? It was an 'empty bubble' who was calling him. There used to be times when the body would suddenly grow. You felt a tremendous fullness.

EB: It appeared physically larger?
PI: When you say that it sounds so stupid that it’s difficult to say, but it was as if suddenly a 'light' would come.

EB Would he be unconscious then?
PI: He would he unconscious then. Once I remember very well, it was the end, he fainted. As he fainted his face was worn with pain, but suddenly it changed. It became totally quiet. Every vestige of pain disappeared. It became a deeply meditative face, with a beauty that cannot be contained in any words. We just kept on watching, we got a strange feeling of wanting to fold our hands. Then, it was as if he came out of his faint. He lay there and then turned to us. He said, “Did you see that face?” We said “yes.” He said, “The Buddha was here."
I don’t know how we remained quite balanced and sane through it, because we didn' t know where we were. Here we were like two babes in the wood, suddenly thrust into a situation which was incomprehensible, completely beyond anything we could ever have conceived. Then one day it didn’t happen.

Another incident I remember very well, in the middle of this period.
We went for a walk. He said he wanted to walk in the woods. It started to rain, so we took the car as we thought he would get wet and we could bring him back. We went along that road but couldn’t find him, so we came back. Within two minutes he entered the room. He was completely dry. We said, “Krishnaji where did vou walk?" He said, “Along that road.” I said, “You were not there, we went on that road and you were not there.” Suddenly he 'switched off', lay down on the bed and started speaking. He said, “They covered me with leaves, I was covered with all the leaves that fall from the trees. I nearly didn’t come back.” To this day I don’t know 'where' he went lor a walk. He said he went for a walk on that road but he was not on that road. Il was a strange, strange experience for us.

EB During this time did he carry on his regular activities?

PI : Oh yes. The moment he came through with this he was perfectly well. He’d grown a beard at that time. He used to go for walks. I remember he used to have a great stride in those days.

EB He still does.

PI : He used to walk down the hill and we used to sometimes watch him come down. I remember a group of women carrying wood on their heads who on seeing this figure walking past removed the loads from their heads, and prostrated themselves on the ground as he walked by.

EB: Did the thought ever occur that a doctor should been called at these times ?

PJ: Right at the beginning, yes. We said: “Shall we call a dentist ?"
Then he said, no, no, just sit. Don't be afraid. Whatever happens don't be afraid.He was very concerned that there should be no fear That incident which took place in Ojai, when he said that inside the house he felt everything dirty. He couldn't bear the touch of anything and therefore he had to go under the tree and take a mat and lie down there. He never spoke of any kind of pollution. If there is one feeling which I came away with it was a sense of sacredness. Great sacredness

EB: Do you think this is something that is happening to this day ?

PJ: Not in that (dramatic) way. The 'presences' which were there in that room, the throbbing presence, happens sometimes.

E B: Those things that he's written about in the Notebook ?

PJ: Yes, it's a continuous thing that takes place.

EB: During that period did he ever talk about the Masters or any such things ?
PJ: Except that one time; “They are here, they are here. Spotless", I think he used that phrase ' like dew drops or raindrops, but he never spoke of the masters. He used to say they are having fun with me. They won't leave me". He felt that his brain was being completely 'emptied'.

EB; In the Notebook he speaks of his brain being 'carved out'.

P J : Well it was that kind of a thing going on, but it was an intense physical thing. What else it was one doesn’t know.

EB What would you say was the relationship between the physical, the pain of that, and the other...

PJ: When the pain became too great he used to faint.

EB: I’m trying to understand the role of that pain.

P J : I really couldn’t tell you. It was not possible to say. I remember asking him, “You speak of Krishna as if he were some outside person? Are there two entities?” He said, “ No, no, Pupul it ’s not quite like that, it’s not quite like that.” He implied that there is only one entity.

EB: Culd you observe any change in his teaching after these experiences?

PJ: I think 1948 was a period when his teaching was, in my view, different from the teachings which took place previously. Whether it was due to this or something else I don't know. I have noticed that whenever has gone through this kind of an experience it has had an effect. It has not had an effect on the teaching but the teachings have shown a new dimension. I would say that as far as teaching I would consider thye main phases to have been 1947-48 , 1960-61 and 1972-73 . These are the three main periods. In 1948, he used to take you literally by the hand into self-knowledge . He would lead you from thought to thought till there was an ending of thought. He would do this, for example, with the thought of 'greed' or with the rising of fear. He would keep on saying “And then what arises?" So that you started observing, “ what is" , as it arose. You also observed, “ what should be” as it arose in thought. So that one was awake in that instant of “ what is."

In 1961 that phase was over. In 1961 he said, "step by step is the process of analysis". He wiped out all that (gradual approach) , and he said, self-knowledge is necessary, it is essential. But he concerned himself with the 'whole' not with the fragment, with the total seeing of a thing. It has become, as I’ve often told Krishnaji, far more 'abstract'. It was most 'personal' in 1948. In 1972 there is no 'personal' relationship in his teaching. It is a teaching which is 'absolute', which has no relationship to the 'personal me'. While in 1948 there was a relationship to the 'personal me'. There has been a deepening and maturing and a widening of the teaching. It has become 'universal'. For the first time now he is talking about a "life of correctness", which is a life which is completely free of self-centered activity. He said that is essential before anything else can be. He never said that in 1948.

EB: So that there has been constant change actually.

P J : I say there is a constant change, there was a time when he told the members of the foundation that “I have nothing to to do with the (K) foundations. I have nothing to do with 'institutions'. Don’t use my name in the institutions or use me in any sense as an 'authority'. It’s not 'my' wishes which are in the picture. I’m only concerned with the individual and awakening self-knowing in the individual. I’m not concerned with anything else.”
He said once, “My real dharma is that.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Mon, 04 Sep 2017 #134
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

And a shorter one with Mrs Sunanda Pathwardhan

EB: Could you talk about the 'physical' dimension of Krishnamurti’s teaching?

S P : Krishnaji shows the importance of the role of the senses in bringing about a quietness of the mind and in awakening a new sensitivity. It is not by suppressing the senses; it’s not by denying or sublimating the senses, but rather by awakening your eyes, your ears, your touch, sense of smell, everything. Generally we use or are aware of only one or two senses at a time, whereas he talks of "all the senses" operating simultaneously. Then there can be a (sensitivity ?) 'ground' of a deep non-verbal state. This awakening of the senses has in it vibrancy and vitality without an (egotistic ?) center.

EB: You said earlier that a Teacher like Krishnamurti only comes along once in a thousand years. Can you explain what you mean by that?

S P : You see, the Buddha belonged to the great "break-away" traditions of India. That was more than 2500 years ago. He repudiated everything traditional, ritual, rites, orthodoxy, etc. Like the Buddha, Krishnaji has broken away from the mainstream of Indian tradition. He was brought up, denying his mother tongue and was taught English and French. In a way he was brought up to speak to the whole of humanity in the English language which is understood in many countries of the world. I think this is a very significant thing so that whatever he says can be understood directly by many persons in many parts of the world.

EB . There are hundreds of gurus and Krishnamurti, in some sense, has functioned as a "guru". In what way was he different?

SP : I think Krishnaji was quite different and unique because he was very emphatic in saying that there is no spiritual authority; that there is no authority whatsoever in spiritual matters. Many people may have looked upon him as a guru; he was known as "the guru who was a non­-guru." He held each one of us to be responsible for ourselves in this journey of inquiry; there is no authority in spiritual life. Therefore, he never gave answers. He said; “ Look at the problem. The problem will reveal itself, you have to inquire, you have to observe what is and in that very observation what is will reveal itself and a transformation can take place. For this to happen, no guru can guide you. If you are suffering, if you are in a state of agitation, no guru can help you. You have to observe it, and that awakens a capacity to be independent and inquire in freedom from the very beginning.”

EB: Did affection have any place in Krishnamurti’s teachings?

S P : I would say, emotion had no place in his teachings. Sentiment had no place in his teachings. The mere response from the intellect too, is limited; it has no basis of affection and sensitivity in relationship between human beings. It is only when we human beings come together in affection that there can be a new quality in our daily living. He certainly has given tremendous importance to affection and love. If we have that, relationships pose no problem.

I am reminded of a conversation with him . A friend of mine told me "You know, in Krishnaji’s teachings there is place only for compassion. There is no place for ordinary human affection, pleasure or fondness. How does one live then?” Later when I met Krishnaji, I talked to him about this. He said, “ Compassion is a very vast thing, it can be quite abstract. Many people cannot understand or comprehend what Compassion is. It is very difficult. But that Compassion can touch a person. It can relate itself to an individual and when that happens you will understand it.” Compassion can remain a concept, but affection one can feel where there is no prejudice, no demands of reciprocity. Then it is possible to have effortless understanding and empathy for each other

EB: Did the 'presence' of the teacher in any way prevent an understanding of what he was talking about?

S P : What does the presence of a person who is a so-called “realized person,” a witness to that supreme intelligence and compassion do? We have descriptions in scriptures, in books, of those states of “otherness,” of transcendence. But when a person actually lives in the presence of such a person, he experiences a different quality because there is a communication in silence of 'that' which is sacred, not just through word, symbol or thought. The living presence of an indivi­dual who is a witness and a holder of that extraordinary sacred dimen­sion and pure energy; has a significance which is beyond all measure.

EB: In what way did Krishnamurti change as he grew older and did that change reflect in the talks?

SP : I think Krishnaji changed over the years a great deal. I first met him in Madras when he came to India in 1947. Of course, personally speaking, I absolutely fell in love with the teachings, with him, and it meant a whole lot of change in the direction of my life. He was a delight to be with; he would walk with you, he would talk with you, such fun it was, being with him. I would say, perhaps the end of the fifties this 'personal' factor gradually started diminishing. Personally, I observed that he became more severe, very serious, and from then onwards, there was very little of the 'personal' in him. I could see that he was deeply concerned with the state of humanity. For fifty years he had taught, spoken and travelled all over the world. Why was not a single person transformed? He was certainly concerned with this problem. Therefore, there was hardly any place for the 'personal' factor.

EB: Do you think that Krishnamurti’s teaching may create the foundation for a new civilization?

SP: I feel so, though I may not be able to substantiate it; it is onlv a 'gut feeling' about this direction. Today, Krishnaji is addressing ( to the total consciousness of ?) humanity, which has already become closer together as a global village. He is addressing humanity as one unit. Therefore, human consciousness is being spoken to, being touched through word and through non-word by his presence, and therefore the whole stream of human consciousness is being affected in depth. This awakening of the collective consciousness of humanity, could be the ground for the release of a new creative process. New energies in perception, in relationships, can be released. One can be related to other human beings w ithout images; a new creative process is set in motion, in dialogue with oneself, in dialogue with nature, in dialogue with people.

EB: Are there aspects of Krishnamurti’s teachings that can only be understood non-verbally?

SP : We all know that the word is very limited and thought is limited. Our relationship to each other is based on mutual pleasure, pain, dependence, insecurity . We have observed all this— and the word is not the thing. Not because Krishnaji has said it, but we have also comprehended it e of the great things which he said was that images in relationship prevent you from being really related to another. It is only when there is sensitivity, a listening, a sharing without wanting anything, that there is real relatedness. One of the grounds of the non-verbal quality is to be sensitive and be related in affection to each other. If human beings can love each other, have affection for each other, perhaps we may find a way out of all the extraordinary chaos in this world.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Mon, 04 Sep 2017 #135
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Evelyn Blau's interview with MARY ZIMBALIST

EB: You became quite close to Krishnamurti. You were doing many tilings for him ; did you detect any difference between the man and his teaching at that time?

MZ: Absolutely none. One of the many extraordinary things about him was that there was never any 'shadow' in Krishnamurti. He really was what you saw, what you sensed, and infinitely more, but nothing was ever in contradiction. I don’t know if many people realized it, I’m sure you do, but he was also a very human person. He loved to laugh, he liked funny jokes, he looked at television and went to the movies. He liked Westerns, as is w ell-know n, and sometimes when the mayhem on the screen had me ducking and closing my eyes, he would say, “Look at those mountains!” meaning the scenery of Monument Valley. While people were being slaughtered in the foreground, he was lost in the desert scenery. At some time he had asked me things about movies and I must have told him that it wasn’t really blood on the screen, so when I would quail he would reassure me by saying, “It’s all right, it’s just tomato juice.” He had this very endearing and almost childlike quality about many thnigs and yet there was also this limitless extraordinary man

E B : What were his other in terests? Was he interested in art, in literature , politics , nature ?

MZ: He was keenly sensitive to the beauty of language. Apart from his well-known enjoyment of detective stories— 'thrillers', he called them — and which he read for relaxation, he read mostly poetry and used to read the Old Testament, not for religious reasons but for the language. In art he always spoke of m arvelous architecture— the Acropolis, the Gothic cathedrals, and he found something almost sacred in the beauty of the Winged Victory and the great Maheshamurti statue at Elephanta. As to politics, he followed the news, often on television, and in the weekly magazines. Also he would talk to people, question them, he was well-informed, more than you might think.

EB: Would you say that he fitted in any particular category, politically speaking? Would it be liberal or more conservative? Did he express those kinds of views?

MZ He wasn’t sophisticated in matters of politics, hut he didn’t tolerate the pettiness of divisions of people, the fighting between countries, political groups, divisive beliefs, he would be most dismissive or impatient of such things in general conversation, but he was always enquiring.
He liked to listen to music in the morning while he had breakfast.
After giving him his tray I used to ask what he would like to hear and almost invariably he would reply, “ You choose.” So I tried to guess what he would enjoy. Most of all he loved Beethoven. Then Mozart, Bach, Haydn, and sometimes he would take a fancy to a particular performer. I think he liked Richter which I played often, and the great Italian pianist, Michelangeli. I once asked him which of those two he preferred; he thought for a moment and said, “One is like snow and one is like sunlight”

EB: Most people tend to view Krishnamurti as more, I won’t say intellectual, but the fact that he liked Beethoven was certainly more romantic.

MZ: Beethoven was his favorite. But what moved him deeply was chanting— the Sanskrit chants in which he joined most wonderfully and also Gregorian

E B It is also known he had a special affinity to nature, that it was beyond just our envitonmental concerns— a really deep link to nature.

MZ: He reacted more to nature than to visual art. He felt looking at a tree or a mountain was more moving than a Leonardo painting. He didn’t dismiss it but he said the beauty of nature, of a tree, is beyond anything that man can create.

EB: Which puts artists in their place, doesn’t it? A chastening experience. He had, and this is also well-known, a rather 'mechanical' aptitude which is somewhat at variance with the other aspects of his life.

MZ: He used to say he had once taken a car apart when he was quite young, and then put it together again. And he took great care of his watch, checking it carefully in Geneva so that it was correct to the second. He liked that. Once I asked him what he would do in India if he were not what he was? How would he earn a living? He said, “Oh, beg around.”

E B : It’s rather interesting to think what would have happened to Krishnamurti had he not had a European English education. He might have been “begging around” in India.

MZ He said that he would probably be dead because he was a child his brother had TB and we know K rishnamurti had scars on his lungs. His must have been an arrested case and only because his health was looked at very carefully did he think he was alive.

E B: Now another question about his ( educational) interests ; K was not a good student when he was a young man. How did that translate into his innterest in education for children and for adults with the founding of the schools and centers?

MZ; As you know, a central part of his teaching is (understanding the right) the role of knowledge- both the good of knowledge and the limitation of knowledge. We need knowledge even to speak, but the mind mustn’t be confined by knowledge, it must have the ability to go further. He was endlessly explaining the limitation of thought, which is so fundamental to his teachings. He used to feel that to help young people who are more pliable, less conditioned , to understand the role of knowledge was very im portant. I remember one of the first summers in Gstaad he used to lunch with some friends who had a photograph of him as a child with his little brother, Nitya. He stared at it a long time as though it were of someone else and said he had no memory of it at all, but when I asked him what was going through his mind when he looked at it, he said, “If we could understand why that boy was not conditoned , why in spite of all the adulation and the fuss that went on around him , it left no mark on him , perhaps we could help other children to be less conditioned.” I think that was why he wanted to bring about a different kind of education in which there is an understanding of the function of thinking, and also understanding the potential of the brain - not simply to reflect what it had been taught or what it had already experienced. That, I think was the reason behind his creating schools. After starting the Brockwood Park School in England, he thought of beginning with younger children, in the Oak Grove School in Ojai, to see if they would be less conditioned. I'm afraid that one came to feel, eventually, that ( most of the ) children are conditioned practically from the crib, that was what he was trying to see— if you could free children from the grip of conditioning.

E B Do you think that he ever felt that the schools were a success? Did they help the children?

MZ: I think what he wanted in all this was something unlimited, so he never would say, “This is good,” he would point out what was wrong and go into how to make it right Approbation was not given as such, but it didn’t mean he was carping. He would see an insufficiency or where there was need for something and try to open that door, but there was never a moment when he said , “That’s a good job." I don’t think he ever thought in those terms. Excellence was, 1 think, the quality he looked for and it wasn’t defined.

EB: Was he disappointed if things didn’t live up to expectations?

MZ. Oh, he would point it out in no uncertain terms. When things went wrong he would really chastise people, not in a personal, hurtful way, but saying, “Look what you’re doing.”

EB: Krishnamurti's language changed greatly over the years, he seemed to speak with increasing clarity and a 'scalpel-touch' somehow to words.

M/ Yes, he was precise about his choice of words. Often before talks he would ask me to look up dictionary meanings, most often for the derivation of the word, He didn’t prepare the talks the wav most people would, but he often had some direction in mind.

EB: He didn’t make notes?

MZ: Never in my time. In fact, many times in the car driving to the talks, he said, “What am I going to talk about?” I never answered, but almost invariably a great and extraordinary talk would take place.

EB: How did you weigh that in the balance of your own early experience of hearing him talk and being overwhelmed by the words that would come out, against someone who asked “What shall I talk about?.”

MZ: It would 'come'. He didn’t like to listen to his own tapes. When it was over, it was finished. He wanted to come to things afresh and when he started taking written questions he didn’t want to see them ahead of time. People dropped them in boxes and he would have me collect them and I would sort them by subject. Questions about fear—always the most numerous— and nationalism, jealousy, greed, gurus, all these different topics and I typed them onto the paper he took with him. He didn’t plan what he would say, but he would choose a question, read it out to the audience, explore it as if he were looking through a celestial microscope, and this marvelous reflection would come out in his language.

EB : When you were driving him to a talk did he ever resist talking, did he ever say “I’m so tired” or “I really don’t want to do this today?”

MZ: No. Talking w as his job, his responsibility, and even when he was ill he would, if he could, fulfill that. I don’t think many people realize how very hard he worked. For over seventy years his life was spent giving talks, writing, seeing people privately, holding discussions with teachers, students, very erudite people, and the continual traveling. It was gruelling constant work. Only when he was physically unable to do so did it let up. And even then there were times when he was seriously ill for two days before the talks, but on the day of the talk he was astonishingly able to speak. On such days he would be ready and erything would be exact. He would be up early, the car would be in front before the time to leave. If I were driving, when I heard him coming I would have the engine started, the door open and in Saanen, for instance, the tent was reached exactly at the moment for him to walk in and climb onto the platform. He didn’t want to pause or, heaven forbid, be late!

EB: Mary, you’ve heard it said that some 'being' was speaking through Krishnamurti; this was particularly prevalent in the early days. Did you ever have the sense of some 'entity' speaking through Krishnamurti?

MZ: No, I have never had such notions. To me that is nonsense because Krishnamurti could speak at any moment as he spoke on the platform. If at the lunch table conversation became serious, he would talk with the same depth and perception. In interviews, private or public he spoke that way. This was the man himself, not some 'spirit' talking through him. But often on the platform one could feel in him a tremendous energy and it seemed that it was out of that 'energy' and 'ability' to go to the heart of things that he spoke. This may be speculation, but one felt it intensely. I felt it. It was out of his intelligence, his own perception.

EB: And yet he seemed to have a connection with what he described as “ the Other,” what was the line if any, between the 'other' and his speaking, or for that matter, his life?

MZ: Me never spoke of a 'line', but he spoke very often about 'otherness', the 'immeasurable'— all the marvelous words he used about it— and this, that he called 'meditation' would come to him, usually in the night.

EB: Would he be sleeping and then wake up?

MZ: I don’t know, because he would only talk a little about it, but he would often say, “ I had an extraordinary meditation last night,” and some­times when alone with him or on a walk— particularly on a walk when he liked to be silent and look at nature— one felt he was very 'far away'. Something was happening or was 'present'. It was almost palpable at times.

EB: You yourself would have a sense of the 'otherness'?
MZ: I would feel some 'invisible force'.

EB: It’s rather like when you listen to the radio you are able to tune in and get a concert or the news or whatever. Apparently, K was able to 'tune in' to this energy which surrounds all of us.

MZ: In a way. Again this may be just my imagination, but it is as though there is 'something' that is nameless but can be called 'intelligence' or 'truth' or 'beauty'— any of those things— but most of us are 'blind' and do not sense it.

EB: Was it something that he could do deliberately?

MZ: He said meditation cannot be done deliberately, 'it' has to come to you.

EB: Did he describe his sense of meditation? Of course he has written and spoken about it in his talks, but did he talk with you about meditation?

MZ: He talked about being very quiet and not letting thought have its way in your mind. Not letting all the 'train of association' that generally streams through our heads, not to stop it by will, but not to pursue it. It goes by and you watch it and you let it pass. You 'learn' from it. So when we talked about these things it would often be in terms of being quiet, of just watching the mind, not doing anything about it, not pushing or stopping it. He had many descriptions of meditation, they are in almost all his writings. An essential element was a quiet mind. He could have that quiet, even once on a flght to somewhere this 'meditative state' came to him.

EB: But as he described in his writings, never something that he deliberately sat quietly to do.

MZ: You cannot induce it, he said. When he was so ill at the end, still that 'extraordinary thing' continued to come to him through all the pain and suffering. He said, “Something else controls what will happen to me. When the body can no longer do the things necessary to speak, the life will end.” And that is what happened.

EB: Does that imply there is 'something else'?

MZ: 'Something else'. Not that he was just an instrument of That, but the expression of that 'Other' was his task; from that he spoke, and when physically he could no longer talk his life would end.

EB: He felt that the reason for his life was to be able to give these teachings?
MZ: Yes, that was his life. A personal life existed but that 'Other' was the Reality.

EB: His last days must have been quite overwhelming for you.

MZ: He had spoken of his death for some time. He knew he was dying, he wanted to do his job to the end, and he did. He was entirely rational, his mind was not touched by the illness, the pain or the medication, and as his body grew weaker, his way of talking became infinitely painful to hear because his voice was so weak, but he was Krishnamurti to the very end in the fullest sense of all he ever was.

EB: You have described Krishnamurti as a fountain giving forth his teaching; what was the 'wellspring', where did it come from?

MZ: I cannot say. All I could say would be my imagining, and that has no value. I can try to put it into words, but it is only my speculation. It is as though there are ''abstract realities''— intelligence, beauty, love— qualities that he spoke of. They are not the product of the human mind. One could use the word 'God' too as long as it is not an imagined God in one’s own image. Different words can be used but they are aspects of one infinite life force. I think this was Reality for Krishnamurti, and if you want, a well-spring.

E B : It has been suggested that Krishnamurti might represent an evolutionary step in humanity, a 'prototype' of something new. Is that a possibility?

MZ: I don’t know about a 'prototype', but to me his life was proof that a human being is capable of extraordinary intelligence and perception, and a way of living that is very different from most human life. It was 'real' in him, not something I imagined. Doubtless some will say I am projecting onto him some ideal. But for me it was incontrovertibly evident that this man was what he was talking about and he lived that way. In all the years I was with him I never saw anything that denied that or was inconsistent with a life lived that way. There were no contradictions. At many, many times there was undeniably a sense of something I can only call 'sacred'.

EB: Mary, obviously Krishnamurti has had a tremendous impact on your life; how would you describe that impact?

MZ: I don’t know how to characterize it. I’m not being trivial when I say that I don’t know why I was lucky enough to be able to be with him as I was. If there was 'something' that was looking out for him in life, people who came along, I suppose, were instruments of 'that'. I don' t mean that I was sent from heaven to do something for him , I simply was 'at hand' and it came about, and the good of it was overwhelming for me, but I can ’t measure or describe it. I was privileged, I was blessed beyond any words to be able to be around him and in small ways be just useful in a human sense, doing things that needed to be done.

E B: What would you say was K’s impact on the world?

MZ: I feel that his impact on the world is almost in a very seed-like state. I feel that perhaps in years to come, in one hundred years, history will look back and see this as an extraordinary time when Krishnamurti was alive on this earth . If you look back at human history, how many people knew the Buddha was there at the time, or for many centuries afterward, but what was said and spoken has grown and entered the lives of millions and millions two thousand years later. I feel that K is of that order and we must do what we can to make his teaching known because it is and will be something vast for humanity.

I feel our responsibility now is to keep the accurate record of what he said and taught. For those of us who knew him that is our most essential responsibility: to preserve and protect the authenticity of his teaching so that it is there for centuries, as he gave it, uninterpreted by others. But the another even deeper responsibility for those who have known and listened to him: The ultimate one is to reflect his teachings in our lives, in our relations to others, to whatever life brings. It is to live the reality, not just the words of his teaching.

Sign in to recommend  This post has been recommended by 1 reader
Back to Top
Mon, 04 Dec 2017 #136
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Lost & found pages from S. Weeraperuma's memoirs of his personal dialogues with K

Appreciation of Devotional Music

SW: Krishnaji, I much enjoyed the concert last night. I have come to India to listen to such melodious music. It was such a treat.

K : Yes. It was a marvellous performance.

SW: What puzzles me is why you participated in the chanting of Bhajans. I was observing you very closely. You were in the front row and chanting Vedic hymns! I am not against Vedic hymns for I love them very much myself. But may I ask why you have often expressed strong dis- approval of any kind of worship? You condemn
worship but yesterday you were joining others in worship!

K: One can listen to an enchanting Bhajan and still not be influenced by its ideas. It is possible to listen to a Sloka or Bhajan and experience the magical effects of the sounds on the mind and totally ignore all the myths, legends, beliefs and concepts that are so much part of the Indian classical tradition. Have you tried enjoying a Meera Bhajan without believing in any deity?

SW: I think a Bhajan becomes more meaningful when one is aware that it is addressed to a particular deity. A Bhajan is a devotional outpouring of the heart

K : Oh, no! I wouldn't call that devotion. Real de- votion is motiveless. It is a state of not asking anything. But when you stand before an altar and offer Puja and then ask favours in return, I wonder whether you have ever listened to child crying. Have you?

SW The noise of children screaming and crying gets on my nerves! I want to run away!

K: If you have really listened to a child crying
with all your heart and mind, as I have done, not listening partially but listening fully with undivided attention, then you will also feel like crying. You will want to hold the hand of the child and join him or her in the crying. Unless you have a pure heart you will not be capable of doing that. I am describing the state of true devotion— not the nonsensical devotion of a stupid mind that offers flowers and incense to an image made by the hand or the mind.

SW : Would you call that pure bhakti ?

K: The name is not important. You may give it any name you like but do you have that quality of feeling?

SW: I often go to concerts but the difficulty is that after listening to the first few bars of a song my mind starts wandering.

K: Then wander with your mind and find out why
your attention is shifting from one thing to another.

SW : What you are suggesting sounds excellent but I have tried it out in practice and often I am unsuccessful.

K Keep on trying and never give up.

SW : Somewhere in your writings you have stated that music is to be found not in the notes but in the interval between the notes. I have failed to grasp the full significance of your statement.

K : Notes in themselves are quite meaningless, aren't they? Similarly, when you read a book, the words in themselves have no meaning at all. Notes and words are meaningless sounds. It is in the interval between words, in the state of silence between words, that you capture the meaning of what the writer is trying to convey. So don't get lost in the technical side of music. To appreciate a piece of music it is not absolutely essential to have the ability to read it. Understanding comes only when the mind is silent. And don't regard music as an escape or as a drug that may induce silence. That silence comes naturally, effortlessly, when you understand. Music is born in that silence. That silence is the source of all creation. That primordial silence has no beginning and no end. That silence, the eternal, is beyond the reach of the intellect.

This post was last updated by John Raica Mon, 04 Dec 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Tue, 05 Dec 2017 #137
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

( continuing the K-SW interviews -cca 1980)

Remain Anonymous All Your Life

SW: Krishnaji, I have just read an interesting item of news in today's evening paper. A certain member of the Colombo Municipal Council will be introducing a motion concerning you at the next meeting of the Council. His motion states that you should be accorded a civic reception by the Municipal Council of the city of Colombo

K: What exactly takes place at a civic reception?

SW: Civic receptions are accorded only to distinguished individuals by the mayor and prominent citizens.

K: Good Lord! I am a poor Mr. Nobody whose individuality has been extinguished! Not distinguished but extinguished! (loud laughter).
SW: At the reception probably the Prime Minister
will welcome you and speeches will be made in honour of you. You will be presented with a scroll signed by eminent persons from Sri Lanka.

K: What will the scroll contain?

SW:Surely they will refer to your various achievements and your spirituality.

K: I don't want a certificate from anybody!

SW: Krishnaji, I think it will be a great pity if you turn down such an invitation. What an opportunity to make a fine speech! At least a few of the politicians who listen to you may become permanently interested in your teachings. Why should you deprive them of the benefit of your message?

K: If those politicians are seriously interested in what I have to say, what prevents them from attending my public talks? Sir, you are so naive that you fail to see through the behaviour of politicians ? Can't you see that they are all polit- ically motivated? I refuse to be used by politi- cians. I avoid them.

SW: You say that you avoid politicians but you associate with Mrs. Indira Gandhi!

K: That's different! Indira is an old friend. Her father Pundit Nehru used to visit Amma ( Annie Besant) and me when we were in Benares.

SW: Please reconsider what I have suggested.

K: I am sorry. Please telephone this member of the Municipal Council and ask him to withdraw his motion from the agenda. Will you please telephone him immediately?

SW : Yes, I will. But if they insist on having a ceremony in honour of you, I don't think you can stop them from doing it.

K : Let them do what they like but I will not be there!

SW:I will be telephoning soon.

K: Whatever you may do in life or wherever you may happen to live, always avoid publicity. Do not crave to be in the limelight. The other day I was telling some people that the desire to see your photograph published in the newspapers is the greatest vulgarity. Shun the vulgar crowds and lead a righteous life that is unbeknown to your friends, relatives and associates. Like a mighty tree that is hidden deep in the forest, remain anonymous all your life.

SW: Why are you against politicians? Surely some of them are genuinely desirous of helping society.

K: Anyone who is driven by ambition and the lust for power simply cannot be 'good'. They are responsible for so much mischief in the world. In India people make a great fuss over their lead- ing politicians. Thousands stand in the burning sun for hours just to see an important politician as though he were some kind of strange animal! Why give them such importance when you know that they aspire after political leadership only because they want to feather their own nests? Politicians reek of corruption. So a good person has to keep away from politicians and all their activities. If you wish to help the poor and improve social conditions, then the first step is to be a good person yourself. That very goodness will have a beneficial impact on society.

Peace in a Strife-torn Country

K: I wonder why they call this island a Buddhist country. Can a territory have a religion or a race ?

SW: One has to realize that the vast majority of inhabitants of Sri Lanka are Buddhists. They
may not strictly adhere to the Buddha's teachings but they regard themselves as Buddhists.

K: You mean they are Buddhists in name only?

SW: That is unfortunately so.

K: What was there before the introduction of Buddhism ?

SW: I do not know the answer to that question. According to certain historians, there prevailed
here a kind of animism. It was believed that all objects, even inanimate objects, were endowed
with souls. So the people worshipped the spirits that were supposed to dwell in trees and
animals and lots of other objects.

K : Man has always been a worshipper. The desire to worship can be traced back to man's savage
past and extends right up to the present day when he is still a worshipper. Man worships
today a highly refined concept of God; it is a very sophisticated belief. This shows that the
mind of man has always been, and still remains, haunted by fear and anxiety. It is very simple.
The urge to worship arises only because of the existence of fear. If you can remove fear from his
psyche, man will immediately cease being a 'worshipper'.

SW: I think it is generally agreed that Buddhism was introduced to Sri Lanka in the year 246 B.C. The great Buddhist Emperor Asoka persuaded his own son, the monk Mahinda, to visit Sri Lanka and convert this land to Buddhism.According to tradition, this country was thrice
visited by the Buddha himself.

K : You mean to say that he travelled here all the way from Benares some 2,500 years ago? Do you believe that?

SW: He is supposed to have travelled here by 'levitation'.

K : You mean to say that he rose and floated in the air? Ah, I know. The Buddha must have taken an Air India flight to Colombo! (laughter).

SW: I know that your remark was meant jokingly. But every year thousands of Buddhist pilgrims go to those places in Sri Lanka which are believed to have been touched by the feet of the Buddha. Rightly or wrongly the Buddhists of Sri Lanka feel that they are the rightful custodians of the Buddha's doctrines. When Buddhism virtually died out in the land of its birth, thanks to Hindu orthodoxy, these teachings were protected in Sri Lanka. Throughout the
centuries various Sinhalese kings took measures to ensure the survival of Buddhism. That is why the Sinhalese proudly regard themselves as the defenders of Buddhism.

K : So the people of this country are the self appointed custodians of Buddhism! Sir, don't you see the absurdity of what you are saying?

SW: I do not personally believe in this theory that the Sinhalese are destined to be the protectors of Buddhism. I am merely reporting to you the existence of this belief.

K : If what the Buddha preached was the Truth,then that Truth can look after itself. That Truth does not belong to any person or nation. That Truth is neither yours nor mine. Truth is always there, regardless of whether a Buddha arises in the world to give utterance to it. That
Truth, which is Nameless and indestructible, cannot be stolen nor destroyed.

SW: How true! I have conveyed all these facts to you because it is necessary to understand the myths that sustain Sinhalese nationalism.

K : Why, Sir, the Sinhalese are not the only people who have various beliefs to fortify their identity

SW: The Jews, for instance, are wedded to the idea that they are the chosen people. And the Bible supports their racism.

K : The Bible can be quoted to prove all kinds of contradictory beliefs and ideas. So let us leave
aside the Bible and all these other so-called 'sacred' literature. When you are very clear in your mind you will not want to rely on any 'sacred' text.

SW: Fortunately, all the teachings attributed to the Buddha have been recorded for the benefit of posterity. His discourses have been written down in Pali, Sanskrit and other languages.

K: No language, however ancient or noble, can record the Truth. The Truth, which is living and moving from moment to moment, cannot be reduced to writing. My friend Aldous Huxley was fond of quoting a wise saying that 'the Buddha never preached the Truth because the Buddha was only too well aware of the fact that Truth is inexpressible'. Truth is something that has to be experienced personally from moment to moment. It is a dynamic movement, understand?
Only something that is dead can be ( accurately?) recorded in books.

SW: It is all very well for you to criticize books, but without them could I ever have known about the Buddha's life and his lofty ideas?

K : The Buddha never taught any 'ideas'. Enlightened beings are not concerned with ideas. Ideas are the toys of intellectuals and priests. Ideas condition your mind. The person who is really serious will regard ideas as useless things. A mind that is teeming with ideas has no space within itself and hence it is incapable of clarity, intelligence, light.

SW: Please excuse me for having used the wrong phrase. I should have said 'lofty insights' of the Buddha instead of 'lofty ideas'.

K : Do you think that the Buddha's insights have made this country any different from the rest of the world? Are the people of Sri Lanka highly intelligent? Are they aware of the great beauty of this land? This country is extraordinarily beautiful. Do the people observe the marvellous wind-driven white clouds, the silhouette of the tall coconut palms against the deep blue sky or the colourful birds and flowers? Have you looked out of the window and noticed that gigantic tamarind tree?

SW: I do not believe that the people of Sri Lanka are fundamentally different from the rest of humanity. You will be shocked to know that the crime rate here is pretty high. The vast majority of Buddhists unashamedly eat meat and fish.

K : And they call themselves Buddhists!

SW: This country is also cursed with racial conflict between the Sinhalese and the Tamils. The Tamils, who are a minority of eighteen percent of the population, want to establish their own separate state because they complain that they are discriminated against by the majority
Sinhalese. During the last few years thousands of persons have lost their lives because of racial violence.

K : What is the root of this violence?

SW: So far as Sri Lanka is concerned, I think the violence is caused by mutual fear. The minority Tamils fear the majority Sinhalese and the Sinhalese also fear the Tamils because over the centuries Sri Lanka was frequently invaded by Tamilian princes and armies. Krishnaji, what is your solution to this problem?

K: The Sinhalese and the Tamils have lived together in this lovely island for nearly two thousand years. Now, why did one group of people fail to merge into the other? Both groups are responsible for failing to combine into an integrated whole. When a Sinhalese person identifies himself with the Sinhaleserace, he feels, does he not, that he is somehow different from his Tamilian neighbour? So is it possible to drop the labels 'Sinhalese' and 'Tamil'? Why do we give ourselves stupid labels? These labels generate hatred. Sir, what are you? You are only a bundle of thoughts, memories, desires, fears, hurts and a thousand conditioning influences. Why give this bundle
a label? Why give it a name? And is the bundle that you carry with you in your mind any different from the 'bundle of memories' carried by someone who is supposed to belong to another race? Are you any different from the rest of mankind? Every human being is caught up in a common
psychological stream. If you can somehow make the people realize this obvious truth then perhaps there will be peace in this strife-torn county.

SW: Don't you also think that violence is caused because our hearts are devoid of compassion?

K : That is true but compassion cannot be cultivated. Compassion cannot be practised. You cannot practise brotherhood. That is why all the religions of the world have failed to change the (inner) nature of man. The quality of compassion comes suddenly, unexpectedly, when you have cleared up the psychological mess within yourself.

SW: Compassion is a very important aspect of the Buddha's teachings

K : That may be so but do not confine compassion to Buddhism or any other teaching. Sir, as I see it, a true Buddhist is someone who is always kind, generous, loving, forgiving and considerate towards all living beings. A true Buddhist would nnot want to hurt any living creature. Now, is it not possible to have all these virtues without calling yourself 'Buddhist'? For the moment you identify yourself with any group or sect you inevitably create conflict and division, don't you?

SW: Why do I want to 'identify' myself with something else?

K: ( Because?) if you strip yourself of all your thoughts, what is left? You are absolutely nothing. As you find this (inner sense of?) nothingness so frightening, you like to cover it up by wanting to identify yourself with a guru, religion, sect, race or country. From the very earliest
times man has been 'tribal' in his outlook because he wanted to identify himself with a group or a cause. He sought to stengthen his non-existent (or illusory?) sense of 'I' through a process of ( subliminal 'psychological' ?) identification.

Only Peace Within will Ensure Peace Without

SW: Decades ago you said "The world problem is the individual problem and the individual problem is the world problem." Nowadays one of your favourite sayings is "You are the world and the world is you." There is no fundamental difference between these two sayings of yours. Do you still maintain that social welfare work will not create a better society?

K: I am not opposed to improving the living standards of people. We obviously need better houses, improved sanitation, a cleaner environment and right nutrition. Any decent government must provide these essentials.

SW: Therefore I take it that you are not opposed to material progress.

K : Why should I be opposed to technological advancement? We are in the age of the jet aircraft and who wants to go back to the days of the bullock cart?

SW: The rate of our material progress is so fast that before long poverty may completely disappear(...or not ?) . We will live longer. As we increase our material prosperity, do you think that man will gradually shed his anti-social traits? Every person will have all the basic necessities of life with the result that he may not feel the need to steal from those who are well-off. Rich coun-
tries may not want to conquer and colonize the poor ones. There will be fewer wars...

K: You are a dreamer!

SW: Is it not a fact that you lead a more comfortable life than your grandparents ever did? Unlike yourself, your ancestors were not 'globetrotters'.

K: I do not particularly enjoy travelling in aeroplanes. I tolerate it only because it is the fastest means of travel between countries.

SW: Can you deny the fact that we have improved tremendously?

K: It depends on what you mean by that word "improve". Material goods we certainly have in abundance but psychologically we have stagnated.

SW: Would you please care to elaborate on that statement?

K: Primitive man pelted his enemies with rocks and stones. Thousands of years later, modern man fights his enemies with guns and grenades and what have you. Primitive man was (inwardly speaking, as?) violent and aggressive as we are. Do you call that 'progress' ?

SW: What you are complaining about is a favourite theme of moralists and theologians who keep on telling us that we are still in our spiritual childhood.

K: Not 'childhood' but infancy!

SW: Let me examine the statement that "You are the world and the world is you". Are you implying that I am personally responsible for the fighting that is going on in the Middle East between the Jews and the Arabs? I have done nothing to cause or even aggravate the looting,
shooting and fighting which are daily occurrences in those parts of the world. In that sense it does not seem right to state that "I am the world and the world is me".

K: May I ask you a 'personal' question?

SW: Yes. You are free to ask me any question.

K: Have you cleansed your mind and heart of violence?

SW: I do not regard myself as being a violent person. But I do lose my temper sometimes in trying situations.

K: Anger is a form of violence. Do you agree?

SW: It is a 'mild' form of violence.

K: It may be mild at the beginning but it leads to acts of violence later.

SW : Perhaps I am 'slightly' violent...

K: That is a ridiculous thing to say! You are either violent or your mind is devoid of violence. The
distinction is very clear-cut. You cannot be both violent and devoid of violence at the same time. Please listen carefully to what I am saying. Either you are an honest man or a dishonest man. You can never say "I am slightly dishonest"! If you are "slightly dishonest" it only means that you have a dishonest mind. Sir, it is like 'the curate's egg': if the egg is fresh it can be eaten
but if it is even slightly rotten then you have to discard it. Sir, do you have the honesty to admit
that you are a violent person?

SW : Yes, I am violent. So... what?

K: Do you realize that your violence is qualitatively not different from the violence that is raging through the Middle East?

SW: Yes, 'qualitatively' it is the same violence but not quantitatively.

K: The degree of violence is unimportant. The extent of violence does not alter the fact that you are already ( mildly ?) suffering from the 'fever of violence'. Sir, an invisible microscopic virus can cause a vast epidemic that kills millions. Similarly, the tiniest bit of ( residual ?) violence within you could ( help ?) precipitate a world war.

SW: Krishnaji, you make me feel very guilty.

K: : You have got to probe into the depths of your mind and uproot all your 'ill will'. Unless you are prepared to do that what right have you to talk about 'bringing peace' to the Middle East?

SW: I will of course make ( in due time?) a 'special effort' to get rid of violence and change myself...

K: Wait a minute! Is not the 'maker of effort' (self-conscious entity) that tries to eliminate violence, a form of violence itself? When ( a self-conscious form of ?) violence attempts to subjugate ( some lower aspects of ?) violence there will be more ( self-conscious ?) violence. Do you see the complexity of the problem?

SW: All I have to do is recognise the existence of violence. If the fact of violence is fully acknowledged and seen, then that very act of seeing will result in the dissolution of violence.

K : Quite right. The very act of 'seeing' is the 'doing'. When you observe the existence of violence, that very observation is itself the factor which brings about the miracle of change.


SW: The number of sovereign states in the world is rapidly increasing.

K : Consequently there are more armies, more navies, more airforces and more generals. Any crazy President or Prime Minister can set the world on fire.

SW: What are your views on the ( 1980's) campaigns for banning ( the neutron) nuclear weapons?

K : Why don't they campaign against the banning of all weapons? It is not enough to get excited about the dangers of ( gamma ?) radiation. What is (holistically ?) necessary is the elimination of all forms of violence.

SW: Is it not the responsibility of every government to keep the peace within its national frontiers?

K : One should distrust the 'state' (propaganda?) . The ( very concept of the ) 'state' originates in (ancient tribal) violence and is maintained by resorting to violence. Every 'state' is ( psychologically?) founded on violence because it has to support an army and a police to make sure that its laws and decisions are obeyed. Every state is also expected to defend itself when attacked by invaders and aggressors. Do not overlook the fact that the state is an instrument of violence. This is not a theory but a historical fact. So why expect the state to banish violence when it is itself an instrument of violence? Do you understand the problem? Can you ever clean a dirty floor by using dirty water? So do not pin your hopes on the state if you seriously want peace, because as I explained, the 'state' is the very enemy of peace for it financially supports the institution of war (as well as many useful ones?) .

SW: We seem to be coming back to your main 'thesis' that there will be no peace in the world unless
man is himself peaceful first as a consequence of a deep inner spiritual transformation. Such a view necessarily implies that it is foolish to depend on governments or the United Nations to establish world peace.

K : What you are (thinking inwardly) , your government is (doing outwardly ?) . Goverments can only reflect what you actually are

SW: Therefore the most important 'psychological' question is why violence is so much part of our human nature.

K : So long as man is enslaved to his ( egotistic?) 'self', the 'ego', the sense of 'I', he will want to assert himself. And all assertions of the 'ego' are forms of violence. Have you observed the various ways by which the ego expresses itself? 'My country', 'my caste','my family', 'my beliefs', 'my (public?) reputation' these are different kinds of self-assertion. If you derive a great sense of self-fulfilment and satisfaction from a certain activity, then are you not using that activity to assert
your 'ego'? And as I just said, whoever 'asserts' himself (egotistically?) is ( directly or indirectly ?) responsible for the ( outer) violence in the world. The 'do-gooders' who engage themselves in various social welfare activities, the politicians , the philanthropists, are all subtly asserting their personal 'ego' s. The 'ego' is not ( really?) concerned with the welfare of society; it is only interested in ( optimising?) its own survival and ( in satisfying a certain  ? ) lust for ( $$$ & ) power. Therefore the 'ego' is given ( subliminally addicted ?) to ruthlessness and violence.

SW : There will be peace on earth only if we care to wipe away our egos ?

K: The 'ego' can never 'wipe itself away' because it is everlastingly struggling to assert itself either
consciously or unconsciously.

SW : So,( to refrase it: ) there will be peace on earth only if our egos 'drop away' ?

K: Exactly.

SW : Finally, I wish to ask this question : What is the best form of government?

K: Once again you are moving away from the essential issue (of one's individual responsibility?) . From time immemorial 'philosophers' have been producing blueprints for a 'new world'. The ancient Greeks believed that their ( Athens) City state was the ideal form of government. Today the capitalists ande the communists also maintain that their particular systems of goverment are the best. As long as man remains ( inwardly?) animalistic there will never be a perfect ( social) system. But if we succeed in changing the 'psyche' (the Soul?) of man, then he will surely bring his society to a state of ( Utopian???) Perfection.

This post was last updated by John Raica Tue, 05 Dec 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Tue, 05 Dec 2017 #138
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

( more 'lost & found' pages from S. Weeraperuma's memoirs of his private discussions with K )

The Spontaneous Action Without Thought

SW : In one of your talks you strongly disapproved of competitive sports. If I have understood you correctly, you were saying that the great need of the modern world is not the spirit of competition but that of cooperation.

K: It is fairly obvious that competition is causing the fragmentation of the world. We see how the world is broken up economically, socially and politically. This planet has been divided into national states. And when countries compete with one another there will inevitably be tension, suspicion, unfriendliness, misunderstanding and eventually even war.

SW: So, you're openly condemning every manifestation of this competitive spirit, be it in the playing fields or in the examination halls of schools and universities, and yet you, privately, enjoy (watching on TV the ) competitive sports. For instance, this afternoon I saw you with a group of ( Brockwood ?) students in the television lounge, all of you were glued to the television set for several hours. With relish you were watching Cassius Clay the American heavyweight boxer, defending his world title. When the other poor boxers was rudely knocked unconscious and was therefore unable to rise, the students loudly applauded. And you of all persons, dressed in your blue jeans, shouted 'Bravo, Bravo!' It was a sight that shocked me.

K: All these past years you were having a certain impression of me and now you find that your impression does not correspond with reality. You believed that K always dresses and acts in a certain way and now you are disappointed. Why do you have an 'image' of K? Can't you see
that when you form an (emotionally loaded ? ) 'image' you soon become its ( psychological hostage or ?) 'prisoner'? Drop the 'image'! I don't have any 'image' of myself. Have you ever tried to (meditate & ) denude the mind of all its accumulated 'images'?

SW: It is all very well for you to philosophize but have you no sympathy for the poor fellow who fell down unconscious? Krishnaji, I am sure that you are acquainted with the medical facts relating to boxing and wrestling. There is a campaign in England to ban these ( violent ) sports because the risk of brain damage to participants is high.

K: But what action is being taken to prevent the 'psychological damage' caused by having 'images'? Let us talk over together the little things that worry you. Shall we begin with the blue jeans? (laughter). I have been given several pairs of jeans. They are excellent trousers for walking in the woods. Would you like to have a pair?

SW: It is tery kind of you, Krishnaji, but my trouser size is different from yours. I hate to decline your generous offer.

K : The other day an Indian gentleman who attended one of my talks angrily asked me why I don't wear kurtas and pyjamas in England.

SW: And... what was your answer?

K : I'm sure he already knew the reason for not wearing Indian clothes in England. This is a cold country. One must dress according to the climate. Besides, Indian clothes would attract a lot of attention here. Right living is a great art, one should live in such a way that no one notices your presence. Live righteously but never 'display' your righteousness.

SW: Shall we discuss the 'boxing' ?

K: I am opposed to all blood sports such as foxhunting. Once on television I saw a poor helpless deer being tortured by hunters and I turned away in revulsion. I switched the television off. Anyone who is sensitive will surely respond in that way. Man is a savage at heart and
he enjoys all kinds of cruelties that are perpetrated in the name of sport.

SW: I suppose that we vicariously enjoy seeing such sadistic activities. We are scared of the consequences of behaving in a wicked way ourselves, so we like to see the "wicked deeds" of others ?

K: Not only that but there is also this insatiable need for having continuous excitement. We cannot live ( meditatively?) with ourselves and face the emptiness within, therefore this so-called 'civilization' of ours provides all manner of 'escapes' through sports, drugs, sex and... religion.

SW: I have noticed how wildly cheering football rowds give vent to their pent-up emotions, frustrations, aggression and so forth.

K : In my youth I was a fairly good tennis player. I have seen how professional players take great pride in what they can do. There is much pleasure in showing off what you alone can do and what others cannot do. Unless a boxing champion is strongly motivated and has a very big 'ego' he would not be able to go through the ordeal of all those long hours of self-discipline and training. Human beings are willing to suffer hardships in order to achieve something. The sense of 'me' is always seeking expansion, whether in the field of sports or in the so-called 'spiritual' world. How the yogis practise austerities to acquire psychic powers! Once they have got some (psychic?) powers or learned to perform a silly ( yoga?) trick, how they love to make a parade of it!

SW: I understand nearly everything you have explained. But may I very respectfully ask you a personal question?

K : You may.

SW: Do you get some kind of a 'kick' out of watching boxing?

K : A boxer or a wrestler, if he wants to win, must act spontaneously. He can never know in advance the direction from which he is going to be attacked in a match. He must act quickly (& 'sting like a bee'?) . There is no time to 'think carefully' and then act. So he has to put aside the machinery of his ( ordinary ?) mind and act without thought. When your behaviour is governed by the dictates of thought then you are merely reacting to the challenges of life. And your life is nothing but a series of such reactions. But there is quite a different way of meeting the challenges of life. There is a great joy when you cease reacting according to thought but start responding to life without it.

The Nature of Memory

SW: I find that I am becoming rather forgetful as I grow older. I do not know whether forgetful- ness is related to age.

K : Forgetfulness is not related to age. Children can be just as forgetful as adults. Are you vitally interested in this problem?

SW: I am particularly interested in it. I belong to an academic profession. As a librarian I hate to remember masses of facts and figures. I have recently noticed that I am no longer a quick efficient worker because I am handicapped by a poor memory.

K : First of all I think we should distinguish between two types of memory. There is 'factual memory' and 'psychological memory'.

SW: I take it that 'factual memory' is information or technical data. It is knowledge of a factual kind ?

K : Yes. 'Factual memory' consists of information of all sorts. At school you must have learned his- tory and geography. Now all that is 'factual memory'. 'Factual memory' is obviously impor- tant. We need it for survival. If I don't re- member what your face looks like, I will not be able to recognize you the next time we meet. An engineer has to know a great deal before he is able to build a bridge or construct a house. Knowledge keeps on increasing at a very fast rate, especially technical knowledge.

SW: It is snowballing.

K : The engineers of the future will have to study much more than today's engineers. The mind has a great capacity to accumulate information. It has extraordinary faculties but we are not using all our faculties.

SW: Are you suggesting that there is a wasteful under-utilization of our brains?

K : You may put it that way if you like. There is a certain sluggishness and we do not fully use our brains.

SW: You have described 'factual memory' very well. I have never had difficulty understanding it. But I have a vague notion of 'psychological memory'. By the phrase 'psychological mem- ory' do you mean non-factual memory?

K : 'Psychological memory' is not non-factual. It is very factual.

SW: I suppose you mean that 'psychological memory' is undesirable whereas 'factual memory' is desirable?

K: Let us be clear about what is 'psychological memory'. I remember what your face looks like. We have already called that 'factual memory'. Now, if I were to like the look of your face or hate it, that like or dislike will naturally influence my attitude to you. Our likes and dislikes constitute 'psychological memory'. Do you understand? Sir, all your fears, hates, anxieties, hopes, hurts, ambitions — all that is 'psychological memory'.

SW: I understand these two types of memory. They are very closely interrelated. I don't know where exactly one kind of memory ends and the other begins. In the example you have consi- dered, the impression of my face that is registered in your mind is called 'factual memory'. Your disliking the face is called 'psychological memory'. But isn't your 'disliking' it also a fact?

K: Of course it is a fact. It is not something imagined. But the moment I allow that dislike to influence my attitude to you, then I am under the control of 'psychological memory'
So is it possible to have a mind that is all the time operating at the level of 'factual memory' and not at the level of 'psychological memory'? It is the 'psychological memory' that conditions the mind and distorts perception.

SW : Shall we examine this question again? I think I must be very clear about it. My face happens to be very ugly. That ugliness is a fact.

K: I remember a face exactly as it is, without calling it either 'ugly' or 'beautiful'.

SW: But the ugliness is a fact.

K: It is the way I react to your face that constitutes 'psychological memory'.

SW: Aren't you repelled by ugliness and attracted by beauty?

K: You should watch your reactions as they arise. When you see a reaction completely, it gets burnt away in a jiffy.

SW: In that way the mind would be kept uncontaminated all the time ?

K: That is right. I have said that the reaction gets erased when the mind is passively alert. Have you also observed that the mind will not react at all when it does not name its reactions? When the face is called 'ugly' or 'handsome', are you not distorting your perception by intro- ducing the past? You resuscitate the past the moment you verbalize. Words are the past. So if I avoid calling the face 'ugly' or 'beautiful', I avoid past associations, which means that it be- comes possible to see the face exactly as it is, and hence I develop neither feelings of attrac- tion nor revulsion. The mind then remains free.

SW: We have discussed something that is extremely important, although the conversation has drifted from the subject of forgetfulness to another subject.

K : You were saying that you are forgetful.

SW: Yes. The ability to retain factual data in my mind seems to be declining.

K : What have you been doing about it?

SW: Well, every night before falling asleep I recall the details of what I experienced during the day. It is a yogic mental exercise. I read that the retentive capacity of the brain can be strengthened by doing this exercise. The theory is that the 'muscles' of memory, so to speak, get stronger when they are frequently flexed. What the mind has learned should be constantly re- called and thereby kept afresh. How easily one forgets a foreign language when it has not been used for a considerable time! In Buddhist temples I have seen monks not only laboriously memorising the scriptures but also regularly reciting them as a means of not forgetting them.

K: I knew a Sannyasin who learned the entire Bhagavad Gita by heart. He could even recite the book backwards and of course then it was quite meaningless. People surrounded him and admired his mental gymnastics! You might as well train a parrot to give such performances.

SW: A good memory is a very useful asset in life.

K : Did your memory improve after doing that exercise?

SW: By recalling the day's events I found that my mind became more orderly but there was no significant improvement in the mind's retentive capacity.

K: I have met persons with photographic minds. With extraordinary exactness they could remember almost anything. But I have found that such persons are not quick at noticing what is happening within themselves as well as outside themselves. They are not very observant.

SW: It will be excellent to have an observant mind which is also photographic at the same time.

K : I've never met a person with such a mind.

SW: Every morning for five minutes I practise sirshasana (standing on the head) because I learned from Swami Sivananda of Rishikesh that this asana is particularly good for the brain. According to him 'memory improves admirably'.

K: I also do this asana but not with the intention of having a good memory. This asana is good for the nerves.

SW: Then it must also be good for the brain.

K: Do you sleep soundly?

SW: There are days when I do not sleep well.

K: When the brain has not properly rested the body becomes tense and irritable. But when the whole system is relaxed memories will surface easily. Are you taking the right food? I have been told that a protein deficiency could impair the efficient functioning of the brain. You must investigate this possibility because I know that persons of Asian origin often suffer from a lack of protein. Shall I test your memory? How did you spend last Saturday evening?

SW: I don't remember the details. Perhaps I went for a walk but I have no recollection of where I walked.

K: What is the name of the latest best-seller?

SW: There are several best-sellers.

K: What are their names?

SW: I forget.

K: Do you remember the name of your best friend?

SW: Of course I do.

K: Sir, it is so simple. The mind remembers what is pleasant and represses those memories that are unpleasant. Don't you like to forget disturbing insults and criticisms? And aren't you at- tached to all the complimentary remarks of others about your work? If you really enjoyed your work would you be having this problem? Tell me, are you happily employed?

SW; At one time I much enjoyed my job but nowadays I loathe having to do such an enormous amount of work in my office.

K : Your antipathy towards your work and your employer is obviously obstructing the surfacing of memories associated with your work. Any kind of agitation, disturbance or worry prevents the unconscious from communicating with the conscious. Are you fully aware of the existence of this antipathy? Dig it out and examine it. After a few weeks of doing this you can let me know whether your memory has improved.

SW: Krishnaji, your friends know only too well that you have a bad memory.

K : That is true. If I haven't seen someone for about ten years I forget that person completely. Some persons have been very offended because I failed to recognize them. It cannot be helped. That is the way I am.

SW: Have you taken any remedial measures to improve your memory?

K : I don't want to 'improve' myself. I am not interested in achieving anything. Knowing the state of what is, the 'living now' is immensely more important than bothering your head about what should be.

SW: I am puzzled by the fact that all this time you were suggesting ways of improving my memory but now I find that you are not interested in improving your own memory.

K : In ancient times certain philosophers and educationists regarded the mind as a receptacle for knowledge. The mind was seen as a useful storehouse of knowledge. In the modern world we have computers that are capable of storing information not only faster than the human mind but also far more accurately. Why burden your mind with knowledge when there are computers to do that work? What then is the purpose of the mind? Surely the mind should be used as an instrument of observation without distortion. Seeing rightly, intelligent obser- vation, observation without the 'observer', is the role of the mind. The world is such a lovely place, full of colour and light and form and deep shadows. Just observe all these things and more, without creating images of what is observed, so that the mind is everlastingly new, fresh, innocent and young.

SW: I have heard it said that you lost most of your memory when in the 1920s you experienced that great spiritual illumination.

K; 'Psychological memory' totally dropped off.

SW: What about 'factual memory'?

K: Much of my past was also forgotten. I did not forget everything though because I still re- membered how to count and how to use words correctly.

SW: Would you describe your great experience as a form of 'amnesia', if I may use a medical term?

K: No. I do not know what causes amnesia. I do not know whether amnesia is caused by brain damage. Don't call it amnesia because what happened was not amnesia. Some called it the 'awakening of kundalini' and all that stuff. The Theosophical leaders were confused and they offered all kinds of explanations at that time. Memory is stored in the brain cells. When the mind is fully fransformed the very brain cells experience a mutation. It is a fundamental change which cannot be explained in scientific terms. Unless you have personally experienced this mutation you will not know what I am talking about.

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 06 Dec 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Wed, 06 Dec 2017 #139
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

What is Clairvoyance?

SW: Please pardon me for wanting to ask you a question on a subject that is bordering on the occult. Often I have seen you brush aside questions concerning occult powers.

K : Let us talk together as two friends without any barriers between ourselves. What is your question?

SW: I have read C.W. Leadbeater's remarkable book titled 'Clairvoyance'. Do you know this book ?

K : I know about its existence but I haven't read it. I am not familiar with Theosophical literature. Philosophical, religious and spiritual books bore me and I don't read them.

SW: Rightly or wrongly such books fascinate me. Krishnaji, you do not have to read them because you are a lucky fountain of wisdom but I have to read them because I am a poor unlucky ignoramus.

K : What is your question?

SW: Clairvoyance means 'seeing clearly' but it also refers to the ability to see what is hidden from ordinary physical sight. Some people have the capacity to know without using any of their sense organs. On several occasions I have had experiences of a clairvoyant nature. For instance, I recently visited your parental home. I was curiously wanting to see the sacred puja room in which you were born. Some friends kindly took me to your former home in Madanapalle. I was walking ahead of them in this. little town. Although I had never even seen a photograph of your home, I unmistakeably identified it the moment I saw it. Besides, I knew all the details of the house's interior even before entering it. The whole house was strangely familiar. In a trance I walked up the stairs und searched for a religious picture in a room. Much to my regret the picture was missing for it had been removed. But the occupant of the house confirmed that I had correctly indicated the exact spot on the wall where the picture had once been hanging.

K: Many people have experiences of that kind. Are you suggesting that you have had an extraordinary mysterious experience?

SW: In a sense it was a very unusual experience.

K: Why do you attach importance to this experience or any experience? The experience is over but you are holding onto it.

SW: What is wrong in treasuring a marvellous experience?

K: Every experience that is retained burdens the mind and prevents clarity.

SW: Is 'experience' like a thick mist that clouds the mind?

K : Exactly.

SW: I am aware that the attachment to experiences obstructs one's receptivity to further experi- ences, but even so, I like to know whether the faculty of clairvoyance operates within the field of the mind or outside it. Shall we examine this matter?

K: We shall do so presently. Sir, you may or may not have clairvoyant powers. I do not know and I am not interested in the least in finding that out. What is really important is not whether you are clairvoyant but whether you have an 'image' of yourself as a superhuman person with clairvoyant powers. Don't you have such an image of yourself? Why do you have any type of image?

SW: I am keen to know whether clairvoyance operates within the field of the thought process.

K: One is naturally suspicious about anything that is the product of thought.

SW: Are you implying that clairvoyance is unreliable, if it is acting within the field of consciousness?

K : Everything that springs from within consciousness is the 'known'. Therefore our consciousness can never touch the unknown. Let us find out whether clairvoyance is beyond the limitations of thought. Are you seriously interested in this question?

SW: Indeed I am.

K : Always be sceptical of persons who claim to have clairvoyance. It is not that clairvoyance does not exist. It certainly exists. But doesn't it feed your vanity to believe that you have gifts lacking in others? A guru once visited me. He tried very hard to impress me. One of the things he told me was that he had clairvoyantly diagnosed that I suffer from hay fever. It is true that I suffer from hay fever. What was the secret of this guru's clairvoyance? Before visiting me, this guru had met a friend of mine and secretly gathered from him his bit of information concerning hay fever! Today this guru cleverly passes himself off as 'clairvoyant'

SW: Krishnaji, on two occasions I noticed that you have clairvoyant powers. At a discussion meeting you criticized the audience for failing to listen carefully. I was seated behind a pillar with the result that you did not notice my presence there. On that occasion I was not able to concentrate on the discussion because I had a painful cramp in the leg. Then I said to myself: 'If K is clairvoyant he will surely excuse me for not being attentive'. After the meeting I was surprised when you walked up to me and said: 'Is your leg all right?'

K : Sometimes I make statements without knowing that (or why?) I am making them. Some other Source seems to be expressing messages through me.

SW: When I met you at Vasanta Vihar in Madras after flying from Australia, you greeted me and exclaimed: "I know what's in your bag! You are bringing me cheese and an Agatha Christie thriller." You were perfectly right on that occasion because those were exactly the articles in my bag.

K : Probably it was a shrewd guess that turned out to be right.

SW: Please explain what is genuine clairvoyance.

K : A mind that is imageless, without thought, unconditioned, is capable of great clarity. That clarity, which is timeless, can delve into the future. The future can be foretold. When the mind is free (of thought-time?) , that clarity will manifest itself even during sleep. That clarity may be called 'clairvoyance'. But the name you give it is unimportant because the name is never the thing itself.

The Mystery of Death

K : Why are you looking so miserable? Why are you so unhappy? What is troubling you? And why have you visited me again?

SW: Last week a friend of mine died of cancer. It was an agonizing death. The pain he experienced was unbearable. So the doctors drugged him to kill the pain. Therefore he was semiconscious during the last days of his life.

K : What kind of cancer was it?

SW: It was lung cancer. I have been reflecting that our lives may also have to end some day.

K : It is not that life may end: life will end. Sooner or later we will all die.

SW: Owing to the tremendous advances in medicine, it is not impossible that man may overcome death in the distant future. We have hitherto assumed that we are all mortal. The statement 'man is mortal' is based on our past experience but in the future we may achieve physical immortality.

K : Such speculations surely originate from the fear of death. If you were not afraid of death you would not be saying these things.

SW: Are you suggesting that theories concerning reincarnation and the afterlife are only the outcome of the fear of death?

K : The man or woman who lives intensely in the present, in the timeless now, will not be interested in the tomorrow. The tomorrow becomes important when you are avoiding what is happening in the present. The old people ook to the past and the young look forward to the future. But the person who is living from moment to moment, in the eternal present, will have neither the time nor the inclination to be distracted by thoughts about the past or the future.

SW: Religious books are replete with theories about what lies in store for us after death. But you are hinting that all these theories are without substance. You are implying that man invented these theories because he feared old age and death. I realize that such theories probably came into existence because they fulfilled a certain psychological need. The belief in the possibility of an afterlife considerably reduces our fear of death.

K : It is a comforting thought that you would be meeting your dead grandmother again in heaven or elsewhere. When your loved ones die, you won't experience pangs of separation because you will feel secure in the knowledge that someday you will be reunited with them.

SW: After divesting the theory of reincarnation of its psychological origins, shall we reexamine it? Let us temporarily forget the psychological reasons why this theory has such a hold on people and then consider it.

K : Sir, that is the wrong approach. When you know the psychological background to a belief, when you see that a particular belief was invented by a frightened mind, then won't you throw away that belief? Sir, why have any belief? Can't you live without beliefs? A sane mind does not need the support of beliefs.

SW: If the doctors inform me that I am suffering from an incurable illness and that I have only a few days left to live, is it right to request them that I should be put to death painlessly? Do you recommend euthanasia? What is the purpose of prolonging my life by artificial means if I have been reduced to the state of a vegetable as a result of an accident?

K: Human beings may like to regard themselves as being very clever and marvellous but the truth is that we are still barbarians. Man is violent. That is a fact. He gives expression to that violence by using an unkind word or by torturing someone whom he hates. Killing is an extreme expression of that violence. Whether you get someone else to do the killing or whether you do the dirty work yourself, it still involves the destruction of life. I do not advocate the killing of others, even when it is done painlessly, nor do I support the killing of oneself. Suicide is a manifestation of violence that is directed against oneself.

SW: Why are we violent?

K : We are violent because we are selfish. The ruthless pursuit of self-interest is ( breeding) violence. The self is insatiable. The desires and pursuits of the self are endless. The self can only behave 'selfishly', which is another way of saying that the self can only behave violently.

SW: I vividly remember how you responded to an overseas telegram you received when we were living in Colombo. A friend of yours telegraphed a message that she was dying. You then sent her a telegram conveying your love with the words 'I AM THINKING OF YOU'.

K : If you sincerely desire to help a person then you must act during that person's lifetime. Having grand funerals or memorials are meaningless gestures of affection. It is quite hypocritical to pour scorn on an opponent during his lifetime and then pay tributes after the poor fellow dies

SW: Why does one cry one's heart out when a close friend dies?

K: When a loved person dies it is normal for grief-stricken relatives and friends to cry. But do you cry out of concern for the dead person? Don't you cry because you are suddenly con- scious of your own personal loss? The dead person is gone forever and you are faced with a terrible loneliness, an aching emptiness, which can never be filled. And you cry because it gives you some feeling of relief. But no amount of crying or praying will resurrect the dead.

SW: I suppose it is the absolute finality of death that makes it such a dreadful experience.

K : When death knocks at your door you cannot say "Please Mr. Death kindly wait for one more week until I have finished my work". When death comes you have to abandon everything and go. You cannot take away your furniture with you. When death comes you will lose all your (material) possessions. You will be permanently separated from your family and friends. It will be the end of all your ( personal) achievements, your glories, your likes and dislikes. You go away as empty-handed as when you were born.

SW: You have just said that at the time of death one is compelled to abandon everything and go. May I ask an obvious question? Where do the dead go?

K : Sir, what are you? You have a name and a bank account, which makes you feel that you are an individual. But do you really exist as a distinct separate person? What are you but a collection of thoughts, emotions, tendencies,predilections, hates, sorrows, fears, ambitions,desires, beliefs and ideas? This ( dynamic) combination of qualities is what you are. You are nothing but these qualities. If these qualities were removed, one by one, then what is left? Nothing is left. Therefore there is no such thing as 'yourself' or 'myself'. Do you realize that none of your characteristics is fixed or permanent? Everything in that ( psychosomatic ?) aggregation, including every thought and feeling, is subject to change. You may like to think that there ishidden somewhere within you an unchangeable substance called a Soul. But you will find that (what you thought about your ?) 'Soul' or 'Atman' is only a concept, a creation of the mind as a result of its desire for permanency and security, and like all ( mental) concepts, this concept is also changeable. When you thus see (the Truth?) that there is nothing in you that permanently exists and that the world within and the world without is always in motion, then one is in a position to explore into this question of reincarnation. Everything within your consciousness, including your body, is perpetually changing for the thought process consists of a chain of thoughts in a state of flux. And is your body any different from your mind? Thoughts are dying and being reborn. The ( cells of the physical?) body is also dying and being reborn all the time. Is it clear that nothing permanently exists? If nothing permanently exists, then nothing reincarnates. Do you understand the question? Reincarnation becomes a possibility only if there is a permanent unchangeable entity, which alone would be capable of moving from one life to another life, like a passenger who travels from one railway station to another railway station. But if no such 'passenger' exists, if no such entity exists, then surely there is nothing to reincarnate. Reincarnation is only a theory born of man's desire for continuity.

SW : I am quite familiar with your writings on this all-important subject of 'death'. You have stated that psychological death should precede bodily death.

K: That is correct. Can the 'you' ( the psychological entity?) 'die' before you ( physically) die?

SW: Before the occurrence of physical death, I hope I would die to all my likes, dislikes, worries, fears and so forth. How nice if I were capable of dying to my entire past!

K: Once you have died to your entire past you will discover a new ( spiritual?) beginning.

SW: Is that all?

K: When the mind has been cleansed of the past, when it is free of time, one will come upon something ( of a truly spiritual nature ?) that is indestructible.

SW: Are you ready to discard your body?

K: When the time comes for me to go, I will walk into the House of Death with a smile.

What is Sanity?

SW: Yesterday I called on a person who is undergoing ( some psychiatric) treatment in a mental hospital. Meeting so many demented men and women there was a most depressing experience. Have you ever tried to help an inmate of a mental hospital?

K : On one occasion I visited a lunatic asylum to see a patient whom I happened to know. Then I realized that the 'insane' who lived inside the lunatic asylum were not fundamentally different from the 'sane' who lived outside it!

SW: I have heard it said that a thin border divides the insane from the sane.

K : That's not the point. Perhaps there is no such border. Have the so-called 'sane' more clarity than the so-called 'insane'? In mental hospitals you will meet men who seriously believe that they are kings or dictators and women who believe that they are queens or princesses. A person is regarded as being insane when he believes in things that have no connection with reality. Is it not sheer insanity to believe in the existence of fanciful gods — imaginary gods with many hands and heads?

SW: Indian philosophers have regarded the act of mistaking a rope for a snake as an instance of distorted perception.

K : Our perception at present is covered with a veil of (mental) 'images'. We have images about the people we meet. Parents have images about their children and children have images about their parents. Many people who attend my talks have a certain image about me. It is unfortunate that I have a reputation of being a 'spiritual' (World?) Teacher. Therefore they read more into my words than what was intended. So they misunderstand the simple, obvious truths I talk about. This ( mental ?) 'image' (they have?) about me prevents the right understanding of my talks. A sane mind has no ('psychological' ) images

SW: Is retaining such 'images' a sign of insanity?

K : Of course it is.

SW: Aren't there degrees of insanity?

K : There is no qualitative difference between a mind that has few images and one with many. Haven't you noticed how even a single prejudice makes the mind crooked? The image that persons belonging to a particular race or religion are of inferior quality and evil-minded produces feelings of hatred for them. This ( accumulated?) hatred eventually results in intolerance, terrorism and war. The 'images' we have about others may not correspond with what they actually are. These ( prejudiced ?) 'images' are a far cry from reality. But we get attached to our ( self-protective set of?) 'images' and that is one of our difficulties.

SW: Do you think that psychanalysis is helpful for certain mental disorders?

K : Have the psychanalysts freed their own minds of 'images'? If they have not done so, would they not be imposing their own particular brand of images on their poor patients? Psychanalysts may succeed in making patients disciplined & well-behaved members of society. But (responsible) psychanalysts should also question the very foundations of our modern society. What is the good of making patients conform to the rules of society so that they become respectable citizens? The very core of society is corrupt. Is not our modern society based on competition, ambition and selfishness? Besides, who is the 'analyser' who does the analysis? Is the 'analyser' any different from 'what is analysed'? The ( knowledgeable?) 'analyser' is the product of the mind's confusion. Whatever the 'analyser' does must therefore result in further confusion. As I have often said, ''analysis is paralysis''. Why depend on anyone to probe into yourself? Must you not be 'a light unto yourself'? A person who constantly explores the mind, who is ever watchful of its movements and is self-reliant, wouldn't touch a psychanalyst with a barge pole.

I must tell you a ( funny) story. An inmate of a mental hospital loved to spend hours trying to fish for trout in his cup of coffee. He used a cigarette as a fishhook. An amused psychanalyst questioned the patient: " Have you caught many fish today ?'' The patient replied: "Are you crazy? Can't you see that this is only a cup of coffee?"

Energy for Self-examination

SW: I have been counselling a colleague with a sexual problem. He wants me to discuss his problem with you.

K: Why hasn't he accompanied you today?

SW: He is reluctant to meet you because he feels that he would be nervous in your company.

K: I won't bite him! Tell him that he is welcome here. What is troubling him?

SW: He is trying to overcome his 'homosexuality'.

K: Sir, this word 'homosexuality' is rather derogatory. Can't you avoid using that word?

SW: But it is a neutral scientific word.

K: That may be so, but today many people have a ( subliminally) condemnatory atittude towards homosexuality. The very fact that he wishes to overcome his 'homosexuality' shows that he is already prejudiced against it. I am not saying that 'homosexuality' is desirable or undesirable. But if you want to understand any ( human) problem you must not condemn it at all. There is no freshness in your way of approaching the problem if you are hostile to it ? ( Self-) censoring attitudes prevent one looking at it anew. You have to face the problem exactly as it is, without wanting to alter it in any way. Words have various associations. Words evoke the past; words are the ( result of all our ) past. Is it possible to look at the problem directly, without seeing it through the screen of words ?

SW: If I shouldn't use the word 'homosexuality', how then shall I refer to it?

K: Do you have to call it anything?

SW: Shall I call it X?

K: Do you realize that the solution to a problem lies in the problem itself? Words will distract your attention from the problem.

SW: Krishnaji, can you lay down some guidelines on how to help someone in distress ?

K: I'm afraid there is no ( fool-proof?) method. The art of seeing properly will solve all problems. It is not that you see first and act later because the seeing 'is' the doing.

SW: I've been suggesting to him that he should approach the problem without any sense of con- demnation or justification of it.

K: First of all it is necessary to divest his mind of all sense of 'sin'. He cannot possibly face the problem honestly so long as his mind is tormented by feelings of guilt. When the mind is free of such burdens then it is already ( a little more?) intelligent.

SW: This person is a poet and a novelist. He is highly intelligent and sensitive.

K : The sexual act is momentary. It is a fleeting experience, but why are people so preoccupied with it? Sex is neither pure nor impure but ( our self-centred?) thought magnifies it out of all proportion. Sex is given such inordinate importance by the (modern hedonistic ? ) mind. You either enjoy thinking about a sexual act that is long over or you fantasize about future sexual experiences.

SW: The mind is the culprit. A writer has remarked that 'sexuality is not in the genitals but in the mind'. Man's obsession with sex is the price he has to pay for having a highly developed im- agination.

K : It is the intellectual people who are troubled by sex. The loving and kind-hearted folk, whose lives are not dominated by the intellect, have hardly turned sex into a problem.

SW: There is another category of persons who have made sex a problem. I am thinking of the puritanical men and women who have been trained to fight sex as though it were some kind of monster.

K : I knew a sannyasin in India who struggled with his sexual urge. The more he tried to suppress it the more uncontrollable it became. He did not realize that suppressing his sexual instinct was the surest way of strengthening it. Instead of trying to understand this strong human drive by observing it carefully, he tried very hard to stamp it out but he was unsuc- cessful. Then rather foolishly he underwent an operation that involved the surgical removal of his sexual organs. He visited me one day and tearfully complained that his body was de- veloping breasts and other female characteristics as a result of this operation.

SW: The religious traditions of India emphasize. the importance of conserving one's energies as a 'sine qua non' for spiritual enlightenment.

K : Sexual indulgence results in a dissipation of ( physical) energy. Sexual suppression also results in a dissipation of (mental?) energy because it reduces the mind to a state of conflict, And conflict, this battle between the powerful desire that wants to indulge in sex and the opposing thought which says- 'thou must not indulge', brings about a loss of energy. One needs a great deal of (intelligent?) energy for self-examination but this energy cannot be accumulated through sexual suppression. There will be an abundance of (intelligent) energy only when the mind is without conflict. When it is understood that the 'I', the entity which had hitherto tried hard to control the movements of thought, is itself the (by) product of one's self-centred thought, then the conflict between the 'thinker' and 'thought' will immediately (or...ASAP?) end. Observe the illusory nature of the 'controller' of thought. All conflict will thereupon end and a new ( integrated?) energy will revitalize the mind.

SW: In certain South Indian temples the 'linga', the ( stone carved ) phallus of Lord Shiva, is worshipped. What is the esoteric significance, if any, of linga worship?

K : Primitive man failed to understand ( holistically?) the workings of the procreative instinct. It was a mystery that completely baffled him. He was therefore frightened of it. So he started wor- shipping it in the same way that he worshipped the elements. What the (self- centred?) mind fails to comprehend, it fears. What it fears is either suppressed or worshipped. All forms of worship and prayer originate in fear.

SW: You once stated ( in a public talk) that the craving for sexual actitity exists because it is a means of self-forgetfulness.

K : Our lives are ( subliminally) centred around the 'self'. Nearly everything we do, think or feel is somehow closely or distantly connected with our self-interest. Sex provides an instant release from the restrictive, miserable 'world of the self'. That is why our culture gives such tremendous prominence to sex.

SW: I suppose a liberated individual would be absolutely free of sex in thought, word and deed ?

K : Such a human being is not troubled by sex nor by any psychological problem. When the self ceases to exist of its own accord then there is bliss.

Awareness as a Game

SW: After all these many years of self-observation, isn't it shameful that the image-making process still continues in my mind? The 'torrential rain' of thoughts never stops pouring down. One feels depressed in defeat.

K : Why do you judge yourself? As a child you must have played games. Awareness is also like a game. If you play it only for the fun of it, does it matter whether you win or lose?

SW: I find that this awareness is not continuous. There are flashes of awareness. The flashes stop and then there are moments of dullness. One is suddenly aware again. The intermittent nature of ( choiceless) awareness is my problem.

K : Awareness does not have to be continuous: seldom is it continuous. When you criticize your- self by saying that awareness is not continuous, it shows that you have formed a 'concept' ( an ideal of choiceless ?) awareness, a (self-imposed?) standard. Thereafter you try to conform to that standard established by yourself. Sir, ( the insightful ) awareness is not a self-imposed practice. You cannot practise such awareness. When you have an insight into the way your mind works, do not become greedy for more insights by saying 'the mind should be aware all the time'.

SW: I feel fatigued after trying to be aware from moment to moment.

K : Take a rest when you are ( getting) tired. After you have refreshed yourself, then you are ready for work again. Self-observation involves very hard ( very delicate?) work. Without ( a base of integrated intelligent ?) energy you cannot work and when this energy has depleted by work then you have to ( take a break & ) rest again.

SW: I seem to expend more energy when the mind is struggling to be alert (to stay awake?).

K : 'Struggling to be alert' is a waste of energy whereas ( spontaneously) 'being' alert generates energy. Have you noticed that there is actually an increased energy when you come to terms with yourself? Let us consider 'fear'. The mind loves to escape from fear by ( analytically) justifying its existence or brushing it aside. You do not eliminate fear by just escaping from it. But the moment the fact (actuality?) of fear is accepted and fully faced, without running away from it, fear disappears and a new ( quality of) energy comes into being.

SW: The memories of certain pleasant and unpleasant experiences often recur. Certain thoughts are so deeply entangled in my consciousness that they seem to be permanently residing there.

K : Whenever a thought recurs you must look at it anew. An annoying thought or a pleasurable thought that keeps on emerging has a story to tell. Why not allow the fellow to reveal his own story? Can't you find out a little more about the fellow each time he emerges?

SW: My other ( experiential) difficulty is the rapidity of the thought process. It moves so fast that I (the 'thinker'?) cannot keep pace with it.

K : It will calm down ( eventually?) as you uncover the layers of the unconscious. You must lay bare the unconscious so that there are no dark corners within it.

SW: I experience periods of tranquility, when thought has temporarily fallen into abeyance. It is a pity that these periods are not of longer duration.

K : Why ask for more? Surely it is thought that is demanding 'tranquility'. There will certainly be no (authentic inner?) tranquility so long as thought operates. On one occasion a very learned ( Huxley?) friend remarked that he had read a great deal with the result that there was no ( free iner) space in his (herat &) mind. Can a mind that is very active and full of its own noise ever have the silence to receive something untouched by thought? Sir, if I may suggest, try to 'be alone' for at least one hour every day. During this period (of all-oneness ) you should not read, work or enjoy the company of your friends. You may devote this time for taking a solitary walk or observing nature. It is a sheer delight to watch the birds in flight, the lovely green trees and the vast open skies. The mind loses its ( natural) sensitivity whenever there is no communion with Nature. Live close to nature.

SW : Is it necessary to know every thought?

K : You cannot possibly know every thought. There are far too many of them (not to mention... their 'thinker' ) . The stream of ( our collective?) consciousness is enormous and powerful. Only by understanding the ( 'sticky' personal ?) limitations of thought can you transcend it. The very act of ( insightful) understanding is also the act of Crossing the Stream (of Thought & Time?) You have got to 'walk out of it'. Sir, walk out of it right now!

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 06 Dec 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Sun, 17 Dec 2017 #140
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Here are a few selected excerpts from Ingram Smith's book of K memoirs: THE TRANSPARENT MIND

The first meeting between K and me had been set in (1950) Colombo, Sri Lanka so that we could arrange for two local radio broadcasts. It was already dark when I arrived at Bodhidasa's house where Krishnamurti was staying. I was apprehensive as I waited in the drawing room. I was about to meet the man whose teachings had already turned my life around, the human being I most revered—a 'transformed' man, a free man, a God-like being. Moments later, I was introduced to a highly nervous, agitated person. The 'serene being' I had expected was not present. Most of what happened in the next half-hour is a confused blur. I remember Bodhidasa introducing us and leaving; there was a fumbling, unsure hand-clasping. There were some quick remarks about the scripts, and Krishnamurti excitedly picked up a sheaf of typed papers from a table and began shuffling them about.

''Here are the two scripts. I wonder if they are too long'', he burst out. In passing them over, we managed to drop them. They scattered across the floor. We began picking up the sheets and sorting them according to page numbers. As I offered him the ones I had gathered, he gestured to me to keep them and handed me his pile while again asking anxiously, "Are the scripts too long?" I remember for one detached moment feeling, this is madness. How could I possibly answer? I had not the least idea how many pages there were, or any notion as to how fast he would read. Bewildered, I began counting the pages. "Both seem to be too long", I said. "A little too long." I was in no state to give any accurate estimation of time. I riffled through the pages. There seemed to be too many for two quarter-hour broadcasts. However, I said, "No worry, sir, we can record both programs and do any needed editing later."
"Why not before the recordings are made?" I had no answer and no intention of attempting one then. "Are there any carbon copies?" I asked. He looked bewildered. I recall there was some talk as to when it would suit Krishnamurti to record.

When in great bewilderment I departed, it had been decided that with the windows open, the acoustics would be adequate, and that a recording van would come to the house at eleven o'clock the following morning. I walked away in turmoil. I had come by taxi, but now all I wanted was to continue walking. I hurried off into the night in the direction of the Galle Face Hotel. There are many lakes and waterways in and around Colombo, and presently I found I was pacing alongside a sheet of water. What had happened? Every anticipation had been shattered. The serene, poised, liberated Master had turned out to be a highly nervous, excitable human being. I was disoriented.

Suddenly it hit me. It was as though I had walked slap-bang into a tree or a wall. The shock of realization stopped all motion. I stood stock-still. The man I had just met was not Krishnamurti, but...( a mirror image of?) me. For the first time in my life I had met myself—seen myself, uncovered, reflected in another human being. That overwrought man in the room had been me. It was a devastating realization. I saw that when I am angry, the object of my anger is seen either as the 'angry person' or as the 'cause of my anger'. But with Krishnaji there had been no sense of separation. He had not acted differently from me. I had seen him fumbling and nervous. How insane to have expected Krishnamurti to match my anticipated picture of him; and I understood too the madness of foreseeing a free man who would exhibit the qualities I had imagined a liberated human being would have—serenity, Cod-like authority, detachment. I had met no such entity. There is no such person. I had encountered myself in action, seen a clear reflection, and heard my echo in the finely tuned body/being named Krishnamurti. Since then, of course, there have been many occasions when I have been distraught, but never again has there been such a clear mirroring of my own confusion.
It took me more than two hours to find my way back to the Galle Face Hotel. Both talks were recorded the following morning. Both were too long to fit the quarter-hour time slot. They were both given extended time, broadcast in total, and later published.

A FEW DAYS AFTER THAT FIRST ENCOUNTER, CORDON PEARCE rang to ask if I would be free to accompany Krishnamurti on his walk that afternoon. I was delighted to have been asked, little knowing that the opportunity had come about because Krishnamurti liked to walk fast (at least four miles an hour as it turned out), and the Ceylonese commit- tee members were not up to such a pace. My job at Radio Lanka permitted great freedom, so I arrived at Bodhidasa's house at four-thirty. Almost immediately Krishnaji came out, and with Bodhidasa at the wheel and Dr. Adikaram in the front seat, we drove beyond the city to the villages and paddy fields flanking both sides of the road. The car stopped, Krishnamurti got out, and Adikaram said, "We'll be here when you return." We set off at a brisk clip. Not a word was said. Everything seemed miraculously alive. I was highly aware of every movement, of the sky, of the swift flight of parrots as they swept overhead, the patches of jungle, the waving green rice, and particularly of Krishnamurti.
Sometime after five o'clock, a stream of buses, overloaded with office workers, came roaring past us. I was intrigued to notice that as each bus approached from behind, Krishnaji reacted in a different way. Sometimes he would walk right on and the bus would go around him; at other times he would quickly cross to the other side of the road; occasionally he would leap over the irrigation ditch running between the road and the rice paddy and walk there while the bus went by. With no two buses did he react in the same way. There seemed to be no habit pattern whatsoever. As I watched, I realized that in some extraordinary way he was responding to the attitude of each bus driver. He stepped aside for the aggressive driver, and let the accommodating driver adapt his driving to us. He seemed to move in relation to the intention of the man behind the wheel, to be an integral part of the whole movement, of the subtle inter- play. Yet each was doing exactly what he intended—Krishnaji walking briskly for an hour, and the bus drivers reaching their destinations in whatever way they chose to drive. It did not matter to Krishnaji whether he was walking on the road or off it—it was the exercise, the oxygenation of the blood, the freedom of body movement that mattered.

A flock of screeching parrots rocketed across the road directly in front of us. Krishnaji's reaction was instantaneous and dramatic. He physically shuddered as though the birds had flown through him, then continued on as if nothing had happened. Our speed in this slow-moving island made us objects of whimsical interest. Villagers stood and watched us as we strode by. Occasionally, as we paced through a village, a pariah dog would burst out snarling or barking. Krishnaii responded differently to each dog. As one approached he would shout, "Get back"; to another he would call softly and let it run alongside him, even patting it. Sometimes children would race up beside us. From one he would distance himself, another he would permit to jog for a while at his side or between us. Again, different responses, always patternless, his action relating completely to the present situation. It was a tremendous learning experience to observe such freedom from habitual reactions.
So began our evening walks. For the next month we were driven to a different location each night and then walked for an hour, except on those nights when there was a talk.

One evening Dr. Adikaram accompanied us. He wanted to discuss the possibility of traveling through Sri Lanka and talking to people in villages, towns, and bazaars; of discussing the teachings with them, probing into the domain of self-understanding as well as into their personal problems. Krishnaji asked, "Your financial situation is such that you can do this?" "With care, yes." In addition, Dr. Adikaram went on to explain that his scientific writing was now earning him sufficient income to live by.
'Then do it, sir." It was the complete affirmation and confirmation Adikaram was seeking. Profound changes were in the air and were about to become realities through the coming years, not only for Dr. Adikaram, but also for Sri Lanka and beyond. We had stopped. As we began to walk again, Krishnaji asked, "What is the Sanskrit word for 'awareness'?"

Adikaram pondered a moment. "There are a number of words that carry the sense of wakefulness, of being alert. Viinapitah is one; jnana is another. Then there's ianati or jagarah, or even Prajna.'
"They are well-known words among Sanskrit scholars?"
"And laymen, too." "Don't use a Sanskrit word. " Again, Adikaram halted. Krishnaji turned and said, 'To use it is to bring to mind the ancient tradition and to sanction past comprehension. A Sanskrit word will attach what you are saying to the remembered texts. Tell it in your own way, in your own words, what you are seeing. Use modern words.

One evening a few weeks later, as we walked, a question surfaced that had been building up in my mind and was now about to explode. I took a deep breath, but before I had uttered a word, Krishnaji lightly touched my hand, saying, "Not now, sir." Denied expression, the pressure welling up inside me was held. There was no sense of frustration on my part, only a wonder at what was happening. It was as though the impetus had released itself inwardly. Immediately I felt a tremendous sense of lightness. Even the question that had been troubling me had vanished.

One evening Gordon Pearce came with us in the car. He had known Krishnaji from boyhood—indeed, ever since his uniqueness had been discovered—and he had lived in the Theosophical Society headquarters at Adyar. Pearce was in the front seat during the drive out of town, and there had been talk about those early days. Then, twisting right around to face Krishnaji in the back seat, he asked, "During that time with C. W. L., did you actually see the master K. H.? Did you ever talk with Kuthumi?" I was greatly surprised when Krishnamurti replied, 'Yes, I did." And so was Cordon Pearce, both of us having heard Krishnamurti discounting masters and teachers and gurus. Moreover, here he was admitting to an old and trusted friend that he had actually seen the Master Kuthumi, a nonphysical being. "Did you actually talk with him?" Gordon asked. 'Yes," he answered, "sometimes during the early morning meditation. " Krishnaji went on to say that under Leadbeater's direction, he rose at four o'clock in the traditional manner and meditated, and that sometimes Kuthumi was present and a conversation took place. Then one morning just after sunrise—Krishnamurti was seated in the lotus posture facing east—Kuthumi appeared in the doorway. Until that day, talking with K. H. had been enough. "That day I wanted more than talk. I wanted not only to feel his Presence, hear his voice, but also to actually touch him, to make sensual contact. Until that day, he had been a voice, a Presence standing in the doorway. It was a morning when the sun came clear into the room. Kuthumi was standing with his back to the light. I got up, walked to him and through him. I turned. There was no one there. He had disappeared. There was nothing there. And I did not ever see him again."

Sometimes, after we had walked briskly for half an hour or more and we were feeling the exhilaration of movement, we would run for quite some distance. Krishnaji ran with the long easy strides of a trained athlete. When I asked him about his running, he said that back in 1924 Dr. Annie Besant had arranged for him to work out with the American Olympic track team during their training sessions on Staten Island, New York, just before they left for the games in Paris. This expert coaching, along with Krishnaji's natural coordination and grace, no doubt helped him to run with such rhythm, balance and style. This information emboldened me to ask about his walking. Anyone who has ever seen him walk will have noticed his erectness and poise. Did he ever have any instruction in how to walk? "Oh, yes.' In the 1930s in Italy, he had spent time with the army officer in charge of the training of the Italian Alpine troops in skiing and walking quickly over long distances in snow. He had been shown how to conserve energy, the whole body moving in one poised forward flow, the arms swinging loosely from the shoulders, as easily as coat sleeves from a coat hanger. Even in his ninety-first year, Krishnaji still walked in this free, austere, poised way. He walked as he did everything else, with attentive, highly aware precision.
The first evening we ran, Krishnaji began to wheeze distressingly. There was phlegm in his throat. I asked if we should stop. His answer surprised me. "No, sir, I'll run till it breaks." An idea flicked through me. For a 'will-less' man, this sounded like a most willful declaration. He continued to run, choking, obviously having great difficulty in breathing. A hundred yards on, up came a great globule of mucus. Once rid of it he smiled. "That's it! I had this cold in Switzerland and now it is gone. Shall we run?" And off he went again. I knew then that it had not been "will" but a sense that the condition was about to break, and he had assisted its release. An intelligent act, nothing more.

OFTEN I HAVE ASKED, WHAT MAKES THIS MAN an extraordinary human being? What contributed to a mind so and clear? A sensitivity so subtle? were the unique qualities there at birth, or did the esoteric education, the lack of personal conditioning', permit the emergence of this transforming presence in the world? Here are two stories told to me by Madhavachari and Malati Naroji

The Madhavachari Story: A Boyhood Incident

I OFTEN ACCOMPANIED 'MAMMA' ON THE LONC TRAIN JOURNEYS, from Varanasi to Madras, twice, and from Madras to Bombay. we spent whole days together, the two of us, in the compartment. He had been a top railway engineer and had a lifetime free first-class pass. While Krishnamurti flew from place to place with a light bag, Madhavachari carried the luggage on the train. We had an excellent open relationship, and during these days and nights we talked about everything under the sun, and a great deal about Krishnamurti, the teachings, and the work. Sometimes Mamma would tell of Krishnaji's boyhood days at Adyar. One incident concerning the dreamy boy, "the otherness" of Krishnamurti, as a youth, bears recounting :
After the very private tuition had gone on for some time, it was decided that Krishnamurti should have more contact with the world, and especially with children of his own age outside the confines of the Theosophical Society compound. For a time he attended the Olcott School situated just beyond the main gate. One morning his teacher told the boy to stay after school, saying he wanted to go over some of his work. At three-thirty, when all the other children went off home, the teacher, forgetting his order, left too. When Krishnaji failed to return from school at the usual time, other children who attended the Olcott School were asked if they had seen him. In the general exodus, no one had specifically noticed where he had gone. A search of the compound was begun. All his usual haunts were checked there By dinner time there was real concern. Had he decided to go he would certainly have told someone. Consternation began for search parties ranged more widely. At nine o'clock, someone finally went to the deserted school. There, in the dark, was young K seated at his desk, waiting. Five-and-a-half hours had gone by, and he had not moved. He was taken home and given a late supper. Stricter supervision for the dreamy boy was ensured—and a return to tutoring inside the compound.

The Malati Naroji Story: Krishnamurti and the Dalai Lama

I HAD MET MALATI IN SYDNEY IN 1939, HAD GONE SHOPPING WITH her in Colombo in 1949, and had visited her farm outside Bombay in 1950. In 1962, we met again in Ootacamund. Sitting on the steps of the ''Blue Mountains School" late one afternoon, Malati, who had just returned from six months of working for the Tibetan refugees and had been in close daily contact with the Dalai Lama, presented an intriguing theory. In talking with the Dalai Lama about his early and unique education, she had perceived a real similarity with Krishnamurti's tuition. The Dalai Lama had been told he was "the light of the world," a reincarnation into human form of the essence of life. Unlike princes and all other born-to-be-rulers whose regents make the decisions, the Dalai Lama "from the very beginning" was informed he was "the enlightened one." He had shown all the signs. He was not educated in the same manner as other children. The practical, normal teaching approach is that a child does not know but will learn as he grows from those who already know. From the very beginning—even though he did not know what to do, or what should be done—it was understood that the boy Dalai Lama had the capacity to uncover the truth, that, magically, he 'was' the truth. Bewildering as this may have been at first, it allowed confidence and a certain quality of inward listening to be the essence of his conscious life• The boy Dalai Lama had been told that clarity, perception, and intelligence were not separate from him, that he embodied "the light."
Malati then said that, basically, Krishnamurti's education from the time he was "discovered" had been, in this respect, no different from that of the Dalai Lama. Krishnamurti too had been told he was "the world teacher," and the vehicle for the "light of the world " Those around him were protectors and nurturers of the hidden flame he embodied. With this education, the "knowledge" that both boys were already those for which humanity had been seeking through the ages, their attention was not primarily focused on learning things for use in some illusory future, but on what was directly related to the living present. The were taught not to look outside themselves for guidance, but to be inwardly watchful. With such "non-education" as their normal pattern, such inwardness, it was no wonder that two exceptional "enlightened" human beings emerged.

AT RISHI VALLEY THAT YEAR, I WAS INVITED TO LUNCH WITH Krishnaji in the old guest house. There were five of us. Someone had given him a pot of special mango conserve, and it was recommended that I taste it. Dipping the small spoon into the earthenware pot, I found the glutinous mixture difficult to get out, and even more difficult to loosen from the spoon onto my plate. In trying to shake it free, I tapped the plate a couple of times before the conserve dropped. As I reached out to put the spoon back into the pot, Krishnaji touched my outstretched arm. "No, sir, you tapped your plate with the spoon," and by way of explanation added, "Mamma is a strict Brahmin. Once a spoon has touched your plate, it must not be returned to the jar."
This was said as though Madhavachari were not present. Such directness testifies to Krishnamurti's injunction, ''the seeing is the doing"— and points up that there is, in a real sense, no personal connotation in such utterances and acts of his, no personal overtones. The 'fact' is stated and left at that. Make of it what you will: that is your affair.

operated more than anywhere else. It may be that Krishnamurti felt at home there. Maybe there are more people who felt in tune with man and the message, whose very listening permitted complete simplicity in what was being communicated. Certainly the atmosphere, the gardens, the huge trees, contributed, as did the time of day—sunset and the fact that he walked only fifty yards from his house to the low dais. This of course is guessing, but nowhere else in the world have I experienced the magical quality so completely, so often.
One talk in 1967 had a profound impact. The crowd, two thousand and more, were ready as Krishnaji walked serenely through the trees to the low rostrum. The crows were still calling and cawing, boisterously preparing to settle for the night. As always, Krishnaji slowly viewed the whole expectant gathering, recognizing here and there an old friend. Seated beside the rostrum, ready to record, I watched all this. He began: "We keep on ploughing and re-ploughing the same ground—never sowing a seed. We churn the ground over and over, and we do not know what to plant. We have no seed to plant.. .so nothing grows..."
As the talk developed and the depth of communion grew, it seemed as though the whole audience was mesmerized by the beauty of the voice, the rhythm of the words, the profound penetration, the shared wonder that included all. He told how throughout history, humanity had searched for the essence of being, the source of life, and asked, "Is there anything sacred?

Two days later, at the morning public discussion, in the huge ground floor auditorium at Vasanta Vihar, a remarkable incident took place. I had arrived early to set up the recording equipment against the wall in themiddle of the hall, beside Krishnamurti's low rostrum. I noticed a man already seated at a vantage place at the front of the stage, a very still, selfcontained man, whom I had not seen before. His arrogant air announced he had come, not to listen, but to challenge. Occasionally, at public discussions, gurus and other public figures turn up to test them- selves and their ideas against the "internationally revered" Krishnamurti. I guessed that was why he was here. As Krishnaji came in and seated himself, the man shifted his position just a little. My attention was again drawn to him. His piercing gaze was acute. Krishnaji, as usual, was quietly viewing the silent audience. And, before he began speaking, he turned away from the microphone and softly said to me, "Sir, would you mind moving just a little forward so that you are between me and that man. I moved, and when I looked again, the piercing intensity had gone from his gaze. I do not know what happened. I suspect, speculate, that once he realized that Krishnaji was aware to what he was up to—the way a child, discovered in some sly act, is suddenly dismayed and powerless— the guru gentleman had given up; he had become part of the crowd.

An APPOINTMENT HAD BEEN MADE FOR A LONDON Times Sunday supplement correspondent to interview Krishnamurti. I was with him in the drawing room when the man and his wife arrived. As some other occasions, Krishnaji gestured for me to remain, saying once the formal introductions had been made, I was included as a friendly onlooker. After an hour or so of questions and answers and a lot taking, there came an incident that was to transform the occasion. A photo camera was produced and the Times man, with Krishnamurti's permission, began taking photographs. After perhaps half a dozen shots his wife, noticing the bright light of the late afternoon sun streaming in through the open doorway, looked outside and suggested that a photograph in sunlight might be the one they were after. Gracious, as always, Krishnaji complied, and I followed the three out onto the wide verandah. There he stood, quietly waiting while the cameraman decided what composition was wanted. It so happened that close by the door was a most beautiful life-size statue of the Buddha, so simple in its economy of line, so serene in its portrayal of passivity as to be feminine in its tenderness. Even before I saw the magnificent possibility, it was clear that the photographer had seen and decided the two resplendent heads presented an opportunity not to be missed. He gestured, "Just a little to your left, sir." Krishnamurti moved and stood, watching, waiting. Never before had I seen his features so composed, with such compassionate delicacy, such essential femininity, such sweet passivity. The two figures made a superbly complete picture— Krishnamurti's tranquility and the stillness of the Buddha statue at his shoulder—both luminous in the afternoon light.

So unexpected, so immense was the impact they made that tears welled up inside me. Suddenly all my self-possession had gone. I stood there with tears trickling down my cheeks. The camera clicked quickly three or four times. The professional had the shots he was after. The session was over. I thought that in the flurry of activity my release had not been noticed. I was wrong, for as Krishnaji turned to walk back into the drawing room, I caught his discerning glance. At brief moments I had witnessed in Krishnamurti's masculine austerity and strength and the feminine ones revealed in one human being: the immediate male/female wholeness patience and adaptability and the abiding in one body. I never saw the published article or what must have been a unique photograph.

WHEN MURIEL PAYNE RELINQUISHED THE TASK OF administering the Rishi Valley School, a new principal had to be found. Gordon Pearce had agreed to resign from his post as secretary of the Sri Lankan education department. This meant he would forego his pension. He was sixty-four at the time, and a government service pension was paid only if the officer had served until the statutory age of retirement, sixty-five. Pearce was willing to take this financial loss. He was excited about the opportunity to participate actively in a school with the possibility of awakening children, rather than conditioning them. So, during Krishnamurti's Colombo visit Gordon had provisionally accepted the post of principal of Rishi Valley School.

The questions now were: Who would be the teachers? How would they be selected? In addition, would the educators themselves need educat- ing? The location of the school was a further problem. Rishi Valley, stark, beautiful, and isolated as it is, away in the mountains of Andhra Pradesh, is 140 miles west of Madras and twelve miles from the nearest town, Madanapalle, where Krishnamurti was born. How to pre-select teachers who would be happy there and so function well? If for any reason they later turned out not to be satisfactory, real disruption to their lives, as well as to the cohesion of the school, would result. Hopefully, the elected teachers would be extraordinary human beings. Besides their academic qualifications, adaptability, and creativity, a love of children was essential. The candidates had to meet all of the above criteria. If the school was to succeed, a whole range of qualities was needed. It was Gordon Pearce's task during that December/January 1949/1950 period, while Krishnaji was present, to choose at least some of the teachers. As an interested outsider, I was invited to take part in these discussions. Beyond reflecting on the various academic qualifications and teaching experience, the task was how to get to know the prospective teacher's attitudes and manner. It was seen to be necessary to invite him into your home to observe how he behaves, responds to you, your wife and family, to other teachers, and to find out what subjects he likes and dislikes, how he talks, acts, and where his interests lie—a whole host of attributes that make up a human being and would form the basis of relationships.

Towards the end of one such discussion, after three possible teachers had shown up, it was decided to invite Krishnaji in to hear what had been done and what was proposed. Pearce tapped on the door of Krishnamurti's room, which adjoined the drawing room where we were gathered. Krishnamurti immediately joined us, taking a place in the circle on the floor. Pearce gave a resume of our discussion and the situation as he saw it, and asked, "We'd like to know, sir, what you would do to select the right teachers?" Krishnamurti said, "I am a teacher looking for a job. Interview me." I recall Gordon laughing and saying half seriously, "Will you be? Would you come for a term?" "No, sir. We are talking about teachers you are going to select." In much greater detail, Pearce explained his proposal. Then Krishnamurti said, "All right. So you would invite me to your home, to your table, and I would be most pleasant to you and your wife and children. I would be on my best behavior. And, if I were as subtle as you are, I would pick up where your interests lay, whether you inclined towards the humanities, languages, mathematics, science, history; and I would go along with your interests. When you took me on a tour of the school, I would be open to whatever you proposed without being sycophantic. In this way, I would establish a friendly relationship with you. I would also be playing a role, scheming to impress you."
Cordon responded, "If I sensed you were playing up to me, not being frank, yet I still liked you, I might engage you. However, not as a teacher. I could assign you to work on the farm and gardens that supply the school. I would watch you out there, see how you behaved and functioned. If you did a satisfactory job, I could bring you in to teach in the school." Krishnamurti said, "If I wanted the job and accepted your terms, I would, while I was working in the garden, apply myself not only to the job. I would also be listening for others who felt they were getting a raw deal I would cultivate anyone who was grumbling about conditions, anyone who was not seeing eye to eye with you. Eventually when you did let me in I would already have a bond with dissenter. And if ever I saw you in difficulty, I would, with the aid of that group, challenge and maybe over- throw you."

It was an unexpected and startling pragmatic statement. After a long pause, Gordon shrugged. "Then what do I do, sir? Assuming that one of the young teachers takes teaching at Rishi Valley as a stepping stone to becoming the principal, that he or she IS as awake and astute as me, how can I know of this ahead of time? How can I discover here and now before he is engaged, before any trouble begins, the teacher's hidden characteristics?"
Krishnamurti said, "Sir, I would do exactly what you have said you will do. I would invite him to the table, talk with him. I would take him on a tour of the school. I would do all that you propose. I would be watching, listening to how he spoke, observing how he related to others, how he watched the sky, birds, and people. And particularly, I would be watching how he looked at women." Then Krishnaji's voice changed, along with the emphasis. "But... I wouldn't be watching him, how he related to people. I wouldn't be listening to him, how he spoke, how he watched women, or if it was a woman, how she watched men...l would be watching the responses in me to their actions. I would be aware of my responses, the mirroring of him that was occurring simultaneously in me. On that I would go. On that awareness I would act.

One morning after a midweek public meeting, I brashly asked Krishnamurti why, on the previous evening, he had allowed so many irrelevant ideas to be introduced. I do not remember what the theme was, but I do remember that the meeting had ended in confusion. He had permitted people to raise questions that were unrelated to the developing direction of the discussion. Krishnamurti's reply was that until a person discovers for himself the futility of trying to think up other angles and new answers to a problem, he keeps the brain churning information. Clarity comes when specula- tive thinking ceases, for listening is the essential ingredient. Until the limited role of thinking is realized, thought remains trapped in its own confusion. That had happened last night. "You noticed it, so did some others. Confusion stops only when it is seen and dealt with first in yourself. To be told by somebody else you are confused only adds another idea to the existing confusion. On another occasion I asked, 'Why is it you don't actually answer people's questions? Why don't you give specific answers?" He replied, "I answer the "why" of the question. Questions are asked in relation to something else. When you ask someone the time of day, it is related to some activity you have in mind. Beyond the listening reveals the intent behind the words. Except in physical matters, a specific answer to the specific question is not relevant. The answer lies in understanding the question."

At one early morning discussion, the matter of politicians, political leaders, and dictators was raised. Someone asked, "What is the intelligent thing to do? Everywhere there is the growing power of the state and politicians and dictators. What can be done?"
Krishnamurti's reply was unexpected. "The dictator, the politician is not the problem. There will always be those who want power, who believe they know what to do. It is not the exploiter but the exploitable who needs attention. It is the gullible, the ones looking for direction, for guidance, who need examination. While you refuse to take responsibility for your own life and are prepared to let someone else do your work, dictators will exist."

ON ONE OF THE DAYS WHEN I WAS GREETING THOSE WITH appointments and ensuring that Krishnamurti was not disturbed, there was a lull. Someone had not arrived on time. After a while I tapped on the door, which was slightly ajar. "Come in," he called. There he was lying on the bed reading a book. I could see the title, The World's 2,000 Best Jokes. I had been told he rarely read, though in the car on the way to our walk one evening, he had mentioned Orwell's 1984 and some novels and essays of D. H. Lawrence. However, The World's 2,000 Best Jokes! I was delighted.

1950 WHEN KRISHNAMURTI FLEW FROM COLOMBO TO MADRAS, THEN on to Bombay, I wound up the job with Radio Lanka, took a boat up the west coast of India to Bombay, and arrived there just before the beginning of the talks. Although the close relationship I had with him in Colombo did not continue, the inward movement that had been occurring within me in Colombo did. Here I was to experience other kinds of discussions, particularly in Pupul Jayakar's home in Malabar Hill. It was a vast, beautiful dwelling with an enormous drawing room. One morning near the end of a long session we were all feeling weary from the oppressiveness of the crowded room, and from the heat. It was about eleven o'clock when someone said she was exhausted. "And I have only been listening. You must be tired, Krishnaji?" He looked cool and surprised. "Not at all," he said, "I have not been thinking."

Another time when the discussion had come around to the domination thought has assumed over all human activities, someone wanted to know how this mental supremacy had come about and asked, "When did it begin?" "You mean historically?" "Yes, I suppose so." "That could lead to speculation. Thought thinking about what might have happened in the distant past. Begin near. Let me ask you a question. Each morning when you waken, what do you do?" "I prepare myself for the day, beginning with my habitual routine. And I probably give some thought to what I will have to do." A woman asked, "What do you do, Krishnaji?" "On waking—before 1 do anything 1 ask my body, 'How are you this day ? And my body lets me know how it is, rested, ready to get up and go, or lazy. It shows me any aches and pains. And I listen." ground of a school at sunset; the discussions were at Malabar Hill Dongarsay Road. Occasionally a small group met at Mr. Ratansi his starkness, generated enormous house. Krishnaji's attentive "emptiness, energy and interest. In those days, Pupul Jayakar and Maurice Friedman were intensely urgent in their questioning. One evening we were all seated on the floor in a semicircle facing Krishnaji. Gradually, as the discussion intensified, these two edged their way forward, closer and closer. The theme of the inquiry was dying, and what it is to die. Soon the two were directly confronting him. Their urgency to capture his meaning was so compelling, so stressful that Krishnaji leaned backward, delighted, detached, wholly in control. "You don't understand. Why don't you get it as it is being said, as it is? If I change one word, then you will understand. If I change the word 'death' to 'love,' you will immediately say you understand. You will fit it into your conditioned memory and claim to comprehend. Do see that which does not fit into the framework of your experience. Truth is always new—never the known."

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 20 Dec 2017.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Mon, 25 Dec 2017 #141
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

More 'lost & found" pages from Ingram Smith's memoirs

THE DAY AFTER I ARRIVED AT RAJGHAT an appointment with Krishnamurti was arranged for me. I walked over to the house, up the stairs, and out to where he stood. Greetings over, he asked me why I had come. I said I wanted to share the extraordinary freedom and lucidity that came when I was with him, and which I occasionally experienced on my own. He hesitated. "And you want it? You want to get it?" The emphasis on the "you" gave me pause. "Yes. Even though I realize it's not a personal thing at all, that it's not mine." He let that go for the moment and we sat in silence. Then I asked about the possibility of breaking through the limitations in my way of life. "What then is your question?" he asked. "What is the essence, the free-flowing energy that animates life?" Krishnamurti's answer: "( That) Energy is always here, but normally it's involved in pursuing thought, is expended in thinking, so that the real world is secondary and your own responses occupy your attention and use up your energy. When there is no division between you and the world around you, the energy flows freely."

"But," I countered, "Energy in me is confined, is directed, is not free. K: "Yes. It demands tremendous sensitivity. Are you prepared for 'psychological' surgery?"

The dramatic metaphor rocked me. This was no longer a speculative project that I could work on at my leisure; not some transformation that may possibly come about at some future time. It was an ultimate question. Was I ready for immediate, slicing-through surgery? No matter what the outcome? That moment I realized that I was being faced with a total decision: the cutting out of the false. I had no idea what was involved, but I did understand that it meant fundamental change. Was I prepared? Well, ready or not, there I was. There was actually no decision to be made. I had come to this situation and this crisis point. "That's why I've come," I remember replying."Then come tomorrow morning at eight o'clock. When you go downstairs, see Mamma [Madhavachari] and tell him that you will be attending the early morning discussions."

The next morning I went up the stairs to find eight people sitting cross-legged in a circle, five men and three women. They made space and I sat with them. Soon Krishnamurti joined us and straightaway asked what we would like to talk about. Someone proposed "cooperation," adding "co-operation that has no goal as its motive." Someone else observed that without a purpose there would be no incentive for cooperation—and the discussion had already begun. We went into what it means to cooperate without an objective: simply being together, inquiring together, watching together, was coop- eration. The discussion quietly led to the fact that, being conditioned, we project our purposes out of our pasts and so keep moving in the constant round of past/present/future repetitive activity. And that we "cooperate" in this known pattern.

Krishnamurti asked, " Are we aware that we 'are' this repetitive mechanism, is there an awareness that the deadening, recurring process prevents spontaneous cooperation? Maybe there is another movement altogether that is not mechanical, not repetitive?"

The question highlighted the admission that living usually consists of a boring routine, and that simultaneously, one looks for a way out of the habitual round, to make a passage into another dimension, something new and whole, often called "freedom." Rather than speculate about what freedom may be, simply to observe one's mode of daily living may be the only action needed. Certainly to remain focused on what is actu- ally happening is to uncover its operation (in a thousand ways), and to dis- cover the diminishing significance and power of habit. One of the men pointed out that awareness brings about an enormous release of energy, energy that has been blocked and stored in repetitive patterns.

This discussion group, like the others I was to attend over the years, included a dimension normally beyond ordinary consciousness. It didn't matter what direction our talk took, or what the theme had been at the beginning, for the area being investigated would open out and often change course. As we followed the flow, domains and depths immeasurably beyond the opening understanding were uncovered. There was always a sense of wholeness and urgency. Sometimes during a dialogue, one or two of us would become distressed or troubled. There would be long pauses, followed by a sudden pick-up; baffled responses sometimes erupted. There would be a quick seeing, a quick leaping through one another's perceptions, like a game of mental leap-frog, with each one of us leaping over and beyond the other's stance—no going back to what had been, but a vaulting through the present perception to a new position, and occasionally, into another dimension. I would leave with a sense of extraordinary lightness and wholeness.

DRIFTING DOWN THE GANGES DURING THIS MONTH OF "seminars" at Rajghat, a new sense of freedom enlivened my consciousness. One early evening, two companions and I were returning from Varanasi where we had spent the afternoon. We were at the Burning Ghats on the river bank when the full moon rose, and we decided to hire a boat and drift the mile or so back to the temple on the school property. Like us, the boatman was happy merely to drift eastward under the enor- mous railroad bridge, just floating gently on this silent river. Occasionally, the oar was moved to guide the craft as we flowed serenely The night and the sound of the water lapping gently induced a dreamlike tranquility, yet we three were starkly awake. When we came to the temple steps, which led down into the water, the craft slid in. We were in no hurry to move with no wish to change the magic mood. The boatman was paid, and we stepped off onto a little stone platform. As though in a waking dream, we meandered up the steps.The silence held an extraordinary stillness. No one spoke. At the top of the bank there was a giant banyan tree. As I passed under its vast canopy, with the moonlight shining through the leaves and making pled patterns on the sandy earth, a strange sensation came over me. I had a feeling of such lightness and the whole world had suddenly changed _ and 1 with it. Everything was totally different, sharp and clear. It was as if a great burden had fallen away. Everything was right and beautiful as it was, perfect. This sensitivity, fragile yet with wholeness and strength, was to be present through my body/being for four days—a sense of seeing and being in a completely new world. This sounds as though it were a personal experience. It was not. What was happening had nothing to do with me or anything I was doing or had done or intended to do. It was as though my old consciousness was in abeyance. And everything was present and changing its own totality. There was no sense of separation. In this miraculous state, we walked up to the Pilgrim's Way and to our rooms in one of the college residential buildings overlooking the Varuna River.

This experience was the beginning of wholly tranquil days and nights when the slow rhythm of the daily round, the timeless tempo of the river, the beauty of the dawns and sunsets, the sense of being, and of being timeless, filled the world with wonder.

As I began to come back to my "normal" consciousness, I jotted down some thoughts. Perceptions are instantaneous, but although the mood had been there as we drifted timelessly in the moonlight, the change in conscious- ness had not come until I walked under the banyan tree. At that moment, another dimension was suddenly here. And this raised again the questions: What is consciousness? Where does consciousness begin? Where does it take place? In my brain and head? In my body? Where? And what is it that changes? What actually is consciousness? When I am introspective I seem to be looking inward to an inner space somewhere behind my eyes. Sometimes I close my eyes not only to listen more acutely, but also to recall something I have forgotten. I close my eyes to look inside. Watching this phenomenon, I saw that closing my eyes cuts out outside distractions, the sights/sounds of the physical world around me, so that they do not intrude and distract from what is going on inwardly. This introspection apparently behind the eyes indicates that physiologically this is where I assume consciousness is.When talking, I tend to rely on eye contact as though consciousness were operating in the other's head as well. Somehow I assume that the brain/space inside my head is talking to the brain/space in some other's head. 1 imagine mind/space is inside me—in back of my eyes where 1 cannot look—sight being only forward. So what is consciousness? Is it simply reactivity to some stimulus?One thing was certain, an unlocated magnitude was present during those four days.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Sat, 30 Dec 2017 #142
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

( Continuing with selected pages from Ingram Smith's memoirs of K)

January 1, 1964

TODAY WAS THE DEEPEST DISCUSSION WITH the teachers. It went through and beyond many crucial levels, and fortunately I recorded it.

Krishnamurti began by asking what we wanted to discuss. One teacher said, "How do we teach children so that they are ready to face tomorrow?" Another asked, "What is meditation?"

Krishnamurti said, "Let us combine the two questions, for in the answering of the one, there will be meditation.' First we explored what it is to live in an isolated beautiful valley like Rishi, apart from the main flow and stimulation of world events. We saw that no matter where one lives, the sources of information—radio, news- papers, television, periodicals—are the same, but that in this valley away from it all, there is the tendency to think of what is happening elsewhere as only relatively important, to narrow everything down, for interest to be focused only on local things and happenings. This leads to a certain shallowness of outlook and interests, and to a tendency to gossip about people on the campus—a preoccupation with the commonplace. This is because there is less diversion, less distraction, fewer amusements and more concentration on a narrower field; which means that any inherent tendency to character weaknesses in individuals here is emphasized and exaggerated. So more care needs to be taken of the tongue, eyes and ears; otherwise these frailties, these tendencies, and peculiarities in isolation can lead to abnormalities—even to madness.

Krishnamurti then said, "As to teaching the children,and preparing them for tomorrow... there is no tomorrow." This came as a shock. Krishnamurti went on: "There is chronological time—tomorrow follows today—but there is not development towards Now. There, one young American woman said, "It would be dreadful if there were no tomorrow!" Another, when directly questioned, replied, "If there is no tomorrow, then there can have been no yesterday."

Krishnamurti : "Please listen to the question. Don't give answers. Someone has said, 'There is no tomorrow,' and you immediately respond with words with concepts; you speculate as to what the answer is. All your answers are reactions. Are your conditioned pasts meeting the statement? It doesn't matter who has said, 'There is no tomorrow,' or whether the statement is true or false. You yet do not know. Give the question space in your minds, so that it can grow, develop; so that you can see its full implications, its meaning, To the American woman, Krishnaji said, "When you said, 'It would be dreadful if there were no tomorrow,' it meant there are things you want to do—have a baby; complete your career; understand all that you do not now understand. You meant you want time—time in which to do all these things and to experience them, to complete them. These are all reactions of your past, of your conditioning, projected into the future—into what you hope will be the future. "And you, sir, said, 'Then there must be only the Present'; but the state- ment, 'There is no tomorrow,' has nothing to do with the Present. What is your response, not in words, not your conceptual reaction, but what is your immediate seeing in the statement, "There is no tomorrow'? What do you find taking place in you?"
Krishnaji waited while we listened inwardly to the question. Then he said, 'You discover, don't you, the past; the reaction, the response, whatever you like to call it, comes up out of memory, and is intensified."

Someone asked, "What do you mean by intensified?"

Krishnaji: "What rises is intensified: a pain or a sight or sound is inten- sifted, becomes more vivid, the moment you give attention to it. So what arises in the mind in response to the statement is a response from the past. Now let us go slowly, step by step. What do you say now?

Another asked, "Can the mind see anything but the past? Isn't the mind only the reflection of the past, and nothing more?"

Krishnaji: "What do you mean by the mind?"

Reply: "The whole mind, the whole being, including all feeling, sensitivity, thought, experiences, awareness, memories—everything."

Krishnaji: "Let's go on from there. The total mind includes all that; the whole of one's being—all that you are conscious of, and all that of which you are unconscious. Now, when the mind is confronted with a question, a statement, any question, any statement, any fact or falsehood, what is your response? And the statement we are watching is, 'There is no tomorrow. ' "The past, which is the mind—and there is only the past— responds. Anything that occurs in you is the past rising to meet that statement, that challenge. Any thought, any feeling, any conception of or about tomorrow is illusion—is not fact. You do not know tomorrow. You know nothing about tomorrow. The only fact in you is your own reflection, from the past. And there is no present. Watch it carefully, openly, accurately. What is the present? Any reaction to the Present is the past responding to, operating in, the Present. Any response is the past, the old memories, conditioned accumulation, evoked by the question. Watch it! Listen with your whole attention. "All you observe, all you see, is the past and only the past—and that's all there is—the past. Is the observer different from his past—and is the past a series of remembered highlights, memories, or is it a total thing— though only parts of it are seen? "Is the past whole, or is it seen fragmentarily? And is the observer of the past, of the mind—is that observer who is the past, different from what he is observing? The observer is the past. There is only the past, only the accumulations. The accumulation is the mind, and that is all. The observer, the mind, the accumulations, the responses, is the past,

Krishnaji paused, and we watched, letting the meaning, the implica- tions of this unfold.

Then he said, "This seeing is the Present—and this seeing has no tomorrow—and the past has gone. This empty, still state is without past or future. This dissolution of the past is transformation, is freedom. This perception frees the total past, and the ever-new After a long, long pause, he said, "So there is no tomorrow, and this is meditation. ' My mind was still. Though there were bird calls and activity outside, movement within the room was suspended, vividly alive.The resonance remains in me, not as a continuation, but as an evanes- cent reality.

This is a summary of a two-hour discussion taken from the tape. Krishnamurti was so inwardly alive that every flicker of feeling showed in his face and body movements.

January 2, 1964

FOR A WEEK NOW I'VE BEEN SLEEPING OUT ON THE ROOF OF THE guest house surrounded by moonlit mountains. It is early morning and I'm still in my sleeping bag. At this hour the stillness is immense. It's all here in the silence; one doesn't have to do anything to get it. It is now obvious that living each day is not a means to an end, not something I do or can do in order to get some desired result. Since Rajghat, there's been a shift in the way I see change—instead of the old procedure, with the brain churning around searching for ways either to escape (when what is going on is painful) or planning to get some goal (that will improve my situation or myself). Why not experience what is happening? The present reality? Otherwise one goes on living in illusion, in dreams, in ideas, in egoism, goes on believing that "I" have to do something to discover the ever-changing reality which is already here, there, everywhere. It is now obvious that living, freely and fully, is not an achievement. There is no way to awaken the mind to reality, although over the centuries every imaginable technique has been tried. Perhaps all that can be done is to relinquish one's hold on the conceptual world.

January 6, 1964 THE QUESTION THAT HAS BEEN WITH ME EVER SINCE relates to hearing Krishnaji's statement, "Why don't you start awakening India, a climate of awakened attitude towards education." Yesterday I mentioned this to Krishnaji, and he said, "Let's walk one evening and talk about this." This evening we walked all the way to the main road and back, and although I brought up the matter, Krishnaji seemed uninterested, and I again realized that there was no fire or determination in me, that I was looking for something to do, some work that would be interesting and worthwhile. The whole idea was a kind of speculation, without deep significance—an alternative to working for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation—a better way of living and working, a comparative possibility, a choice. so, naturally, Krishnaji's response reflected my lukewarm proposal. On the return, as we came to the stream, he said, "Have you considered teaching, and in teaching, discussing and learning with others?" The question came as a surprise. I have never taught. I shall talk with Krishnaji about this in Madras, about the possibility of talking, teaching, and learning with others. I want to explore further what listening is, and speaking out of a state of mind that does not begin with information and past knowledge.

January 11, 1964 THIS MORNING THERE WAS A DISCUSSION WITH THE WHOLE school—teachers and students together. The little ones squatted up front close to Krishnaji and were, as usual, restless. The older students were seated on chairs, attentively quiet. Krishnaji talked for ten minutes about education, what were students being educated for, about the immense social problems in India, and finally asked directly, "What do you want to do with your lives?" There was the usual reticence to draw attention to themselves by speaking. Then a final-year student talked about the difficulty of getting a job, and the vastness of this problem in overpopulated India. The discussion came alive when one small boy—he turned out to be eleven years old—challenged Krishnaji's question. He asked, "What can one boy do to change the world? The problems are so big, what can one boy do?" He was seated directly in front of me and fifty feet from Krishnaji, who immediately focused on the boy whose questions had gone to the heart of the problem, "What could one boy do with his life?" As I recall, the dialogue went like this: "Let us begin small, with ourselves here at the school in this beautiful valley. Here you are related to your teachers and your school mates, and at home with your parents, brothersnand sisters, friends. This is your world. Begin with the world you know. What can you do to change this, the actual world of your daily living?"

Immediately, the boy replied, "I could get to know them better."

K: "Yes. Do you ever have fights? Or get angry?"

Boy: "Sometimes, yes."

K: "That's something you could look into. Uncover what makes you get angry. You could do that, couldn't you?"

Boy: "Yes, but that won't change the whole world."

K: "How do you know? [We sat silent.] I've been told some of you are studying the beginning of Western civilization. The history of Greece.'

Boy: "Yes, we are."

K.: "You've read about Socrates.
Boy: "The philosopher—yes."
K.: "He did not talk to great crowds. He took no active part in public affairs. It is said he talked only to small groups of students, not more than five or so at a time. He didn't even write down the conversations, what was said. It was Plato who later recorded these dialogues. Socrates was no Pericles addressing the assembly in the Parthenon, proposing plans to change Athens or the world or society. He did not talk about implementing social programs. Socrates was inquiring into reality, into the human consciousness with a handful of friends; yet by investigating inwardly, he was to change Western civilization far, far more than the lawmakers. Begin small, understand the world in which you live. Let what you see and say and do be the real beginning of change.

Afterwards, I talked with the boy. He had been profoundly affected by the outcome of his challenge. He had seen not only into himself, but had had a dawning realization of what he could do; of what had hap- pened when he challenged and then held to what he saw and understood, when he did not defend his information, but tested it.

One morning when I went to the Rishi Valley School post office with some letters, I greeted the postman whom I knew quite well with a friendly conventional, "Good morning. How are you this morning?" "As you can see me," was his reply. Totally unconventional, and the "truest" response I had ever heard to my commonplace greeting. It was an accu- rate description of himself. Normally what I take away from a meeting is not what people say about their health that I remember, but what "As you see me," became my response to the habitual conversation opener, "How are you?"

THE INDIAN "KRISHNAMURTI CIRCUIT" USUALLY BEGAN IN NEW Delhi, then went on to Rajghat, Madras, Rishi Valley, Bangalore, and Bombay. On the first two sojourns, I took an Akai recording machine. From 1965 to 1975, I brought a Nagra—loaned by the ABC. The record- ings were of top broadcast quality. I went to listen, to experience, and also to record the public talks and discussions and some of the group discussions held in the residences where Krishnaji was staying. These tapes were sent to Sydney. Excerpts from the tapes were broadcast nationally over the Australian Broadcasting Commission in a weekly program called "Scope." The full tapes were played on a regular weekly basis at a central location in Sydney—the Wayside Theatre. Once videos were produced, these replaced the audio presentations at the theater on a monthly basis. Apart from the 1962/63 winter when Krishnamurti did not come because of the Indo-China border war, my Indian sojourns were pilgrim- ages, refresher courses, and delightful holidays, which formed a kind of biannual structuring of my life, each three-month visit giving it renewed impetus and meaning. And the spin-off from this was the work in Australia, the dissemination of Krishnamurti's books, tapes, and informa- In a sense, two parallel streams were in operation in me. one was the work, the function itself—the other the status and the feedback that resulted from a recognition among those concerned that something of importance was being done. But a shadow gradually accumulated as acknowledgment of the work widened, and more people became power corrupt- some assumed that I had a special link with Krishnamurti. Yet there was none, apart from mutual remembrance and esteem, and my heightened awareness in his presence. This is my relationship. Just as there are "in" jokes that are only understood and appreciated by those involved in a particular occupation, so there is a belief that those who are not in the know must work through those who are. In a very real way, recognition not only goes with function, but it is assumed that these "special" persons, through their associations and links, have access to sources of control. The hierarchical pyramid power structure is inherent in human tradition and thought. It is a future-geared activity that nurtures ambition and breeds devotees, sycophants, and coteries of like-minded people, as well as devious behavior—both overt and concealed—fooling others along with ourselves through self-trickery and illusion, and the illusion of leaders and followers.

Krishnamurti denies the master/pupil relationship and affirms that individuals can be free from authority. Even so, the experience of being touched by his astonishing energy can evoke the age-old behavior of looking to another to learn about oneself. Often the first experience of Krishnamurti is dramatic. One reads or hears some "truth" and it reverberates through one's being. Sometimes it begins simply as a fresh insight into self, pointing to a vaster perspective of life. Thus is born the desire to learn more—read more books or listen to tapes and perhaps meet the man himself. So emerges the devotee and a euphoria that can go on and on.

The "search" has thus become dual: first, what he says, then the listener/hearer's comprehension and behavior. The duality is in looking out, hoping for guidance, and looking in, hoping for change, which leads to overlooking, looking out over the present and missing the immediate living reality.

THE URGENCY TO COMMUNICATE WHAT I HAD SEEN AND HEARD and particularly what was happening in me was immense. And wanted desperately to tell anyone who would listen. One of the great human cries is: "Hear me! Understand me. Please understand me!"
"Why can't you hear what I so urgently want to tell you?" or "Isn't there anyone who will listen? Hear me ! Hear not onlv mv cry for help, but my insights, my story and my song. Listen. Such anguish is present in us, as is the need to be loved, to be accepted as I am, and to be heard. Love me, hear me, whether I have thing to say or nothing worth giving or receiving. In my heart I know that until I can listen to you in the very way I want you to listen to me openly, generously, freely, following me wherever I may go, that until I can so listen and hear, is it likely that anyone will be ready and willing to receive what I am expressing?

Can I get the attention I cannot give? Can I expect from you what I do not give? Until I can and do give what I so desire to receive—your full attention and comprehension—it is foolish of me to expect open listening from you. Perhaps the greatest gift one can give to another human being is not any thing, not ideas, not knowledge, but one's full attention.

A PREDICTION New Delhi, 1967 ONE MORNING AT THE SHIVA RAO HOME IN NEW DELHI, I WAS recording a small-group discussion when an extraordinary prediction was made casually. As often happens in the intense explorations, a point is reached when there is no answer, when the known is exhausted, no new leads appear, and the essence is still hidden. A halt had come—yet no solution. Everyone was alert, looking, and waiting. I was stuck, as, apparently, was everyone else. Krishnaji suddenly smiled, "I've got it!" It came out lightly. Krishnaji's delighted, "I've got it," prompted Pupul Jayakar's, ''I haven't." For a few minutes Krishnaji talked about the way we let him do all the work while we waited for his answer. Then he said, "When I'm dead, you will have to do the work. So do it! Find out for yourself, now!" Pupul replied pragmatically, "But you are here!" Krishnamurti retorted, "I'm dead!" and he sat back, hands raised, palms facing out, unmistakably indicating that he was out of it, that the problem was ours. We sat silent for a while. The discussion's impetus had dropped. Thrown back on myself, I was looking inward. But Pupul, pursuing her search and wanting to hear Krishnaji's insight, was adamant. "You're not dead. While you are alive and talking.. "...and I will be until I'm ninety-two." It was an inconsequential, inadvertent admission, given no importance, for he went right on to tell what he had seen, and what all of us wanted to hear.

A spontaneous, throwaway sentence—"and I will be until I'm ninety-two" —an unstressed, casual prediction. But it had been said and heard and recorded. A chance prediction made in 1967, nineteen years ahead of time. Krishnamurti died at twelve-ten in the morning on Monday, February 17, 1986, in Ojai, California, in his ninety-first year.

Madras, 1965/66

THE CONSEQUENCES OF BEING SOMEWHAT HIGH-STRUNG, AS I am, are many: instant sensations, fast reactions, quick movements, rather rapid talking and walking. So, when I notice something needing attention, I straightaway want to act and if it is possible, usually do. This urgency to act is actually a reaction. And, I "hasten" to add, these responses are brief and though vivid soon pass from my consciousness (even if not carried out). Often they provoke similar responses in others, with all the ensuing interactions and consequences. Take anger, and its many manifestations. I was recording the public talks/discussions and some small discussions, then sending the tapes back to the ABC in Sydney. There were always endless delays at the post offices while these packages were maneuvered through the system. Usually registration took two or three hours. Instead of blowing my top, I tried every artifice: smiling to cover my distress, urging the clerks along, waiting patiently, resignedly, for the in- terminable process to end. Every stage of the registration of the bulky packages was done by a different person. Each operation had to be checked and rechecked. Of course, I fooled no one, not even myself, with my antics and attempts to camouflage my real feelings. It didn't work. Other customers with time on their hands stayed to watch and enjoy the entertaining charade. Nothing altered, whatever I did or refrained from doing. The two to three hours were standard, and having once been to a post office, when I returned with another neatly sewn linen packet, the post office team re- enacted the slow farce. Even after I came to know one or two employees quite well, they made no concessions to my frustration; the post office crew knew the game, and played it, or so it seemed. Even setting aside half a day and treating the whole excursion as an interesting experience did not stop my agitation. I could not help thinking how futile the Indian postal system was, that it engaged so many different postal clerks to handle one package—nor how banal I was, reacting the way I did.

I had watched my behavior and seen that anger can be the outcome of frustration, and frustration the outcome of will, and will the out- come of a desire to get my own way and wanting it quickly. I had seen thwarted achievement lead to impatience, and impatience to anger, and anger to neurotic action or farce. Thus began another probing into anger and its devious expressions. So every week I went through this debilitat- ing process. And I got better at letting my feelings arise and go by. However, I was not free. In one form or another, anger arose every time, and it had to be dealt with. Eventually, I became fascinated by my performance. There was no real alternative to posting the tapes back to the ABC. Besides the inconvenience of lugging them from place to place, and the chance of losing them or having them stolen, there was the hassle of boarding planes with ten, twenty, thirty reels of tape and of having my luggage overweight, and the problem of customs and customs duty on a great batch of tapes on arrival at the Sydney airport.

I asked Mamma for an appointment with Krishnaji, and it was arranged. When I arrived, Krishnaji was in the office at Vasanta Vihar. we went through to the ground-floor room where the interviews were conducted during that visit. We squatted on the floor facross-legged. Krishnaji's steady, inquiring look held the question, 'Well...?" I said I wanted to talk about anger, in its many forms, and the many masks I wore to disguise it. I talked about frustration and the multiplicity of associated feelings. He leaned slightly forward and asked, "Do you really want to go into this the whole way, sir?"

Once again, I had that awe- some sensation of high apprehension—of not knowing what might comebout, what I might have to admit. "Yes, sir." He had now asked for, and I had invited, the probing. This is why I had come, and an agreement had been established. I must have been expecting the inquiry to begin gently, at the periphery of anger, with impatience, and then work inward. It was not to be. The first question probed an area I had not considered. "What is your sex relationship with women?" Krishnamurti had touched a vast reservoir of unconscious energy and urges. For months there had been no sex and no interest, other than delight in women's beauty, movement, gentleness, attractiveness, and the indefinable femi- nine grace and vapor trails that emanate from them and which elicit my attention. Since I had been in India there had been no overt sexual stirring whatsoever in me. And elsewhere, often for long periods, I felt no sexual arousal, no desire, until some woman would come and the magic would awaken.

These and many other flashes raced through my mind. Tell Krishnaii all this? What to tell? What to withhold? I put the question directly to myself. "What is my sexual relationship with women?" The implications were enormously wide and disturbing. I watched, recalling, looking, sensing. Krishnaji in his stark, impersonal way, focused my attention. "When was the last time you slept with a woman?"

For a moment I was in shock. Such a direct question challenged me to the core. Expose my inmost private life? Yet, this was what I had come to Krishnaji for "psychological surgery" he had said in Raighat. "About eighteen months," I said something like, "The desire to be with a woman is dormant most of the time. It awakens when I see a beautiful woman and sense, feel in her an echoing response. Since I've been in India there has been no sign of an arousal; my interest has been inward." Krishnaji made no comment. He waited. Was I being given an opportunity to slip free from separation ? Then it was that I heard another inner voice. It said and so I said ''I want to go on, to experience and for her to experience the ecstasy out loud, "There are occasions when the subtle interflow becomes apparent that bursts through at the climax when I am blown away, out of myself completely. This momentary, ecstatic ending of the 'me', the agony of isolation gone, is a wondrous feeling. Krishnamurti did not say a word. He was simply there, a friendly presence. He was not leading me, not opening it out for me, no longer questioning me. It was as though the whole internal inquiry into sex and anger was up to me and I had to uncover my own responses. I was aware of the inward contradiction that comes from seeking completion of aroused desire by some action or through some person, and of the conflict that can erupt from attempts to find expression or release, of the foolishness that exists in not allowing the turmoil in my mind to run its course through my body. Why look outward for fulfill- ment? Why any willful effort, with the ensuing frustration when the desired result is always so temporary? It was as though this self-questioning, self-answering inward dialogue was being uttered aloud, as though Krishnaji was asking, "What actually is it that gets frustrated?" And me replying, "When the desire for release is denied, and the energy so urgently thrusting outward is reversed, a 'blowout of anger' can happen." And in my mind I heard Krishnaji say, "Without desire, is there any frustration?"
He had not said a word. When I came out of my reverie he bent for- ward, touched my knee and said, "Come again tomorrow morning. Ask Mamma to arrange the time."

So began a series of investigations into anger. On Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, the dynamics of energy, its flow and blockages, opened out. My desire, from its initial impetus and through- out its whole course, was loosened and unraveled. Anger can come when fulfillment is frustrated, and always there is fear joined to it—the fear of failure that underlies every venture. Throughout those days and nights, I watched the kaleidoscope of reactions, actions, and feelings that passed through consciousness. What madness is anger! It can bring temporary release through some neurotic act, but what an enormous waste of energy! First, when anger is about to explode, I am not concerned with watching what is going on in me. I am much more concerned with get- ting rid of the distress—dealing with the person or situation that I know is causing it. And simultaneously, whatever action I take, fight or flight, I am making and remaking escape routes by which the pain I am experi- encing finds an expression. I am avoiding experiencing "the wild flow" itself. As I am not concerned with what is happening inwardly, anger remains hidden, unresolved, and feared.

Energy, expressed as anger, is universally accepted as a natural, phenomenal reaction to frustration and pain. Anger is examined and ana- lyzed—as though it had a separate existence and so is controllable. Indeed, the motive for examination is to discover its operation in order to control it. And who is the controller? Who is the entity who feels the anger? What is anger? These and many other angles surfaced. On Thursday we were, as usual, sitting on the floor of the sunlit room when an insight came. Anger appeared in a totally new guise, as "hurry- sickness." The impatient way I approached issues, problems, tasks. The frantic urgency in me to get it finished—whatever the task. Impatience with others, as with myself.

"Leave anger for the moment. What is impatience?" Krishnaii asked. "What is this hypersensitivity?" I watched, feeling again the kind of urgency that impels me to act quickly, to complete the job as soon as possible.. .. For what? To begin the next task? And again, to hurry impetuously through that? And so on and on. I seem to be constantly active, doing whatever thought dictates. And the recurring question comes up—who, what is it that hurries? What is impatience that can turn into anger?

I was highly aware of Krishnaji sitting there. Nothing had been said for some time—yet much was happening. Eventually I looked up. His quiet gaze probably matched mine. We sat for a brief spell, maybe three or four minutes, before I rose and left.

Leaving Vasanta Vihar, I walked for a while along the grass flats beside the Adyar River, amazed not only at what had happened—and at the perceptive emptiness of Krishnamurti—but at the impossible-to- describe joy that I felt at having been given the opportunity to "go through patterns of 'me', and experience the silence and heightened awareness that comes in Krishnamurti's presence. On Saturday, an arrangement had been made with Rukmini Devi to visit Kalakshetra, the unique Indian art school and the center she'd set up on the Bay of Bengal, four or five miles south of Adyar. As usual, I rode a bicycle. The impact of the daily sessions with Krishnaji and the resonances that had kept resounding through me were still operating. I had turned off the southbound trunk road, and was pedalling through a small village when suddenly it burst through me. The madness of anger, the emotional explosion that has no actual substance, erupted, but not outwardly. In the inward flood I saw the whole anatomy of violence and the source of the illusion made real by interpretation, by habit, by trans- lation, by ignorance. For a second, consciousness was alight, all clear. Suddenly it was as though I was hearing the laughter of the ancient gods, all bellowing together, wildly amused at the goals, hopes, activities, frustrations, angers, hates, and fears of human beings. Then came the recognition that the laughter was mine. What a huge cosmic joke humanity has fallen for, accepted, claimed as natural, taken seriously. By setting up noble projects and ignoble wars, incubating plans, expanding when we win, collapsing or exploding when we fail, we live in a mess of our own making. Sparse attention is given to the ego who dreams up, then acts out the illusions, who "experiences" the successes or failures—the human mind that is never free. The enormity of humanity's oldest jest blew right through me—I was laughing wildly, uncontrollably. The bike began to wobble. I did not care. Let it go. I fell with the bike and lay there in the dust hooting with laugh- ter. A dozen curious children and some men and women, intrigued by the spectacle, quickly gathered, curious about this oddity who, having tumbled from his cycle, found his own condition amusing. They picked up my bike, straightened the handlebars, helped me to my feet, dusted me down, saw I wasn't hurt, and then shared my joy. I loved them all. It was so ridiculous. The kids frolicked about, acting up. I was aware of all this as though I were not involved, and in a very real way, I wasn't. Their amusement continued as I mounted the cycle and rode off—vastly empty and amazingly light.

The following day, Sunday, I wrote in my diary, "The anger, impatience, anxiety, hurry-sickness is not to be judged as right or wrong, not to be dealt with or avoided, but to be experienced fully— inwardly. There is no necessity to act it out. From then on the weekly post office dramas were more like light comedies. It no longer mattered to me, so there was no matching reaction in the staff. My stress and their play-acting disappeared simultaneously. They were no quicker, and it still took most of the morning, but now I enjoyed it.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Tue, 02 Jan 2018 #143
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

These are the last selected 'spicks & specks' from Ingram Smith's memoirs of his interactions with K and his Teachings:

AT VASANTA VIHAR, GREENWAYS ROAD, MADRAS, THE MAGIC operated more than anywhere else. It may be that Krishnamurti felt more at home there. Maybe there are more people who felt in tune with the man and the message, whose very listening permitted complete simplicity in what was being communicated. Certainly the atmosphere, the gardens, the huge trees, contributed, as did the time of day—sunset; and the fact that he walked only fifty yards from his house to the low dais. This of course is guessing, but nowhere else in the world have I experi- enced the magical quality so completely, so often.

One talk in 1967 had a profound impact. The crowd, two thousand and more, were ready as Krishnaji walked serenely through the trees to the low rostrum. The crows were still calling and cawing, boisterously preparing to settle for the night. As always, Krishnaji slowly viewed the whole expectant gathering, recognizing here and there an old friend. Seated beside the rostrum, ready to record, I watched all this. He began: "We keep on ploughing and re-ploughing the same ground—never sowing a seed. We churn the ground over and over, and we do not know what to plant. We have no seed to plant... so nothing grows... As the talk developed and the depth of communion grew, it seemed as though the whole audience was mesmerized by the beauty of the voice, the rhythm of the words, the profound penetration, the shared wonder that included all.

He told how throughout history, humanity had searched for the essence of being, the source of life, and asked, "Is there anything sacred? Not in temples or churches or mosques. Not in beliefs, in dogmas. Not in ceremonies or rituals. Not in any symbol. The stone by the side of the road is as holy as any image made by the hand or by the mind. Not through sacrifices or offerings, not by placing flowers before idols or on altars. Put a fresh flower before an object, any object, every day, and soon that object will be seen as holy. Repeat a word or a phrase over and over, and it will very soon be heard as holy. Any word will do— 'Coca Cola.' Do it, sir, and find out! We plough over and over this over-ploughed ground, and have come up with nothing—and further ploughing will continue to produce nothing. So, is all the searching, the struggling, an illusion? Is it all for nothing? If there is anything sacred—what is it? Where is it?"

Krishnamurti, with two thousand people in tow, was listening, sensing, waiting. And then it came. It was there for all to hear, to see, to experi- ence; the most profound, the most commonplace, the most obvious, the simplest perception. "What Is—is sacred." The talk was over. No one moved. Magic spread in the silence. Krishnamurti remained seated, still, as were we all, sharing the wholeness. What Is; ever-transforming, ever-present. What Is—is sacred. Of all Krishnamurti's profound statements, these words were to penetrate me the most deeply. There are vast implications in the uncovering of what Is. Often, as I walk—usually in the morning—the immensity of the present brings me to a halt, and I stand filled with the wonder of what is—what is being the beautiful immediate world, a sense of wonder and wholeness, sheer joy at the extraordinary sharpness and clarity of everything. What initiates these interludes—temporary endings to the normal stream of consciousness—I do not know. They are usually preceded by a sudden recognition of some pettiness that was engaging my attention. And I hear the words, "what is—is sacred." What is—is real. I stop...looking, listening, sensing what is. A new consciousness and a new world emerge.

THERE IS KRISHNAMURTI, A VOICE FROM THE SILENCE, A SAGE with enormous authority—and Krishnaji, the listening and responding person. I had been introduced to an American woman who was in great distress. She had fallen under the spell of an Indian guru, had left her husband, and gone off with the sorcerer to his ashram. After three weeks, she had returned, disillusioned and humiliated, to be rejected by her husband. He had even refused to speak to her. Through a mutual woman friend, he ordered that she pack her bags and be aboard the night flight out of Madras that very evening. The same friend took me to see the defeated, miserable woman, and I was asked if an appointment with Krishnaji was possible.

I rode over to Vasanta Vihar, saw Madhavachari, and within the hour both women arrived by taxi and were ushered in to Krishnaji. I was still sitting on the porch outside the Office when, about ten minutes later, they came out, both serene and smiling, and entered the waiting taxi. As they drove off, Krishnaji walked slowly out of the doorway. There were tears in his eyes and a great sadness. He said "Poor woman... " .. .poor woman." It was as though all the woman's travail had been trans- ferred to him, leaving her tranquil, her pain gone—at least temporarily. He stood there watching, then took a long quiet breath and his demeanor, his whole physical appearance, changed completely. A kind of release had occurred; the stress had passed. He turned to Madhavachari and, as though nothing had happened, the two entered the house.

Two days later, at the morning public discussion, in the huge ground floor auditorium at Vasanta Vihar, a remarkable incident took place. I had arrived early to set up the recording equipment against the wall in the middle of the hall, beside Krishnamurti's low rostrum. I noticed a man already seated at a vantage place at the front of the stage, a very still, self- contained man, whom I had not seen before. His arrogant air announced he had come, not to listen, but to challenge. Occasionally, at public discussions, gurus and other public figures turn up to test themselves and their ideas against the "internationally revered" Krishnamurti. I guessed that was why he was here. As Krishnaji came in and seated himself, the man shifted his position just a little. My attention was again drawn to him. His piercing gaze was acute. Krishnaji, as usual, was quietly viewing the silent audience. And, before he began speaking, he turned away from the microphone and softly said to me, "Sir, would you mind moving just a little fonvard so that you are between me and that man." I moved, and when I looked again, the piercing intensity had gone from his gaze. I do not know what happened. I suspect, speculate, that once he realized that Krishnaji was awake to what he was up to—the wayba child, discovered in some sly act, is suddenly dismayed and powerless— the guru gentleman had given up; he had become part of the crowd.

AN APPOINTMENT HAD BEEN MADE FOR A LONDON Times Sunday supplement correspondent to interview Krishnamurti. I was with him in the drawing room when the man and his wife arrived. As on some other occasions, Krishnaji gestured for me to remain, saying "Stay, sir." Once the formal introductions had been made, I was included as a friendly onlooker. After an hour or so of questions and answers and a lot of note taking, there came an incident that was to transform the occasion. A camera was produced and the Times man, with Krishnamurti's permission, began taking photographs. After perhaps half a dozen shots his wife, noticing the bright light of the late afternoon sun streaming in through the open doorway, looked outside and suggested that a photo- graph in sunlight might be the one they were after. Gracious, as always, Krishnaji complied, and I followed the three out onto the wide verandah. There he stood, quietly waiting while the cameraman decided what composition was wanted. It so happened that close by the door was a most beautiful life-size statue of the Buddha, so simple in its economy of line, so serene in its portrayal of passivity as to be feminine in its tenderness. Even before I saw the magnificent possibility, it was clear that the photographer had seen and decided the two resplendent heads presented an opportunity not to be missed. He gestured, "Just a little to your left, sir." Krishnamurti moved and stood, watching, waiting. Never before had I seen his features so com- posed, with such compassionate delicacy, such essential femininity, such sweet passivity. The two figures made a superbly complete picture— Krishnamurti's tranquility and the stillness of the Buddha statue at his shoulder—both luminous in the afternoon light. So unexpected, so immense was the impact they made that tears welled up inside me. Suddenly all my self-possession had gone. I stood there with tears trickling down my cheeks. The camera clicked quickly three or four times. The professional had the shots he was after. The session was over. I thought that in the flurry of activity my release had not been noticed. I was wrong, for as Krishnaji turned to walk back into the drawing room, I caught his discerning glance. During those brief moments I had witnessed in Krishnamurt male/female wholeness—masculine austerity and strength and feminine patience and adaptability—revealed in one human being: the immediate and the abiding in one body. I never saw the published article or what must have been a unique photograph.

Rajghat, 1969

DURING A TALK TO THE STUDENTS AND TEACHERS (AND A sprinkling of adults from nearby Varanasi), Krishnaji's voice was blurred out by the roar of the goods train rattling its slow way across the iron railway bridge over the Ganges. He stopped, and we all listened. When the noise had faded sufficiently, he asked, "Did you resist the sound of the train? Did you try to block it? Did you listen to the sound as it moved through you, trace the sound inwardly in your body? Did it end in you? Has it ended in you? Othervise it is not finished but caught in mem- ory."

He went on to talk about the state of mind that is listening. Why do we choose to listen to this and not to that, why make decisions about what we want and do not want to hear, why react the way we do? It was "the teacher" in action: using a real situation to point out what was actually happening in consciousness, drawing our attention to the way we were responding; a lesson in self-awareness, an immediate insight into human behavior. Always when I listen to Krishnamurti or as I read him, beyond the actual phrases yet enhancing their meaning, I hear the melodic beauty of the words, the rhythm, the poetry, the song. There is, for me, a stimulation not dissimilar in its mesmeric effect to listening to superb music; a joyous surrender so pleasant as to bring me a dreamlike euphoria and miraculously, simultaneously, a vividly awakened state.

THAT WINTER, 1969/70, KRISHNAMURTI WAS STAYING AT "ROSIE" Jayalakshmi's house, and so was I. It had been fifteen years since he had been in Australia, and one lunch time the occasion seemed right to invite him to Sydney again. He replied that he did not know, as yet, what his itinerary for 1970 was to be, and gave me heart when he asked, "What time of the year would be best in Sydney?" I had, of course, considered this, and how it might be included in his regular yearly commitments in India, Europe, England, and the United States. I replied, "November," and suggested that rather than flying from Ojai to India via Britain, that he fly the Pacific and, after Sydney, jet on to India. The Sydney sojourn became a distinct possibility when he said, "Write to your friends in Sydney and get them to write to Mary [Zimbalist] in Ojai telling her of this conversation, so that she receives an official invitation. In the meantime, you write to Mary too, letting her know of the proposal." I wrote both letters and posted them that day. And so it came about.

IN NOVEMBER 1970 , KRISHNAJI ARRIVED IN SYDNEY WITH MARY ZIMBALIST and they stayed in an apartment at Manly overlooking the harbor Besides five public talks in the town hall and two public discussions there were a number of television interviews recorded at the apartment. One interview was to highlight not Krishnamurti's "freedom from known," but a repetition from the forgettable past.
It happened this way: Like all good television reporters, the interviewer (a colleague working for the ABC) and her producer had done their homework. They had delved into the archival files and found that, fifty years before, a member of the order of the star of the East had built an amphitheatre at Balmoral Beach (used for plays and dance performances) on a site with a magnificent view to the east, out through the Sydney Headlands to the Pacific ocean, and that the seats had been sold to hundreds of believers. The fantasy at the time was that, as a kind of 'second coming'², Krishnamurti would walk on the water through the Heads, into Sydney, and that they would witness it. Fantastic! But the story had been reported and the records are in the archives of Sydney newspapers to testify to its validity. Armed with this background, the reporters, including my colleague, had come. The interview went well. Everyone was pleased. The crew packed up and left. That evening when the program was aired, everyone interested in Krishnamurti who was watching received a real shock. The producer had come up with a presentation gimmick. The opening shot had my friend standing up to her waist in water at Balmoral Beach, microphone in hand, with the Sydney Headlands as her background, saying, "Today the Indian philosopher, Jiddu Krishnamurti, flew into Sydney by jet; fifty years ago he was to have walked into Sydney through these Heads and on this very water." An attention-grabbing opening, and completely out of character with the interview that followed, which showed clearly that the girl had been deeply moved by what Krishnamurti was saying. However, the opening had indicated a madness in some of his "followers."

When I next saw her, my friend apologized : "It wasn't my idea, but the producer saw the dramatic beginning of me up to my waist in water. Immediately after the interview with Krishnamurti, we drove to Balmoral and, for the cost of a new dress, I waded into the water and did that introduction." The following day, Mary told me that Krishnaji had seen the inter- that night and had made no comment. The talks were given in the
largest public venue in central Sydney, the Town Hall. The overflow crowds at each meeting stood in the hallways, with all the doors open so they could hear. During one talk a man, obviously a little drunk, made his way through those standing at an entrance and, advancing up the aisle, stood for a while, listening. Then he challenged Krishnamurti, calling out, "No! No! I don't see it that way." It seemed as though he could be a real disturbance—certainly he was a distraction. Many people turned to see what was happening. What to do with a drunken intruder? Unpredictable as ever, Krishnamurti beckoned the man forward. Rather belligerently he walked up the aisle to the high stage. Some of the audience were becoming apprehensive, even restless. They had come to hear Krishnamurti, not an intrusion by a drunk who shouldn't even be there. For a little time Krishnamurti, in complete control, quietly sat waiting. The tension began to release. The surprise came when Krishnaji invited the man up onto the stage and placed a chair for him nearby. The man sat and serenely listened to the remainder of the talk. Within minutes after being included, he became unnoticed.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING I WAS WALKING ON THE BEACH AT Newport, when a flock of gulls swept down over the Pacific, glided onto the sand, and with a few quick running steps, each came to rest. I happened to notice one bird breathing, and suddenly I rediscovered that every sentient creature on Earth breathes; that while they breathe, they live—reptiles, birds, animals, mammals, whales, insects, human beings— and when they stop they die. I became aware of my own breathing, the incoming, life-giving air entering through two nostrils, between two eyes, and into two lungs enlivening the whole body/brain/being—the dual interflow of breath tha sustains all creatures. Air is invisible and empty and cannot be grasped, seen, heard, smelled or tasted. It is the primal essence of life on Earth in its pre-form state, unmanifest energy. standing anywhere on Earth in the global atmosphere, it is unmanifested Heaven that we are inhaling. This invisible essence is not only in the sky, but is right down here, wherever we are. You don't have to go anywhere or do anything to get it, we are all eternally in it. Heaven on Earth. We have never been out of it. Not only does it surround us, it is in us. With every breath we take we are participants in creation

AT THE THURSDAY MORNING INTERVIEW I RAISED THE QUESTION of the teacher/pupil relationship. I had been watching my gestures and attitudes, thoughts and feelings, and it was quite obvious that I was not only the pupil learning, but the subject/object of my observations, and so my own primary teacher. One consequence of this realization had been that my reading of Krishnamurti's books had greatly diminished. When I mentioned this to Krishnaji, the following dialogue, which I taped, took place : As he often does, Krishnamurti transposed our positions. He began, "I am the teacher and the disciple. I discover it is me K is talking about. The book I am reading is (about) me; the teacher is me." He went on. "You are the pupil, not of the book, but of yourself."

I said I had seen that to some extent. However, it seemed to me that learning about myself was a way of changing what I am and so a form of becoming, of gradual psychological growth, which Krishnamurti denies. He pointed out that normal living is a way of becoming. He questioned the whole process of slowly learning, slowly understanding oneself. "Why does my mind accept the idea of slowly learning, slowly understand- ing myself? It may not be slow at all." He went on to say that human beings are conditioned to slow progress and asked, "Why don't I grasp what is said, what I see, what I hear, immediately? Either you understand it all or you understand nothing." Here he smiled delightedly. I said I didn't feel capable of seeing the whole all at once, that there was so much to be aware of.

Krishnaii then questioned why it is that the mind is not open to view the whole movement of life. Is it because we pre-select only what we desire, refusing to take in the whole? Is it because the brain is so engaged, so focused on our aims and purposes, that it notices nothing else? He likened the normal thinking process to looking at a map of Australia with a purpose, wanting to find some particular place like Canberra and the way to it, and not bothering about the rest of the map.

"All else is distraction to the blinkered mind." He asked what happens when you enter a room. Do you look at it in a piecemeal fashion, item by item, or without intent see the whole room at a glance, instantly? The whole room is there to be seen.

For a few moments I pondered the importance of this way of looking. Krishnaji was right, yet I still had a query. I said that it did seem to be historically true that the human brain and body have evolved slowly through time, which implies an evolution of the learning process. Krishnaji reached out and lightly touched my knee. "We're talking of psychological, inward revolution. Direct seeing." Yes. However, I was deter- mined not to give up until it was all quite clear. I asked if it isn't right that we humans get to understand something by thinking it through logically, and if this process isn't an evolutionary psychological development.

Krishnaji smiled and took the wind right out of my sails by inquiring why I stopped there, since it must be clear that intellectual comprehension was not enough. "I understand intellectually that quarreling with my wife or neighbor is destructive, yet I quarrel. Why?"

He went on to question why it is that the brain doesn't see the falseness of accepting logic as the ultimate criterion, why the brain accepts certain logic and then fails to carry it through. The dialogue ended with Krishnaji pointing out that self-interest is the operative factor, that every- thing is seen and heard in relation to our own self-interest.

On November 26, Krishnaji recorded a major interview for the ABC National Network. The half-hour program was an inquiry into "Belief." When the floor manager gave "the final windup—thirty seconds to go" signal, the interview went thus: Q: "So you are not setting yourself up as a teacher?" K: "No, no, sir, on the contrary, I say: Be your own teacher. Be your own light. Don't look to somebody else." Q: "And where do you find truth?" K: "Only when a mind, and not only a mind, a life, is completely harmonious, not contradictory. It's only such a mind that can find truth, can observe truth. Truth isn't something anstract. It's here''

The talks were given in the largest public venue in central Sydney, the Town Hall. The overflow crowds at each meeting stood in the hallways, with all the doors open so they could hear. During one talk a man, obviously a little drunk, made his way through those standing at an entrance and, advancing up the aisle, stood for a while, listening. Then he challenged Krishnamurti, calling out, "No! No! I don't see it that way." It seemed as though he could be a real disturbance—certainly he was a distraction. Many people turned to see what was happening. What to do with a drunken intruder? Unpredictable as ever, Krishnamurti beckoned the man forward. Rather belligerently he walked up the aisle to the high stage. Some of the audience were becoming apprehensive, even restless. They had come to hear Krishnamurti, not an intrusion by a drunk who shouldn't even be there. For a little time Krishnamurti, in complete control, quietly sat waiting. The tension began to release. The surprise came when Krishnaji invited the man up onto the stage and placed a chair for him nearby. The man sat and serenely listened to the remainder of the talk. Within minutes after being included, he became unnoticed.

HUMAN ASSOCIATIONS AND ORGANIZATIONS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN a source of difficulties. However, there has to be some sort of skilled organization to arrange the Krishnamurti talks, disseminate the books and tapes, develop schools, produce bulletins. For fifty years across the world, dedicated individuals under Krishnamurti's guidance had carried out the work. As in other countries, a small number in Australia had long been engaged in spreading the teachings. In Sydney and other cities, as well as in country towns and private homes, groups met to listen to tapes. For ten years or so, every capital city regularly had video showings.

The work was carried out in Australia by a few dedicated people. In particular, Reginald and Mavis Bennett instigated some innovative ways of making Krishnamurti known and available to more people. Huge numbers of paperback editions of his talks were bought and bound in hard covers and sent to local public libraries throughout Australia. Every town with a population of twenty thousand or more had Krishnamurti books, as did every university, and, for good measure, every jail library . Materials were distributed to university libraries in Indonesia, in Japan, and in every South American country.

There was a block of land at Terranora that had been donated, back in 1927, to the long-defunct Order of the Star, which had been formed around Krishnamurti in his youth. Without a legal entity to receive the title deeds, the property could not be used or sold. For fifty years, successive Australian Krishnamurti representatives had failed to get the land transferred to them. It was in fact a costly liability, because the annual land rates had to be paid. We were aware that any legal organization designed to receive donations and administer the work would persist even when the need for it had vanished. Organizations are valid only while they perform the specific function for which they were set up. When the task is completed, the structure requires dismantling, perhaps to be reformed by another group of individuals when another need arises. Thus ran our musings. So we wanted nothing fixed, nothing permanent. Could the work continue to be done without any formal structure? Well, no; to function on a statewide or national scale there had to be some coordinating body. But how much was necessary, and what was the practical minimum? There was another important issue. If no legal body was approved and in operation while Krishnamurti was alive, what happened after his death would be chancy and possibly confused. Though rooted in specu- lation and fear of what might be, this matter had arisen and had to be answered.

We began to consider what had been done overseas with Krishnamurti's approval and backing. There was the precedent of the Krishnamurti foundations, established in India, England, Puerto Rico, and the United States. Whatever we did in Australia had to be so constituted that it would work harmoniously with those foundations. In 1975, I was asked by Mavis Bennett to see what could be done. Once again, the task of investigating the possibility and feasibility of an Australia-wide organization was under way. Legal negotiations were begun, but the freedom we wanted and the restrictions the law required were incompatible. Over the years, three firms of solicitors took up the task, an expensive exercise. None produced a formula acceptable to both the government and us. The likelihood of establishing an Australian organization, provisionally called "Krishnamurti Australia," gradually faded. We carried on as we had always done. Money needed to finance the operation was supplied in the main by those doing the work. Over the years at Brockwood and Ojai, I had observed some of the difficulties and ambiguities that fundraising presents. For instance, when there has to be cash in hand before the proposed project can begin, raising money becomes the primary objective. Money, which is the means, can appear to be an end. Fundraising, no matter how civil and polite the appeal, smacks of begging. And, like the beggar, the fundraiser has to gratefully accept whatever is offered. Also, begging is false. It fails. It may have worked once, but no longer. There are too many appeals. No one really listens anymore. Another approach is required.

What now needs to be communicated, and clearly, is the new spirit that is awakening in the world. Be 'in it'—participate. Permit those who hear the talks, read the books, and see the necessity to act to know that they can share in the new movement, that it is not only in themselves but also in the world. This sounds evangelistic, enthusiastic, urgent: it is all three. It is also serious, steady, profound, and provocative. For it is a privilege to participate and a joy to share in the awakening and in the work. If you have a skill that is needed, offer it; if you have money available, give it.

Human beings like to grow, to unfold, to work, and to contribute to a successful venture. People don't like to give to an anonymous, amorphous fund that might be used in ways that hold no interest for the donor, so why not let those who want to participate be free to nominate the project to which their contribution is to go? In this way they can see the use of their money, much as those who actually do the work can see the results of their labor. Why not have a fund for those interested in books and in their distribution to libraries, reading rooms, and so on? A fund for audio and videotapes and showings? A fund for adult education, for learning and facilities? A fund for a school? A fund for an archive; for a master index? Such, briefly, was the Australian structure and attitude in 1980.

AT THE INVITATION OF DR. ADIKARAM, I WENT TO COLOMBO FOR the November1980 talks. As a guest of the Sri Lankan government, Krishnamurti was given the red carpet treatment: an official greeting at the airport and the state guest house, Ackland House in Union Place, as his residence while in the country. To his dismay perhaps, spick-and-span armed naval guards were on duty at the gates, and uniformed officers were in the house, for guests of the state are given full protection in Sri Lanka.

It had been arranged that all Krishnamurti's public talks would be broadcast over Radio Lanka. There were a number of prime-time television interviews with ministers of state, and the newspapers made him the subject of feature articles. On the morning following his arrival, I attended a large media conference at Ackland House. The forty or so reporters were remarkably deferential, some reverential, in their questioning. One asked whether Krishnamurti was, in fact, the twentieth-century incarnation of the Buddha. Krishnamurti demurred but did not deny. The following day, and throughout his visit, most newspapers carried extensive stories about him. During the late afternoon talks and the question—and-answer meetings at the de Silva Theatre, a similar worshipful obeisance was in evidence. In such a devotional atmosphere, it was not difficult to become involved in a misunderstanding.

My earlier links with Radio Lanka, with acoustics and public address systems, had pre-selected me for the task of checking the amplification speakers around the huge, open-sided theater before each talk. As they began in daylight and continued on after dark, the hall lights and the spotlights on Krishnamurti had to be checked. Night comes suddenly near the equator, making it difficult, if not impossible, to estimate in bright sunshine the electronic lighting needed after dark. After the first talk, Krishnaji said that the stage spotlights had troubled him, that he couldn't see the audience. As it was essential for him to, Dr. Adikaram asked me to look into this. So on the evening of the next talk, after positioning the microphones and testing to ensure that everyone everywhere could hear, I had to check those spotlights to make certain they would not bother Krishnaji again. The obvious way was to position myself on the purple draped dais exactly where he would sit, and to have the electrician adjust the lights so that, while the audience could see me, I could also see the audience without any discomfort. It was still full daylight when the electrician, predictably late, turned up ten minutes before the five-thirty start. The theater was already packed. After a brief preliminary explanation of what I was doing, I seated myself cross-legged in the exact position Krishnaji would take, and from there directed the focusing of the spotlights. When I was satisfied, I left the stage and went to my seat, conscious that I had somehow caused offense. After the meeting, my misdemeanor, my lack of sensitivity, and the existence of a culture gap concerning my behavior were plain to all. There was a distinct coolness from those who had previously been open and friendly. I was now acutely aware that I had violated a sacred trust: that in sitting in the Master's place, I had usurped and desecrated holy ground. I had committed a sacrilege. Sensibilities had been affronted; a number of persons wanted nothing to do with a man so insensitive. And, of course, it was true. I had not considered the likely response. I had simply gone ahead with what I understood had to be done, in the most practical way I knew. At the time I was marginally conscious that my action was a mild status display. In overlooking the inward nudging, I had permitted "self' to reassert its secretive existence, almost without my noticing it.

Later that evening, when I talked with Dr. Adikaram and apologized for upsetting so many people, he too was sad and somewhat bemused by the distress such an unintended affront had caused. Later still, I was to realize that far from being merely an unfortunate error, the incident was to have far-reaching consequences. One was that in solving the lighting problem, i had created another and far more difficult problem of relation- ship. Many could not forgive me. A few, especially some of those closest to Krishnamurti, did not speak to me again. This incident prompted me to ask: To what extent was l, too, a follower, an image-maker, a worshipper, a devotee? In what ways does devotion to a revered person lead to fanaticism? Was my own security, my self-image, in any degree dependent on an unquestioning subservience to this great man's influence? I began watching myself more closely for sustaining my own self-image, and for any signs of fanaticism. I realized that my defense of him was a justification of myself, my judgment, and my choice of mentor and guide. The reverberations rang through me for a long time. Krishnamurti was surrounded by devotees. I kept wondering why he was not surrounded by free minds, free people, free relationships. Was it only the worshippers and the dependents who remained close to him, and those who "heard" and began the inward work themselves, who walked away? Was it perchance the very first step in a realization that there is no model; that freedom is a state of being, not something to be achieved; that wholeness and happiness emerge as self unravels, as the sense of separation dissolves? Truth is indeed a pathless land.

These observations and questions were to come into acute focus and be fully tested in me some three years later. Valid as insights are, nothing matches a crisis to halt the flow of dreams, to end the continuity of self and the past, and to make things clear in the present. A few days before Krishnamurti left Colombo, I went to see him at Ackland House. For two hours we discussed the ramifications of setting up a legal organization in Australia, and explored the possibilities and dif- ficulties of attempting to operate a school for children in Sydney. Besides pointing out the rare dedication needed for such an important venture, and the long-term responsibilities for all concerned—teachers, parents, and students—he made it quite clear that if we did decide to go ahead, the school would have to function wholly in its own right, without using the name "Krishnamurti." Unlike the already established Krishnamurti schools which he visited each year to talk with teachers and students, the Australian school would have to stand on its own. His final words were, "Work closely with those already involved.

NEGOTIATIONS TO ESTABLISH AN AUSTRALIAN KRISHNAMURTI organization continued, but with decreasing eagerness. There were still a number of troublesome standard clauses in the charter, and one in particular, which read: "The organization has to transmit any lawful busi- ness in and of the Commonwealth of Australia in the prosecution of any war in which the Commonwealth of Australia is engaged." The offensive statement was mandatory. So be it. It really would not affect the work. Finally, in December 1982, a draft of the Memorandum and Articles of Association was approved. It was not ideal, but it seemed workable. Copies were made and sent to Krishnamurti and all the foundations.

A time bomb arrived in the form of a letter from Krishnamurti posted from Madras, dated January 13, 1983. In it Krishnamurti wrote that as president of the various Krishnamurti foundations he was disassociating himself from "Krishnamurti Australia." His actual words were, "I expect you not to use my name with any organization proposed by you." He went on to say that he and those working with him thoroughly disapproved of certain clauses in the Memorandum of Association of "Krishnamurti Australia." He asked why Mrs. Bennett was not the president, saying that such matters should be gone into with great care before I took any further step. He also said that "Krishnamurti Australia" could not by any means take over the properties in Australia belonging to the Order of the Star in the East.

Copies of this letter were sent to all the trustees. We all received a copy on the same day. The effect was stunning. Phones ran hot. That I had been rejected by Krishnamurti was clear. It was also clear that he wanted every trustee to know of his decision. Seven of the eight signato- ries to the Memorandum and Articles of Association of "Krishnamurti Australia," who were as bewildered as I by what read as an unwarranted indictment, wrote to Krishnaji. The fact was that all of us were implicated.

Days and nights of self-doubt followed, with continuous watching, questioning, and examining, not into what had happened, but into self and what was happening. Weeks went by before I replied. In my letter of February 21, I acknowledged his decision to dissociate himself from "Krishnamurti Australia," and his name from any organization proposed by me, and said I would abide by this decision. I wrote of the shock that had exploded through me and of the bewilderment, sadness, and self-examination that followed. I pointed out that the work of disseminating the books, tapes, and information had no relationship whatsoever with the establishment of a legal entity in Australia. In fact, we had not wanted such an organization, nor did we consider one neces- sary, except for money management. We worked alone, each in our own way, and cooperatively whenever help was needed. I finished, "It was, indeed, a pity that this happened, that clarity was clouded, that you had to deal with it."

With the posting of the letter, I felt resigned to the reality that I was out of the picture, that the trauma was now over, and that it had run its course through me. The speculation turned out to be quite premature and completely illusory. What I had not realized was that the deep psychological momentum had not stopped. Of its own volition, the persistent inquiring into self was still going on. Unknown, untouched sensitivities kept surfacing. Three weeks after my letter was sent, suddenly, without warning, my limbs and body were aching with a pain so excruciating that to remain still was impossible. Every position I assumed soon became unbearable. I would twist and turn, seeking relief. My body would find a comfortable position and the ache would lessen, then abruptly there it was, flaring in a leg, knee, thigh, shoulder. I would roll over, place my hands to the hurt and agonize. The particular torment would ease, and the muscles begin to relax. For a few minutes, I could rest—then the acute ache would arise in a foot, or along one side. There was no let-up, day or night. On earlier occasions in my life, as when a dentist in Seattle drilled my front teeth without a drug injection, it was a matter of relaxing, watch- ing, feeling, "putting up with it," until the job was done. I knew what was going on, was aware of the source of the pain, and that there would be an end. A relaxed, serene watchfulness permitted me to cope with it.

Now, no real, specific "cause" for my distress had surfaced. I did not know its source, beyond the fact that my self-image had been badly dam- aged. Though the location of the pain changed, the condition did not. There was no release. For three months, I could not walk or even stand. I crawled whenever I had to move from my bed. I remained in the house, and friends brought me food. The suffering was not continuous but cyclic, coming in waves and subsiding. Gradually, the self-questioning diminished, but the physical symptoms persisted, endlessly. There was, too, the feeling of being completely alone. I lay watching, experiencing, agonizing. Soon I was no longer interested in understanding, changing, or even getting rid of the dreadful pain. My only concern was with what was actually going on in my body/being. It became obvious that the pain aroused "me" (the feeler of the pain), and when the "me" disappeared so did my awareness of pain; that the observer/experiencer of the agony and the agony arose and waned together as one consciousness. By not trying to be free, by not looking for causes or motives, for answers or ends or for relief, though the pain persisted, my mind was tranquil.

As I lay there, I would notice sly wisps of thinking occasionally sliding into consciousness. Once noticed, these thought trails would die away, leaving a kind of extensional awareness, an empty wholeness, until again the ache would start up in some other part of my body. I ftnew" there was nothing to be done, that the body/mind/being condition had to run its course. I learned, too, that thought distances itself from pain and then tries to deal with it. My physical condition did not actually alter, even though consciousness did clarify and sharpen. Where earlier just-below-the-surface fear of the next incursion of pain was ever-waiting, I now had an attentiveness to what was actually there. I began to have lengthening periods of unconsciousness. Over the weeks and months the onset of the next bout of pain held less terror and its dominance diminished.

THROUGHOUT THE TRAVAIL, THERE WAS NO FEELING OF RIGHT or wrong, of justice or injustice. What was happening involved senses, consciousness, everything. The whole crisis was real, and somehow completely "right." I realized that had I been asked for an explanation by Krishnamurti or been given any opportunity to give an account of what had happened, I would have worked at presenting a rationale, a defense. No such chance had been given. I was free to watch what was going on. There was nothing else to do. "I" and "time" had come to a stop. The old impetus, the ongoing process of working in the present for some future result, had dissolved. I sensed a new freedom. Like a bird that has refused to leave the safety of the nest, I had been nudged out into the air, alone.

Months later I wrote a more sanguine, and perhaps, more apt yet stark metaphor describing my state of mind: Unripe fruit clings to the branch where it is nurtured and sustained. When ripe and ready, no longer holding to the bough and no longer being held it drops, falls free. Perhaps to rot on the ground, Perchance to realize its wholeness, and burst forth into its own life.

And again: My life came into crisis. Suddenly hidden realities were exposed, opened out, laid bare.... With this release came awareness that it was not the teachings, seductive though they are, true though they may be, that had bred my dependency, but what I had made of them. The teachings had not freed me; they had, like some superb mind dynamics course, merely given "the me" more scope. They had been an overlay, a brilliant veneer that had obscured direct perception of what I was and what I was actually doing.

It was not that Krishnamurti had influenced me, but rather that I had taken from him what I wanted to enhance my understanding and my life. I had been on a subtle, semiconscious, partially understood ego trip. Self- advancement disguised as freedom from self had been my real goal. I had long since realized that Krishnamurti was not a computing machine with already stored wisdom and knowledge, giving out answers to whatever questions were put to him. He was a compassionate, awakened human being who opened out the question, the problem, as it was presented to him. He did not answer questions from his knowledge but showed the questioner the makeup of his or her problem, allowing the blockages to be seen. He talked to people according to their tendencies and capacity to understand their problem and the problem-maker—themselves.

The teachings stand. Their resonances ring true. Their starkness, intelligence, and seductive beauty are resounding throughout the world. But magnificent as they are, needed as they are, the teachings are not a positive, religious philosophy to be learned and then applied. It was back in 1930, in a talk published under the title, "Life's Problems—Introduction," that Krishnamurti said, 'You become a light unto yourself and hence you do not cast a shadow across the path of another or the path of yourself." I was casting shadows, and patches of darkness were being reflected back. Working in his light, following his teachings, my "I" could remain hidden and intact. Yet any attempt to live through another's perceptions, however wise, does not free the unique assembly that constitutes "me."

The Krishnamurti work went on, for people wanted to read the books, listen to the tapes, and have discussions. But the enthusiasm, the open, harmonious flow had faltered. The North Sydney and Narrabeen centers closed. Four of those who had willingly accepted responsibility for organizing regular video showings, meetings, and discussions had, on receipt of the letter (mailed directly to each committee member from Madras), decided not to continue. Three months after it had started, one evening in May, the debilitating pain vanished. It went as suddenly as it had come. Around ten o'clock, without any prior warning, my body felt whole, every particle tinglingly alive with an indescribable sense of vividness. The crisis had passed. Within a couple of days health picked up, and the mobility and the use of my legs returned. With this renewal came an aloneness and an extraordinary lightness. A blessing had come.

WITHIN DAYS OF THE ENDING OF THE PAIN, ANOTHER LETTER from Krishnamurti arrived from Ojai, California, dated April 28, 1983, inviting Mavis Bennett and me to the meeting of the Krishnamurti foun- dations from September 7 to 14 at Brockwood. In this letter he said it was important that we meet to clear up any misunderstanding so that we could all work together amicably. He suggested that funds collected for the work in Australia be used to meet the expenses of the flight to England, and said that room could be found for both of us as guests of Brockwood. "Do please consider both of you coming as I particularly would like to clear up this matter." He asked that this letter be shown to all helpers in Sydney and in other places. Mavis was not able to make it. I replied that I would be there. As there were no funds, I paid my own fare. Any contributions we received went to buying more books and tapes for distribution, television sets, videotapes, and towards circulating the biannual Australian Bulletin.

I turned up at Brockwood on August 26. It so happened that the meeting of the foundations had been cancelled. An unexpected summons from California requiring Krishnamurti's presence in relation to an impending court case meant that immediately after the Brockwood talks he had to leave.

THE NEXT MORNING I MET WITH MARY CADOGAN. DURING THE course of the conversation, she wanted to know how things were in Sydney when I left. I told her that after the initial shock, disruption, and resignations, the essential work had gone on, but that the joy was missing. As months passed and no replies to the members' letters had come, the bewilderment had remained and our momentum had faltered. Mary then informed me that someone from another state in Australia had written a derogatory letter about me, and that this letter, quite apart from the two offending clauses in the legal document, had been instrumental in Krishnamurti's writing his letter to me. It was an intentionally circumspect piece of information, but it cleared up one incomprehensible factor, something that until then I had known nothing about. (A month later, in Ojai, I was told by two members Of the American Foundation that they had read a copy of the disruptive letter, knew the writer's identity, and understood the letter's implications.)

Besides wonder, there came a sadness that even among those working for freedom in themselves and in the world, there could be deliberate destructiveness. That afternoon I had a session with David Bohm and Mary. The next day we had another discussion. The talk mainly centered around what procedures were most likely to prove practical in handling the Krishnamurti work in Australia. They wanted to know whether there had been any change in attitude, how our organization was functioning, and what alterations were envisioned. Our conversations were friendly, open, and frank.

What follows is a transcript of my notes, written right after the meet- ing with Krishnamurti :

Greetings over, and once we were seated, Krishnaji asked about the membership and the formation of the Australian Committee. He wanted to know who the members of the new organization were going to be, and how we proposed to operate. As we talked, I realized that the past was to be forgotten. It was over. A fresh start, free from what had happened, was needed. Good. It was also clear from his questioning that Krishnaji was not interested in the offensive clauses in the Memorandum and Articles of Association, nor in the legal problems, nor his letters to me, which were never mentioned. His concern seemed to be exclusively with the selection of those persons who would be invited to form a single nationwide committee. It was proposed that there be two representatives from each of the seven Australian states. Krishnamurti asked what could be done in this regard. I said I felt that such an arrangement would be impractical. In a continent approximately the same area as the United States and far bigger than Europe, distance and cost would make communication difficult, operation laborious, and even annual meetings virtually impos- sible. Krishnaji listened without comment. He clearly had reservations about setting up a national organization, and perhaps had doubts about any closely related local committee.

This surmise was confirmed when a list of suitable persons to serve on the Australian committee was produced. We went through the names one by one. They included not only those who were regarded as accept- able, but those who were to be omitted, based, as I was told, on the tenor of the letters they had written to Krishnaji. That a list was being compiled in England of those who were to be asked to operate in Australia disturbed me. There were to be checks, and though benign, an external authority was being set up. Of course, the functioning of any worldwide movement presents problems. By permitting groups to develop along their own lines, there is the ever-present possibility, even likelihood, of division and disruption, and of the rise of interpreters and factions. And so, inevitably, centralized structures have been the method of control throughout history. This practice persists and even though remote authoritative control can exacerbate the problems inherent in local operations. Since power corrupts, is there anything that can be done organizationally to free humans from self-bondage?

Here I had a delicious realization. What I was objecting to—supervision from London or Brockwood or Ojai came from the proposal of a group based in Sydney, which could assume control of Krishnamurti's activities in Australia, and thus perpetuate a similar hierarchical structure with all its possibilities for division. Krishnaji then asked, "Is there anything further to be discussed, something you want to bring up?" Yes, there was. I asked if there was any need for those who had received his original letter to be told that I was no the longer 'persona non grata'. Krishnaji's reply, "You tell them, sir," was directand unequivocal. He was once again turning me around, allowing me to see that the decision for whatever I might do was mine, and with it the responsibility.

Right then I realized there was no problem, none at all. There could be one only if I were to make this into a "situation to be resolved." Any difficulty that arose would be of my own making. Krishnaji was free. And, in letting go, so was I. We sat quietly for a few moments. Then Krishnaji asked again, "Is there anything more?" The meeting was over. I walked to my room in the cloisters.

Even though nothing had been resolved with regard to the work in Australia or my function in it, a great deal had happened. Besides a real apprehension concerning the free, open, and successful functioning of any worldwide organization that may be envisioned, there was an enormous sense of aloneness.

THERE WAS NO QUESTION THEN OR NOW AS TO WHETHER To carry on with the Krishnamurti work. I saw no intrinsic difference between acting with others in the world and learning about myself; between Krishnamurti's insights into the human condition and my own quest for self-understanding. Together they constituted a complementary inward-outward interaction. Once the yeast of inquiry had begun, I really had no choice. The thrill of living, of the beauty of the earth and sky, of following thoughts and feelings, were my deep and profound joy. However, at unexpected moments, contending sensations like so many demons would invade consciousness. Clearly, so long as any agitating memories of what had occurred continued to surface, they had to be traced to their still-present source; otherwise the newfound freedom was fragile and could vanish at any time. An incident could reactivate whatever residue remained unresolved. So what was still hidden and needing to be uncovered and seen? I had to go after it and bring it to light.

In retrospect, it now seems unlikely that those apparently rather small incidents should have triggered such a profound storm in my body/being. Why had this been such a catalyst for me? After all, I had talked and probed and been exposed in many different ways by Krishnaji on many earlier occasions. The fact is that I still really do not know. I surmise that the revolu- tionary seed of a new dimension emerges out of the old in one whole movement. For when the psychological ego trauma had passed, so had the stress and anguish. The excruciating pain, physical and mental, which at the time had seemed unbearable, had gone, leaving little trace. And what did linger for eighteen months or so gradually disappeared until it now seems as though it had never been.

I ask myself: If all the hurt has actually gone, why am I writing about it? Why this consequence? Probably I'm writing because the crisis was an integral part of the whole experience. Somehow, and it does not now really matter what triggered it, a critical tension or focusing of energy had occurred, forcing a breakdown of self or a breakthrough into self. To what extent the entrenched entity "me" released itself, I do not know. Yet without the catalyst of Krishnamurti's calling halt to my activities, it is unlikely that any real change in my life pattern would have happened. Any attempt now to recapture what happened would be illusory, as would any speculation as to what, if anything, had been in Krishnamurti's mind. It was not Krishnamurti who had pressured me into whatever predicament I found myself in. What I encountered then, or experience anytime, is always of my own making.

There is an enormous gratefulness to Krishnaji for being, for the teachings, and for so profoundly shaking the very foundations of my being. As it turned out, I really had nothing to do about my reinstatement. I only had to go on doing the work. As Krishnaji said, "It's up to you." There was, however, the matter of the spreading of the revolutionary self-revealing message. Here is Krishnamurti's answer given to that question when it was put to him in Madras in 1947. A man asked: "I am very interested in your teachings; I would like to spread them. What is the best way to do it? "

Krishnamurti: "Many things are involved in this question. Let us look at it. Propaganda is a lie because mere repetition is not truth. What you can repeat is a lie. Truth cannot be repeated, for truth can only be experi- enced directly; mere repetition is a lie because repetition implies imitation. That which you repeat may be truth to someone, but when you repeat it, it ceases to be truth. Propaganda is one of the terrible things in which we are caught. You know something or you don't know. Usually you have read something in some books and you have heard some talk and you want to spread it. Have words any significance besides the verbal meaning? So what you are spreading is really words, and do words or terms resolve our prob- lems? Say, for instance, you believe in reincarnation; you don't know why you believe, but you want to spread that belief. What are you spreading in fact? Your belief, terms, words; your convictions which are still within the field, within the layer of verbal expression.

"We think in words, in terms; we seek explanations which are still only words, and we are caught in this monstrous lie, believing that the word is the thing. Surely, the word God is not God, but you believe that the word is God and that therefore you can spread it. Please see this. •To you, the word has become important, and not reality. So you are caught in the ver- bal level, and what you want to spread is the word. That means you will catch what I am saying in the net of words and so cause a new division between man and man. Then you will create a new system based on Krishnamurti's words, which you the propagandist will spread among other propagandists who are also caught in words—and thereby what have you done? Whom have you helped? No, sirs, that is not the way to spread. So don't try what is stupid, what is the height of folly—to spread someone else's experience. "If you experience something directly, it would be experience not based on belief, because what you believe, you experience; and therefore it is not real experience but only conditioned experience. There can be experience, the right kind of experience, only when thinking ceases, but that experience cannot be spread as information to clear the mess. But if you begin to understand simple things like nationalism, surely you can discuss it with others, in order to make it known as a poison which is destroying man. Sirs, you are not aware of the enormous calamity that lies in wait for you and for the whole world because this poison is spreading. You are nationalists, you are Hindus, against Pakistan, against England, against Germany, against Russia, and so on. So, nationalism is a poison, is it not? You can understand that very easily because it divides men. You cannot be a nationalist and talk of brotherhood; these terms are contradictory. "That also you can understand, that you can talk about. But you don't want to talk about that because that would mean a change of heart within yourself, which means that you must cease to be a Hindu, with your beliefs, ceremonies, and all the rubbish that is around you. We don't talk about nationalism because we might be asked if we are free of it ourselves. Not being free, we evade it, and go to discuss something else. Surely you can talk about something which you live and which you are doing every day, and that is what I have been talking about—your daily actions, your daily thoughts, and feelings. My words you cannot repeat, for, if you do, they will have no meaning; but you can talk about the way you live, the way you act, the way you think, from which alone there can be understanding; all that, you can discuss; but there is no use of groups with presidents and secretaries and organizations, which are terrible things in which you are often caught. Sirs, though you all smile, yet surely you are all caught in these. I don't think you know how catastrophic the whole situation is in the world now. I don't have to frighten you. You have merely to pick up a newspaper and read about it. You are on the edge ofa precipice and you still perform ceremonies, can on in your stupid ways, blind to what is happening. You can only alter by transformation of yourself and not by the introduction Of a new system, whether of the left or of the right. In the transformation of yourself is the only hope, but you cannot transform yourself, radically, profoundly, if you are above all a Hindu, if you perform ceremonies, ifyou are caught in the net of organizations.

"As it has always been in the past, so also at the Present time the salvation of man is in his being creative. You are caught inwardly in belief, in fear, and in those hindrances that prevent the coming together of mind and man. That is, if I don't know how to love you, how to love my neighbor, my wife, how can there be communion between us? We need communion; not communion between systems, but communion between you and me without systems, without organizations, and that means we must really know how to love one another. Our hearts must be opened to one another, but your hearts cannot be open if you belong to an organiza- tion, if you are bound by beliefs, if you are nationalistic, if you are a Brahmin or a Sudra [castes]. So, you can spread even a tiny part of what I have been talking about only as you live. It is by your life that you communicate profoundly, not through words. Words, sirs, to a serious, thoughtful man. have very little meaning. Terms are of very little signifi- cance when you are really seeking truth, truth in relationship and not an abstract tnlth of valuations, of things, or of ideas. If you want to find the truth of those things verbally, it is of little importance; but words become very important when you are not seeking truth; then the word is the thing and the thing catches you. So, if you want to spread these teachings, live them, and by your life you will be spreading them. You will be communi- cating them, which is much more true and significant than verbal repetition, for repetition is imitation and imitation is not creativeness, and you as an individual must awake to your own conditioning and thereby free yourself and hence give love to another." For such a metamorphosis there is only one starting point, and that is with me, here and now, in daily living and relationships.

WHEN ASKED AS HE OFTEN WAS, "IS THERE A SELF, AN ENTITY which incarnates?", Krishnamurti did not, in my hearing, affirm or deny the existence of a separate self that survives after death. On one occasion, Krishnamurti wrote: "You don't know what it means; you have all kinds of hopes and theories about it; you believe in reincarnation or resurrection, or in something called the soul, the atman, a spiritual entity which is timeless and which you call by different names. Now have you found out for yourself whether there is a soul? Is there something Permanent, continuous, which is beyond thought? If thought can think about it, it is within the field of thought and therefore it cannot be permanent because there is nothing permanent within the field of thought. To discover that nothing is permanent is of tremendous importance, for only then is the mind free, then you can look, and in that there is great joy."

So, is there a self, a psyche? It's a question that has troubled human- ity from the beginning of conscious thought and time. Every young child wants to know, "Where did I come from?" and later, "Who am I?" For Western civilization, the earliest written myths and legends began with Homer's Iliad (about 1000 BC) and The Odyssey (about 800 BC). These records tell us that until 550 BC and the arrival of Pythagoras, the word 'psyche' was used in just the same way we now use life, meaning the creative force animating all living organisms. However, when we talk of 'life' we normally mean the span of time between birth and death, of events and developments of a certain person. By doing so we have limited the Greek concept. In early Greek writing, 'psyche' meant life, with its origin in the word 'psychein', meaning "to breathe." While it breathes, a creature lives; when breathing stops, life departs. "To expire" refers to one's last breath.

Pythagoras began a transformation in consciousness. By Socrates' time (300 BC), 'psyche' had taken on its modern meaning—had become identified as a separate self, an individual soul. That change in perception became the invention of a 'soul' living in a body. The ancient usage of the word 'psyche' as life, however, was to live on. It survived into the New Testament with Jesus saying, "I am the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd giveth his psyche for his sheep." (John 10:11). Psyche here = life (not soul or mind), but the life in his own body. Two totally differen tmeanings for psyche: one (the original comprehension) relating to universal life-energy and the other, to a single individual self. eny Psyche = life had come to mean Psyche = soul. A duality had been established in consciousness. Inevitably the conceptual change brought about behavioral changes. The history of religion, science, politics and social relationships tells of immense alterations in human consciousness. At the end of the twentieth century, we see ourselves as the supreme creation of intelligence, as the controllers of
our destiny and the whole world. and Thus has consciousness been reduced to 'self-consciousness'—individual survival, personal improvement, and human progress.


IT WAS MY GREAT GOOD FORTUNE TO HAVE ON OCCASION BEEN close to Krishnamurti. And now he is dead. Perhaps for the first time in human history, the complete teachings of a world teacher are on record. His writings, books, tapes, and the verbatim reports of thousands of talks, all discussions, and dialogues are there for everyone, open to all. Faulty misrepresentations and misinterpretations have no place and cannot warp the teaching, for everyone can go directly to the source.

As always when the teacher dies, the teachings

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Sat, 06 Jan 2018 #144
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Here are a few selected excerpts from Mrs Sunanda Patwardhan's memories of 30 + years of interaction with K and his Teachings

MY SPIRITUAL AWAKENING STARTED FIFTY YEARS AGO. IN September 1947, Krishnaii had come to India, and his public talks and dialogues were to be held in Madras. At that time I was living in Bangalore with my parents and had to go to Madras to receive my degree. My family encouraged me to attend Krishnaji's talks while at Madras. Krishnaji's host at that time was Mr. Madhavachari, who was a close friend of my maternal grandfather. I visited Mr. Madhavachari, who received me warmly and treated me as a member of his household. He then introduced me to Krishnaji.

The urge to find truth or meaning to life, the impulse to search for perfection, lies in each human being, but few of us are aware of it or even seek it. It seemed as though this urge to inquire into the meaning of existence had lain dormant in my consciousness. Some of us awaken to this seed of inquiry through a search for meaning or through the practice of various kinds of meditation; others nourish it by seeking a life of peace and sanity. Yet others come to it through their pain and suffering. The seed also bursts into life in the presence of a great religious teacher. It was so with me. Something within me responded deeply and immediately to Krishnaji on our first meeting.

When we met for the first time, I was swept away by his response to me. He was so beautiful, full of affection and joyousness. His face was extraordinary, a chiseled perfection with eyes that seemed to look into the far beyond. His presence to me was that of an enlightened and radiant being. I felt protected and secure in this presence. The bond that I felt for him was to be a life-long one.

I don't think I differentiated between the teacher and the teaching. Krishnaji had said so often that "the teacher is not important; use him like a telephone, but live the teaching." I can understand that he tried to imply one should not be dependent or be a follower, and that the teaching is perfect and it is that which must help one to feel one's way. Despite that, I must confess that Krishnaji as a person meant a lot to me. The extraordinary experiences that I had in his presence have had a deep and indescribable impact on me. My first meeting with Krishnaji was unforgettable. To recapture and recollect what happened half a century ago is rather difficult, but from the very first conversation and in the many that followed, I got the feeling that Krishnaji saw in me a religious "something." He told me so, and I responded to him from that source. He talked to me, gently opening out new horizons, perhaps to test the strength and depth of my feelings. I was not analytical or even aware of the depth of his words at that time. When I look back upon my first meeting and the following months of my association with him, I see my destiny beginning to unfold. It brought me to him at a very early' age, when I was not too young and yet still innocent of the world outside, having been brought up in a protected brahmanical family. It seemed as if an already woven pattern were revealing itself, and a new direction in my life began. Meeting and being with him was the first decisive turning point.

In 1947, I was like many other young persons, full of plans and ambi- tions to study law and jurisprudence, try for the civil service, and so on. At the age of twenty-one, with the fullness of adulthood, the path of my future seemed to be clearly laid out. However, all that changed dramati- cally after my meeting him. How did this deep and immediate change of mind occur? What acted as a catalyst? Today with hindsight, I can discern some factors that may have been responsible for my spontaneous response to the call of the sacred. I would attribute my immediate response to Krishnaji to my family and its Theosophical legacy and to my marriage.

I grew up in a simple South Indian brahmanical milieu, along with my two brothers, Krishnamurthy and Premanand. We grew up amidst much affection and care. My father, Vishwanatha lyer, came from a traditional middle-class family from Thanjavur, in Tamil Nadu. He was well educated and worked in the judiciary. My mother, Rajalakshmi lyer, belonged to an aristocratic and progressive family. Her father, M. N. Ramaswami lyer, was a distinguished person and a devoted follower of Dr. Annie Besant. He often hosted her and other Theosophists in his home. My family was a conservative one. We lived an austere and simple life, and my parents brought us up with a sense of morality and integrity. They had a great deal of warmth and affection and shared it in abun- dance with our friends and relatives. Both my parents were members of the Theosophical movement, which deeply influenced their belief in an austere and moral way of life. Humanity to them was one large family undivided by race, caste or religion. Truth to them was universal, beyond the narrow confines of rites and rituals demanded by any religious system. My parents had long been followers of the world teacher, Krishnamurti. Brought up as I was in such an ambience, the religious persona of Krishnaji may have already been a part of my unconscious.

THE IMMEDIATE AND APPARENT OUTCOME OF MY FIRST meetings with Krishnaji was the giving up all my earlier plans of further study. There was a deep, unknown force that seemed to compel me to follow him and the teaching. In 1947, when I first met Krishnaji, he said to me, "You are like a frog in the well. You have not traveled or seen anything beyond Madras and South India. Take a year off, come to Pune, Delhi, and other places where K will be giving talks, meet people, observe, and then you will find out what you want to do." The meeting with Krishnaji was a "chance" or an act of destiny, but my decision to go with him, giving up a career, was voluntary. In a real sense, there was no choice. I had to leave home to find out what life held in store for me.

In those days it was not the accepted conduct for a girl of my circumstances to leave home before marriage. However, my parents felt that I was unduly blessed to have been chosen by such a one as Krishnanmrti, and with a full heart they bade me go forth into a destiny initiated by him. I moved out of the cocoon of my home, deciding not to continue higher studies but instead to travel and expand my horizons as Krishnaji had suggested. Krishnaji gave me a generous gift of three- hundred rupees and a cashmere shawl of his when I first left home. It was like starting on a pilgrimage.

I traveled to Delhi and Poona with Krishnaji. At Delhi he made it possible for me to meet people from different walks of life—the literati, the wealthy and the politically powerful, the Gandhians and government bureaucrats. As it was the first time I had moved out of the confines of my home, I was a little overawed by what I saw and the people I met. I was exposed to the ways of the haut ton as well as the heated political discourses of the Socialists. It was a completely new world, and I watched and learnt in silent fascination.

In Poonaa , the Patwardhan family were Krishnaji's hosts, and they organized and arranged his public talks and small group discussions. Pama's elder brothers, Raoji and Achyutji, were very close to Krishnaji, who had a great regard for them. Both of them were very articulate and participated in many dialogues with Krishnaji. Achyutji's association with Krishnaji dated back to 1928 to the historical event at the Ommen camp. The Patwardhans came from Ahmednagar and belonged to an illustrious and cultured family. The family was large, composed of six brothers and a sister. They had a rather austere and serious view of life. It was a strange coincidence that they too had a Theosophical legacy. The father was an ardent Theosophist and was deeply devoted to Dr. Annie Besant. The family was heavily involved in the political and social movements of the time. Many of the members of the family took part in the Independence movement and were imprisoned during the free- dom struggle. Raoji and Achyutji, the two older brothers, were national heroes. They had spent the best part of their youth fighting for the freedom of India. Achyutji was a founder member of the Socialist party and one of the Socialist leaders who were active in the Quit India movement. He went underground for five years to escape arrest by the British. Soon after India attained independence, Achyutji and Raoji were offered positions of power, which they refused. They had a far wider perspective about the human predicament and a larger vision for the country. They held that mere social reform and planned development would not bring about an egalitarian or a just society. They saw the truth of Krishnaji's fundamental message that unless there is a radical transformation in human consciousness, conflict and sorrow will continue to shadow human life. After my marriage, I became a part of the group around Krishnaji. Among the members of the group who spent their lifetimes with Krishnaji were Raoji, Achyutji, Pupulji, Nandini, Balasundaram, and Narayan

WHEN I TOLD KRISHNAJI THAT PAMAJI AND I WERE GETTING married, he neither approved nor disapproved, but he did give his blessings. I knew that in those early years he looked upon marriage as a disaster, especially for women in India. He regarded it as a hindrance to a religious way of life as one gets enmeshed in it. I was, however, fortu- nate in my marriage, as Pamaji shared my reverence for Krishnaji and responded deeply to his teaching. Krishnaji was to change his views on marriage in later years, after watching young people being attracted to the teaching and then moving away from it. Many youths who had joined the Foundation eventually got back into the stream of life. He felt that sex, with all its attractions, over- whelmed young people when they were in their twenties and thirties. He felt that they should experience sex, marriage, and begin a family so that by the time they were forty years of age, they could be ready to ask more fundamental questions about life.

I found after my marriage that my relatives were not very demonstra- tive, and the expression of emotion was regarded as unbecoming and looked upon as a sign of weakness. I told Krishnaji about this. He said, 'You want to be loved and fulfilled, Sunanda, but it can never happen; it is like trying to pour water into a bucket with a hole. However, if you start loving and caring for people, and become sensitive to others—not only to people but also to all things from the earth— then self-concern becomes less. And that strange thing called love can then come."

I used to talk to Krishnaji about sex and marriage and their place in the religious way of life. I felt that they were somehow contradictory. One day in Rishi Valley', we were in Krishnaji's room, in the old guest- house. We were standing before a window, quietly looking at a canopy of trees nearby and the hills beyond. He turned to me and said, "Sunanda, man has always associated passion only with sex. Do you see that stray dog down there on the road? Do you feel passion for it? Do you feel passion for that village woman walking over there, carrying a heavy load on her head? Do you feel passion for a flower? For a beggar? If you don't feel intensely for all that, then sex becomes a shoddy little affair."

Krishnaji did not advocate celibacy as a necessary preparation for one who has chosen to walk the path, as he felt it often led to an unnatural suppression. At the same time, he also pointed out the ill effects of promiscuous sexual relations. As I understood it, he seemed to say that sex had to find its place in the wider context of life. There had to be an understanding of love and passion. To attain this understanding, one had to go beyond the frontiers of thought and image in relationship. Only then would one understand the proper place of sex in life. Understanding begins in the way we live our daily life and in the har- mony created between body, mind, and emotion. He seemed to say the body should be looked after properly, with the right food, right exercise, and so on. The brain too should be alert, questioning and observing the world within and without; then sexual demands find their own level.

"Can one live intensely with great depth and awareness, live with wonder? To care for another, to look after a plant? This is a movement away from self-concern. When self-concern becomes less, then desire and its demands are less. You will then see thal there comes a harmony of living in which sex finds its right place." Krishnaji pointed out that just as knowledge had its right place, sex too had its right place in life. Everything in life had its proper place. He said, "If my father and mother or your father and mother did not sleep together, neither I nor you would be here. It is natural. But what has gone wrong is that human beings have made sexual pleasure into something all encompassing, exclusive, and ugly."

He seemed to feel that it was essential to understand the role of thought in relation to sex. Thought remembers a pleasurable sexual experience and makes images, dreams, and fantasiesabout it. It wants to repeat the experience and get more and more of it. He held that one had to understand that it was thought that had made sex into an enormous problem. No wonder, he said, that the ancients advised, "Control thought, then you control desire." Thought, desire, and control are interrelated. He felt control was not the answer, for that which is suppressed comes back with reinforced energy. "Neither control nor indulgence can give the right perspeclive." He held that it was only in realizing what love is that one understood the right place of sex. "Where there is love, you can do no wrong." One has to understand how he defined love. Love, according to him, is not jealousy, envy, or attachment. Love means to have passion. Passion is an intense feeling that can express itself not only between a man and a woman but also in one's profession or work. When our concern with the self becomes less, then passion extends beyond to cover the whole of the earth. It is like a vast field of belonging, feeling responsibility forpeople and for the things of the earth.

FROM 1952 TO 1960, I WORKED AS KRISHNAJI'S PROFESSIONAL stenographer, looking after his correspondence, making notes of his talks and question-and-answer sessions, and typing them out. I used to do this in Vasanta Vihar, Rishi Valley, and Rajghat. So each year, for a couple of months or more, I traveled with him and spent the rest of the year in my home at Poona. That was the pattern of my life at this time. Looking back, I realize now there were sharp contradictions in my life during these years. When I was with Krishnaji, my mind was charged with energy and was alive and vibrant with a keenness to absorb the subtle nuances of the teaching. There were many serious people who would come to meet him, and the ensuing conversations and dialogues kept one continually alert and attentive. I was observing and learning, and there was much work to do. Life in Poona, on the other hand, for the rest of the year was that of a householder. It was a hectic life filled with friends, relatives, and social activities. My home was open and we welcomed our many friends who often came to visit and stay with us. Entertaining, cooking, gardening, and going to the club kept me busy. I was also a member of some social welfare organizations.

However, this was a life vastly different from the religious one I led with Krishnaji. By the standards of the day, my life as a householder would be considered full and enriching. But problems gathered like dark clouds at the approach of a storm. I had several miscarriages during the first ten years of my marriage, leaving in their wake extreme anxiety and psychological trauma. They had to be dealt with. Although I appeared to live with zest and energy, dissatisfaction was brewing beneath the surface. Leading two different lives took its natural toll, for the one seemed to have little relationship with the other. Being with Krishnaji, working for hours with the teaching, meeting a fantastic variety of people, engaging in dialogues andserious conversations—all this was so different from the householder's life in Poona. In addition, when I came home from my trips with Krishnaji, restlessness came upon me; adjustments and compromises had to be made. It was like continuously switching gears. The two lives ran on parallel lines—two languages, two atmospheres, and two separate parts of myself. The two parts did not harmonize or coalesce into a whole. Inwardly deep contradictions were tearing me into disparate halves.

SOMETHING DEEPLY FUNDAMENTAL BEGAN TO TAKE ROOT IN MY mind. After my constantly listening to the teaching and discussions and transcribing them, Krishnaji's words began to fill my mind. I realized that instead of authentic insights, I was often repeating his words and ways of expression. I had become stale and reached a dead end spiritually. I felt that I had to get away, be on my own, and find out what was happening to me. I seemed to have lost my sense of direction, and frustration was creeping in. It was a perfect time to stand on one's feet and start walking by oneself. By coincidence, from 1960 onwards, tape recorders began to be used to record his talks, so that my role as stenographer ended quite naturally.

Why did I not see all this confusion clearly at that time? I feel, perhaps, that I had come into all this when I was too young. Drawn to the teaching and the teacher, I plunged into the religious path without having experienced the full gamut of life. I had thought I was almost on the threshold of the path when I first met Krishnaji, but obviously I had to go through the fire of life and get burnt by its experiences before attaining some depth and authenticity as an integrated individual. I told Krishnaji that I had to do something on my own. Some part of me felt suppressed, and I needed an outlet, a safe house. He seemed to understand this. My life was at a crossroads, and I did not know what I wanted. Questions of "Where am I going? Where is my life leading me?" crowded my mind and left me confused.

WHEN KRISHNAJI WAS LEAVING INDIA, I ASKED HIM WHETHER HE would give a few of us who were present something by way of a message or statement to ponder over during his absence. "Do you seriously mean it?" he asked. We nodded in response. To one, he said, "Don't be ambitious"; to another "Have an even keel"; and to me, "Be yourself." So I started with questions, "What am I? Who am I? Am I a bundle of thoughts, emotions, desires, or am I something more than that? What is this 'myself'? What is this entity composed of? What is this 'me' to which I am holding on so tenaciously?" As self-inquiry began, questions rose about the nature of the self, and the very process again triggered greater inquiry It released a new kind of energy.

Another occasion when Krishnaji helped me inquire into the self was in Bombay. After watching me being quiet in the small-group discussions, Krishnaji said to me, "Why have you been quiet? Are you afraid of speaking? Are you shy? What is it? Do you want to be like Rao, Achyut, and Pupul? Don't. Sunanda, be yourself." It was an insightful statement. I was able to perceive some truths about myself. I realized that I had developed a diffidence to speak in front of people who I thought were far above me in their intellect. I felt the other speakers in the dialogue had powerful personalities and were articulate in their exposition of what they wanted to convey, and I felt inadequate. The feeling that I was a "nobody" seemed to have taken root at these meetings. After Krishnaji's talk with me, I tried to take part in the dialogues without being self-conscious.

The most difficult thing is to be oneself and to have self-worth. One feels like a "nobody" or "nothing much" or "just a housewife," only in comparison with another and the judgment of social peers; otherwise each one has an uniqueness that can express itself when it is left unhin- dered by comparison, made by oneself or by others. It is not difficult to see this process operating in oneself. To judge or evaluate oneself in relation to another's achievements or one's own expectations implies a subtle conformity and comparison to some set parameters. Behind these comparisons seems to lie an un-understood frustration with oneself, a deep dissatisfaction, for hidden within lies a strong desire to achieve, to be recognized, a yearning for rewards and successes I know that nothing more could be done. I was sure that I had understood my' losses, sorrowed for them, and gone beyond disappointment.

Krishnaji unfolded to me the way of "going through" an experience so that no residue was left. He said, "You have to allow this thing to come out. See what it has done to you. Watch it. Watch yourself when going out for a walk. What happens when you see a lovely child holding its mother's hand and walking along the road? When you open a book with photographs of lovely children, what is your response? Is there a sorrow, is there envy, do you feel like bursting into tears, is there a sense of denial, of having missed out something? Watch it. Does that extraordinary feeling of affection and tenderness come out? Or do you feel, 'I wish I had a child'?"

On many occasions, he would ask me to probe and find out for myself the depth of the feeling of denial and open it out. "When you so observe, everything in relation to that denial speaks to you. At the end of it, what happens? When and how will it end? You may not consciously know it, but it has told its story, revealed itself, and you have listened. Then, whether you have a child or not becomes totally irrelevant. You have come out of it, whole. It is a flowering of the deep feeling of denial. Do not allow the intellect to act. The intellect is a very inadequate instrument to understand life."

This process of understanding seems to be one of listening without any resistance or rationalization. In listening, the depth of one's feeling rises up to the surface. In the beginning, one may not like to acknowledge what is happening to oneself. We often think, "I don't like this feeling in me." But allowing these feelings to expose themselves is the wiping away of the pain and longing. The wiping away removes the sense and feeling of denial.

Looking at the years that followed, I can say I did not miss having a child born to me. In my life there has always been a sense of a much larger family, not born of blood ties but born of a natural relatedness to young people in the family and outside. Again, I feel that things happen to one with a purpose. If I had had a child of my own, perhaps my capacity for detachment would have been sorely tested. I have yet to see any mother who has no attachment, and I do not know whether I would have passed that supreme test of detach- ment. It appears now that not having a child was really a fortunate thing for me; it became easier to accept and understand loneliness and solitude. As in marriage, one can stagnate in one's family life too, one can be held by it. As the flowing river moves over the obstacles it encounters, so also one's life goes on. We wade through psychological potholes and puddles and take shelter at wayside inns, and with attention we can continue to move on with a heightened wakefulness. What seems to be required is a diligent mind to see the ways of attachment and its impact on our lives.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Mon, 08 Jan 2018 #145
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

More selected excerpts from Mrs Sunanda Patwardhan's memoirs

The years from 1959 to 1969 was a decade devoted to academic pursuits. The new life brought its own challenges and tensions. Academic life meant hard work, fuelled by a burning desire to do well. I started with a great deal of diffidence, as it had been fourteen years since my undergraduate studies. There was my family life with its complicated webs of relationships. All this with my teaching load created a lot of strain. I was not aware of the intensity of my work and the colossal energy that went into fulfilling my varied roles until it began to take a toll of my health. The first signs of physical illness began in 1968. The "worldly" virus also crept into my mind, insidiously. The sense of achievement, success, and praise boosted my sense of self. I remember well a conversation with Krishnaji that roused me from this euphoric slumber. I had gone to tell him of my many successes in the academic world. He kept quiet for a while and then said, "Sunanda, don't be vain. Do you know that as you came into the room, the feeling of vanity was there in the room? Be watchful." He then added, "All right, you have your Ph.D. now, and then what?"

I had no answer to give him, for I had none to give. However, it made me pause and observe the movements of my life and thoughts. I was indeed fortunate to have received this advice at the appropriate time. I had become vain and self-important with my little "successes" and achievements. There is nothing wrong in excellence, by itself. But worldliness and strengthening of the ego seem to accompany these achievements, and that is the problem.

KRISHNAJI'S WORDS TO ME, "BE WATCHFUL," WERE SIMPLE AND direct. I seemed clearly to understand what it meant to observe or watch oneself. During the early years he had asked me to write down each thought and feeling, pleasant or unpleasant, as I observed them. By watching a thought/feeling to its end, one had a sense of the meditative process. These were my first lessons in meditation. During this process one's private thoughts, intentions, aspirations, and hidden motivations come upon the surface. In addition, one begins to know oneself. The initial exercise of coming to know oneself starts with watching one's thoughts, feelings, and experiences; and as one observes, they seem to open up, revealing their contours, textures, and colors. Hidden as well as conscious desires, loneliness, and sorrow paint their picture. A process of awareness begins, and one becomes a witness to how thoughts and emotions arise and fall. One sees how swiftly thought moves, changes, and flits from one thing to another, sometimes logically but mostly randomly, chattering and churning. Awareness also brings into focus the way the "me" acts as the controller or director, trying to change "what is" to "what could be" or "what should be." Thus, there comes a stage when one is familiar with much of the content of consciousness.

During this process of continued observation, an interesting thing takes place. The map of consciousness opens out. But however intensive and wide may be my knowledge about the psychological facts about myself, it does not necessarily release me from my everyday feelings and fears. For instance, when I look at my anxiety, I wonder why I continue to get anxious when I am fully aware of the causes of it. Self-knowing then seems to be a continuous process of observing the arising of thoughts, their movements, and the interval between thoughts. In this interval, there is a steady state of non-movement.

On one hand, there is this subtle and sustained watching of thought; at the same time there seems to be a futility in doing this. Krishnaji puts this process in proper perspective. "Merely to pursue, ana- lyze and be aware of any particular thought is utterly useless if one has not understood or observed the interval between two thoughts." I feel it is necessary, as part of meditation, to observe the interval between thoughts. If one so observes the interval, then one notices that the fleeting, weightless, flimsy thoughts fade away. For in that space of silence, no judgment, comparison, or controlling is taking place. Until watching one's thoughts is accompanied by observing the interval between thoughts, one's awareness does not attain depth. In that interval of space, a feeling of infinite space can be actually experienced, if there is no desire to prolong its duration or pursue it. "This means," he said, "really infinite self-knowledge. In that interval a new and different feeling can come into being. "

When one sees the horizontal flow of thought/feeling, one observes how the very watching opens out the roots of that thought/feeling. Then one touches a deeper level of consciousness. It is the "thought-free" witness to the space between thoughts that adds a new dimension to experiencing. As this space extends inwardly, sometimes breaking the borders of thought, there is silence. That silence is a very important aspect of meditative potentiality. That silence/space becomes the ground for the fertility of insight.

Krishnaji also talked of a state that exists beyond conditioned con- sciousness, beyond the comparable. To quote, "There is definitely a stage that is not comparable, to be chosen, to be wished for. It is to 'be oneself', this 'oneself' which is stripped of all the rubbish of civilization. It 'is'. Love has no choice, no wish. That is the key of life."

I am still wondering what is this state that is stripped of "all the rubbish of civilization." To use the word "all" is forbidding. One can be aware of the extent to which the blockages in one's mind have disappeared. So asking questions like "Have I eliminated all blockages?" is a self-defeating question. For instance, has the anxiety or ambition that was present in me completely disappeared? Yes and no. It seems to appear in different contexts. So what do I do? I can only observe it and watch it dissolve for that moment.

This whole process of awareness appears to me as a dynamic move- ment, each observation adding depth, strength, and vitality. Without awareness, there is no beginning. Without coming upon original insights, the inner journey lacks strength and support. The journey itself has no 'end point' but is itself the only way of living.

I CONTINUED TO BE A MEMBER OF THE FOUNDATION. EACH YEAR I attended the talks in Bombay and spent some time in Rishi Valley or Rajghat or Vasanta Vihar with Krishnaji. I was not part of the happenings in the Foundation. I was out in the wider world, working and living on my own steam, going through various enriching experiences. The feeling of relatedness with Krishnaji was very much there, but it was different. He never asked me to give up anything that I was doing. I had to go through life in the outside world without leaning on him. It was the first break from my dependency on him.

The years 1964 to 1969 were also a time when Krishnaji's attention was greatly engaged in the West. He was dissatisfied with the events and some of the people in the Indian Foundation. There was an imperceptible but definite withdrawal of the earlier warmth in his relationships.

These were also the culminating years of conflict and the break in his relationship with D. Rajagopal. New people had gathered around Krishnaji and taken charge of his financial and other interests, including the legal battle against Rajagopal. They arranged for his tour schedules, talks and dialogues, and the publication of his works. This was the time when Brockwood Park came into existence. The KFT (Krishnamurti Foundation Trust, UK) and KFA (Krishnamurti Foundation of America) were formed during this period, and the link with the earlier organization, K WINC (Krishnamurti Writings Incorporated), was severed. There was also a 'psychological' distance between the Indian Foundation and the newly formed foundations abroad. Responding to Krishnaji's dissatisfaction with us all, some of us, including Raoji, Achyutji, and me, resigned from the Foundation for New Education, which was the earlier name of the Indian Foundation. This name was later changed to the Krishnamurti Foundation India.

However, by 1969, there was a change in his relationship to the Indian Foundation. Pupul Jayakar became the president when Mrs. Kitty Shiva Rao gave up that responsibility. I was again nominated to be a member in 1969. I remember Krishnaji arriving in Delhi in 1969, on his usual annual visit. When he saw all of us gathered at the airport in Delhi to receive him (Achyutji, Pupulji, Nandini, some others, and myself), earnestly and simply he said, "You have not abandoned me!" It was his way of saying "Pax." He was back to his normal self with a fullness and warmth

DURING KRISHNAJI'S 1969 VISIT TO INDIA, KITTY SHIVA RAO'S husband was seriously ill, and she had therefore resigned from the presi- dency of the Foundation. Krishnaji was often with her during those distressing times. I was present once when he advised Kitty on how to deal with her sorrow. She was deeply attached to her husband, was terrified of his dying, and could not conceive of a life without him. Krishnaji comforted her in his own way and yet dispassionately told her, "You are very nervous about the passing away of your husband. Learn to live from today as though he were already dead. Otherwise it will be too late." Though his words seemed stark, they offered an insight that could be liberating, if one could do it. He had so often told me to be 'psychologically independent' of my husband, family members, and others. This would mean psychologically inviting the death of the person whom you love, inviting detachment, much before the event takes place. But very few can do it. One can see the stark truth of what he says, but it has to 'happen' actually and not as something that we intellectually acknowledge as true. That detachment can come when we accept death as part of life and are prepared to go through the agony of loneliness and solitude. His message is for each one of us, young and old, to live in a different way, 'psychologically'.

THE INCIDENT WITH KITW SHIVA RAO BROUGHT TO MY MIND AN occasion when Krishnaji had responded to another individual's suffering with great compassion and helped him face the crisis directly. This inci- dent occurred even before I was born. My grandfather, M. N. Ramaswami Aiyar, had lost three of his daughters, aged between twenty and thirty years, within a span of fifteen days. It was a terrible tragedy. On hearing about the dreadful crisis, Krishnaji had written a letter (dating from 1936) , from which I quote:

My very dear Ramaswami Aiyar, When I read your letter, I was really shocked by the news you have written to me. I cannot possibly imagine that such a thing could happen to you in such a short time. It must have been in every way a perfect torture to you and to your wife. I remember them all so well, quite clearly, and I can't imagine that they have passed away. You know, Sir, I really feel for you about this, and it would be absurd for me to give you any comfort because in such moments of crisis one does not want comfort, the suffering is so intense and so acute that consolationseems such a tawdry affair. But if one has the capacity to maintain that suffering intelligently, and not discard it, not seek substitution, not run away from it, but really dwell with it intelligently, and with full integrity and awareness, I think one will find that there takes place an understanding which gives an inner joy to life. I wish I were there to talk to you both.

Writing letters from this distance seems so casual, but you know, I hope, that all my sympathy and affection are with you both. You know, Sir, when one is in this stage of utter collapse and misery, one wants to find an immediate way of alleviation from all this agony. And the danger of it is the very impatient desire helps one to find a way out, but that way is not the true way. So, if I may suggest it, and this is what happened to me, I assure you, with regard to my brother too, there should be intelligent patience of continual inquiry, not acceptance of a remedy, which one finds fatally easy. It is like this: One never rejects joy; it is so strong, so vibrant, so alive, so creative that one never questions it, discards it, runs away from it; it consumes one and carries one in its movement. In that moment of great happiness there is no question of wanting to get rid of it, or wanting to find out the cause of joy; one lives in it. Now, in the same way, if I may suggest, do the same thing with sorrow. Naturally, when one escapes from it or one seeks a remedy in the innumerable beliefs, or in people, the fullness of sorrow is diminished; and the man who knows how to suffer greatly with intelligence, not with acceptance or resignation, knows the real ecstasy of living. You may for the moment feel that I am not giving you any help, but if you would kindly think over it and not be impatient with what I am saying, you will see that there is substance, a reality to what I am saying. A remedy is an end, whereas this richness of understanding is a continual movement; therefore, in that, there are never moments of agony. J.K.

This letter was written more than sixty years ago. It has a simple lucidity and abounding affection. It gives us a glimpse of how Krishnaji helped people to cope with profound sorrow that comes with the death of beloved ones. Krishnaji always spoke about sorrow during his series of public talks in Madras, and it invariably touched me very deeply. The audience unfailingly responded to him at such times with a penetrating silence and receptivity.

I would like to describe the atmosphere of one such talk that took place in Vasanta Vihar. Krishnaji was sitting on a platform giving a talk under a canopy of old trees. The sun was just setting in the west and threw light and shadow on the delicate branches hanging down from the ancient trees. On that day, he was talking about the sorrow of man. I felt that Krishnaji's voice was gentle with infinite compassion as he described the 'river of sorrow', which is only too familiar to all of us. I felt as though each one, in that vast gathering of five thousand people, saw what he said reflected in their life. Each one had his or her own genre of suffering, going through it, accepting it, living with it, and never being able to end it, not having the clarity and strength to tear out the roots of suffering. When Krishnaji talked of human suffering, the whole gathering seemed to be experiencing that vast sorrow of humankind, and each was able to associate his or her own particular suffering with that of the human collective.

KRISHNAJI FELT THAT HUMANITY FROM THE BEGINNING OF TIME must have asked itself if there was something more than this everlasting cycle of conflict and suffering interlaced with fleeting moments of joy. It seems as though the urge to find the meaning of existence lies embedded in all our consciousness. In each one of us there seems to be a continuous search to solve the problems of fear, desire, conflict, and frustration that we face every clay. It is these problems that make us inquire and reflect on the predicament that is our existence. To find a way to end sorrow has been an eternal quest of the ancients in India; they have over millennia inquired if there was something beyond the narrow limits of a time-bound existence, something timeless that could not be measured by man. "The seed of that inquiry is still with us. This seed that has been planted in man, in his brain, for millions and millions of years and has never had the right soil, the right light to grow; Therefore, it is still there. Is it possible for that seed to grow and flower, multiply, and cover the earth?" [Madras, Dec. 22, 1979)

Krishnaji felt that there was something deeply sacred about the Indian spiritual tradition. The sacred, he often said, is not something to be known or achieved but a search that is necessary for anyone who is intent on crossing the boundaries of thought. However, he felt we had lost this sense of the sacred. He expressed this in a conversation with a group of us in Rajghat. He asked, "What is happening to the culture of this country, to the Indian mind? Why is it deteriorating? Is it the weight of tradition, the authority of the Vedas, the gurus, the British rule, the brief period of freedom? Is it family authority? Are all these factors responsible for the deterioration? Let me put it differently. Look at it [tradition] from an ancient point of view: an Indian mind stretched, reached, and sought out the Brahman, the eternal; what has happened to it?"

Later, he said, "There has been a misuse of this ancient brain. It was supposed to have worked towards the Highest. That must have been an extraordinary brain. That brain, not the material brain but the ( quality of a ) brain that is cultivated, have you lost it? On the other hand, have you become specialists, philosophers, Theosophists, neo-Theosophists, anything but That? That ancient mind had done it, worked at it. Have you, the present company, lost it? Or is it [still] there to be touched, to be tapped, used to function, flow?" He then asked, "Where is the fountain of the future? Why is there no one who will carry this on? Is it because the Indian mind translates everithing? India will connect all this that we are talking about with the tradition here, and the West will deny all this, and there will be greater division.

Towards the end of the conversation, he said, "What I am trying to get at is, this country has had this extraordinary brain working [in ancient times.] Today, would you let that [ancient] brain, that mind, operate? By that brain [I mean] the sense of unhindered real inquiry. I am using that word 'inquiry' as a feeling of movement, moving, that is probing, constantly moving, never stopping. Such a mind, then, has a seriousness behind it in its inquiry."

The impulse to search for the sacred lies within each human being. Krishnaji had pointed out in many ways that the Sacred must touch one. There was no "how" to it, and yet we have to move in that direction without wanting to get at something.

CAN ONE LIVE A DAILY LIFE IN SPECIFIC WAYS THAT HELP TO strengthen inquiry? Though Krishnaji never openly advocated a 'sadhana', or (a spiritual) practice, I will say from my personal experience that he did expect one to live in a way conducive to a religious life. I feel the first step towards this is to lead a life that is not divided by contradictions and dualities. A purity and honesty in thought, word, and action help to make the mind integrated and enable one to become receptive to the sacred. Krishnaji used to point out that it was very important to keep the brain sharp, the mind alert, and the body clean, and not to misuse one's senses or overindulge in pleasures. There are some specific practices that he spoke about—a disciplined life; the practice of yoga, meditation, and vegetarianism; and an inner austerity in one's life. One learnt a lot from just observing him and seeing how disciplined he was. He used to practice yoga and Pranayama (yogic breathing exercises) regularly in the morning, and every evening he went out for a brisk walk. He never missed this routine unless he was ill. He ate what he felt was right for the body. He once said that he never had any appetite or desire for food but ate 'what was recommended'.

He was very particular that the body remain sensitive. "Only then can it be a proper instrument to receive a different kind of energy." The body, he felt, must be kept clean. Inward quietness, he said, was a way of heightening sensitivity. All the senses were awakened when one was sitting quietly. Doing this every day deepened this state. He did not say to practice this at a fixed time each day. He felt each one should do it according to the rhythm of his or her daily life.

One does all this to bring about a ground of order. Quietness does not come merely by sitting at a place at a particular time clay after day; it is a quality of a mind that can be still naturally. It then becomes a renewing process. Meditating, sitting quietly, watching the movement of thought, going out for walks and being alive to the spectacular beauty of nature, allhelp the mind to be steady. About walking, he often said, "Don't chatter; walk alone, tasting the deep poise of solitude."

He talked of order in daily life, both inwardly and outwardly. According to him, order was not something that was arrived at by impos- ing a pattern of discipline on oneself. He felt any effort from the "self' did not lead to real order. This did not, however, mean that there were no "ground rules." He laid utmost stress on 'diligence', which he felt created its own ways of harmony. A discipline was then born that gave rise to an order that was natural and not rigorously forced on oneself.

And what did he say, for instance, about virtue and chastity? With Krishnaji, one could never say that he gave the same advice to everyone. To some like me, he advocated austerity and simplicity. I learnt from him what simplicity with dignity meant. To one young girl, not married, he would advise her not to have premarital or casual sex, whereas he might be tolerant with another who was promiscuous. I once questioned him about this double standard. I understood him to say that a person who leads a sexually permissive life would pay the price for it, would become a sinner but often said, "Haven't you heard the saying that a sinner is nearer to the gods?" He seemed to feel that a self-righteous person would find it more difficult to change because his ego and self-image are very strong.

In his public talks, he did not categorically talk about these values, but he did so in his personal conversations. I, for one, knew that in the wider context and long vision of seeking the transformation of (one's) consciousness, austerity, diligence, inner balance, and an inward honesty were important. Anyone who looks for 'codes of behavior' will find them implied in Krishnaji's talks, his actions, and his life. These values are not spelt out as patterns and prescriptions, nor insisted upon. Krishnaji's public silence on these issues did not mean they were not necessary. In his communications to me and to some others whom I know, he had clearly spoken about his views on this. A person who is in search of freedom, of a holistic way of life, has to come to terms with right behavior in the light of his or her own understanding and purpose. Yet we see that the flowering of goodness is not just a by-product of ethical and moral injunctions. For love, beauty, goodness or virtue, to be, we have to go far beyond 'ethics' and 'values' to a state where the "self" has ceased to be. This urge for transformation is a movement towards unselfishness. It is like a spark that lights up consciousness.

IN 1969, PAMAJI HAD BECOME THE EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR OF Orient Longman Publishing House, a very distinguished firm of publish- ers. We left Poona for Delhi, not knowing whether we would return. I had given up my teaching job and bidden adieu to academic life. Delhi was a totally different political, intellectual, and cultural milieu. A new life, full of unknown challenges with all its mysteries and opportunities, had opened.

IT HAS BEEN MY DESTINY THAT AT APPROPRIATE TIMES, IN different contexts of my life, a re-emphasis of my life's direction towards the sacred came from Krishnaji. Soon after we came to live in Delhi, he said something deeply profound and meaningful: "You have sharpened your intellect. It is capable of analysis, clear thinking. That's enough. Now turn to the other direction, the unexplored part, an explosion of silence in the mind." Then he further said, "Enter into a movement about which youdon't know anything. Experiencing 'silence', that is necessary for humanity."

He seemed to indicate that the next direction of my learning lay in the exploration of silence. The "experiencing" of silence, he seemed to imply, was essential for a new mind, and meditation was the path towards this silence. One knows states of "silence," as in expanded space, a being in silence, but "an explosion of silence" is something I cannot comprehend, even intellectually. One can conjure up images or delude oneself that one is in that state, but what Krishnaji said seems to be something much more than just a steady state of silence. Such statements of his, I have always felt, have only to be listened to, to be held in one's consciousness like a jewel, then to be left alone (to act) . This timely suggestion impelled me to put my 'psychological clock' in order. He had revealed the supreme importance of a creative silence. I tried to pull myself out of the mire of a chattering, occupied mind, as I saw it was a blockage. It helped me to sit a little more lightly on the everyday events and problems. This seemed to be a way of gathering oneself from time to time, and observing whether one has moved away from the source of renewal. A flowing river meets obstructions but flows on, a blade of grass bends with a storm but straightens itself again. Once a seed of awakening has been sown, it does not die. I may cover it up with inattention, allow myself to be smothered or carried away by driving ambitions and desires and family involvements, but the seed is there, alive and dormant. I have always been interested in a vision of the "other," and a state of mind that is not fragmented but whole. My mind sets right the course for itself by a process of watchfulness, cleansing, and being receptive to any "intimations of immortality."

KRISHNAJI HAD ONCE ASKED ME TO GO THROUGH AN EXERCISE of self-observation, a comprehensive perception of my life at one glance. Could I look at my life as I would a map? He asked me to try this out: "Take a notebook and write down the story of your life, an unfolding of your personal history, like a map. Let there be rivers, mountains, and craters everything. Try to trace the whole of your life—the various tensions and conflicts, the body's reaction and the mind's reaction to them, and so on. Do not hide anything. Put down everything that has happened to you, big or small, significant or othenvise, but do not go into details. The outline and the contours of your existence must be clearly seen. Then the 'totality of it' is revealed to itself."

I sat down and traced out the course of my life. After I had finished, I showed him what I had written. He glanced through it and said, "Do you see what has happened? You started early in life with the search for truth, for a religious flow. That was the little river, like the beginning of a living stream, the source." Then he pointed out that I moved along and got married. Marriage became a 'puddle'; in it were involved pleasure, security, dependence, and all that went with marriage. Somehow the river continued to flow and did not dry up, but it was thin like a rivulet instead of a gushing stream. "Now," he said, "look at the other factors— as drives and desires that have created 'puddles', like ambition, the pursuit of success. Look at the whole map, not a bit here, not a bit there, but 'feel the totality' of this whole map of Sunanda's life impersonally, objectively, all of a piece." I saw the interwoven patterns made by the conflicts, tensions and competition, all part of the aggressive thread of the ever-present ego with its drive. Unless I was very careful, the whole movement of the "me" would have again weakened the gathering momentum of the river. Krishnaji said, "Such a meditation or looking is a vast movement in linearity and verticality, of space and time."

Observing the 'map of my life' with Krishnaji made me aware of my self-created obstacles to understanding. The awareness brought with it energy to overcome some of the blocks and flow with grace. From time to time, during difficult periods I have done a reading of the 'map of my life', to help me chart my directions clearly. Krishnaji used the metaphor of a subterranean stream, flowing, meeting obstacles, and then moving forward. The 'reading of the map' with attention helped the stream loosen the hard stones of conditioning, enabling new insights and perceptions.

KRISHNAJI HAD OFTEN STATED DURING HIS LIFE THAT THE Teaching such as the one that came through his body would not recur for some hundred years to come. He once said to me, "I am leaving a precious jewel in all your hands. The Teaching is a jewel. There is not likely to be another teaching like this for a long time." I recall a meeting with Krishnaji where Narayan and I were present in his room. He asked each of us to say what we thought indicated the essence of the teaching. Narayan said, "You are the world and the world is you," and I remarked, "The observer is the observed."

Krishnaji later told me to go into the depths of the statement I quoted and to let it speak to me. He said one could learn to listen to the thoughts that arise and ask the most fundamental questions like: Who is the observer and what is the observed? What is the nature of the observed? Is there a holistic perception where there is no division between the observer and the observed? This kind of reflection, he felt, helped one to understand the "self' through its manifested expressions and its hidden roots. One has to be very honest in this journey, stay with one's perception, and not delude oneself. Approximations to the states described by Krishnaji can be misleading. One has to move in this perceptive process with complete integrity. Thus, this process of meditation begins by taking any signifi- cant, 'sutraic', or cryptic statement of Krishnaji's, and pondering over it, probing into it, and living with it, taking its obvious meanings to subtler levels of perception.

There are many 'sutraic' statements of Krishnaji on which one can reflect and observe the actual movements of thought initiated by these statements. In understanding one statement deeply and fully, one can get a glimpse of the truth behind it and experience a state of quietness. At such moments one gets a new insight, and some light is thrown on the nature of consciousness. Here are a few statements of Krishnaji's that lend themselves to this form of ( insight based) meditation:

The content of consciousness 'is' consciousness.
Thought 'is' fear.
To be is to be related.
( Having been?) hurt is the essence of the 'self'.
Look without the movement of thought.
The ending of sorrow 'is' the beginning of wisdom.
Where 'you' are, the 'other' is not.

EVEN INDIVIDUALS WHO HAVE DEVOTED THEIR LIVES TO THE quest for the Sacred often lose their focus and need corroboration of their direction. **A strange, esoteric event took place once during Krishnaji's visit to India. I am speaking now about a meeting between a Jain 'sadhu' (holy person) and Krishnaji, with Achyutji and I as silent and fascinated witnesses :

The sadhu told Krishnaji, "Sir, for fourteen years now, I have devoted myself to meditation, yet I am not able to get into samadhi. I have been practicing 'dhyana' (or 'meditation') , but I have not been able to go to the depths of it. Can I do this? Will vou be able to tell me what I have to do ?

Krishnaji asked him to describe the kinds of meditative practices he had been following. After listening to him, he said, "Do you realize that you are still acquiring? Open your fist. There is nothing to acquire."

For some minutes, the sadhu was silent. He then got up and prostrated himself before Krishnaji, who then asked him to stay on for some more time.

After a while, the sadhu said, "Sir, I want to ask you one more question. Is it the impact of your 'personality' that has given me this [experience]? Is this due to your Gurukripa [Grace of the guru]?"

Krishnaji replied, "I knew you would ask this question. That is why I asked you to stay on for some more time. This is not something to acquire but to give up. Release your fist. Leave everything." (He paused for a moment and said) "Is it the [newly awakened ?] mind that is asking that question? Or is it still the mind before you experienced 'this' that is full of ( acquisitive?) questions? You have been caught up in it again. I took you out of it, but you have gone back to it. If you stand firmly on that (ground of inner emptiness?) and let go everything, 'It' will come. 'It' will come, not because you want it, but 'It' will come. Have you understood what I am asking?"

The sadhu prostrated himself again before Krishnaji, sat down and said, "I don't need to go anywhere else."

Krishnaji then said to him, 'The 'Other' is out of Time, and we live in Time. And we want to bring the Timeless into time. I have told you all this, but It ( that Otherness?) is not 'mine'."**

Unknowable are the nonverbal experiences and mysterious are the ways by which a Teacher communicates them. What I understood from this conversation is that transformations in oneself could take place in the presence of an enlightened person if one was open and vulnerable to the teaching.

IN DELHI, ANOTHER ROAD WAS OPENING OUT FOR ME. I FOUND myself taking up responsibility for certain essential functions in the KFI It meant editing and publishing Krishnaji's works in India and publishing Indian-language editions of the works. Personally, it gave me a deeper sense of responsibility. I began working with Pupulji. She generally endorsed the policies and dealt with matters between the foundations. Those years were happy and fruitful ones, and my working relationship with Pupulji was fulfilling. She was an important person in Delhi, holding many positions in Indira Gandhi's government and acting as the cultural chargé d'affaires for India. She was a close friend of Indira Gandhi. In spite of Pupulji's many engagements, we found time to work together in her house, sitting on the beautiful spacious lawns. There was a mutual respect and affection, and this continued throughout her life. It was around that time that the Foundation decided to begin a publishing a quarterly bulletin on behalf of KFI, to announce Krishnaji's travel program and speaking schedule. Shiva Rao was requested to take up this work, and I was to assist him. Very soon after, however, he fell ill, and I took up the editorship of the KFI bulletin; I held that position until Krishnaji's passing in 1986.

That was the beginning of a new relationship with Krishnaji. In the 'wondrous fifties', I could do no wrong. I never had any apprehensions, and there was a certain easy communication. I was much appreciated and perhaps fussed about a little, not only by Krishnaji, but also by some other members of the Foundation. There was no organizational element either in my work or in my relationships. With this new assignment, however, changes inevitably came. There were now two levels to my relationship: one was a personal relationship, and the other was responsibility to the organization, of which Krishnaji was the 'de facto' head. These two threads were subtly different and difficult to weave into coherent patterns. In taking up official Foundation work, I had stepped into a situation where it was no longer just a personal relationship; other actors and relationships came into play, making it a network of conflicting judgments and appraisals. This was not so dramatic while I was in Delhi, but the potential for future complexities was already there, hidden, as yet unnoticed by me.

IT WAS ABOUT THIS TIME THAT I HAD A FIRST GLIMPSE organizational work was not going to be easy. I will narrate an incident about the beginning of Tradition and Revolution, a new book of Krishnaji, as an illustration of difficulties to come. These dialogues took place in Shiva Rao's house at Lodi Estate in Delhi. As early as 1952 I learnt typing and shorthand to be of service to Krishnaji. I had done this work for Krishnaji out of my affection and devotion to him. I continued to attend to his correspondence whenever it was necessary and I also took down notes of the lunch- and breakfast- table conversations and the impromptu small-group discussions that took place spontaneously. It so happened one evening that Krishnaji did not go for his usual walk. Pupulji, Nandini, and I were with him in his room. He turned to Pupulji and asked her, "Why don't you question me from various traditional points of view?" Thus began a series of dialogues on questioning the (Indian) mind and the traditional approaches. Each day a certain topic or question was probed. It was thus that the book 'Tradition and Revolution' was born.

I believe it is one of the first books of (K's) dialogues to be published in India. It was also the first publication of the KFI using material that had been gathered solely in India. This set a trend for further dialogues for questioning the nature of the self and inquiring into it from different perspecives. I had taken down the dialogues in shorthand, transcribed them, and typed them out. Krishnaji was quite excited and wanted these dialogues to continue in Rajghat, Rishi Valley, Vasanta Vihar, and Bombay. The book was very well received; for example, when Pamaji and I met David Bohm at Ojai, he told us that Tradition and Revolution was most useful for his understanding of the Teaching.

I am writing in retrospect about the history of this book to illustrate how small differences could become complex in an organizational frame- work. When the dialogues were ready for publication, Pupulji and I signed our names as editors. The KFT and KFA at that time had raised some doubts about the ( verbatim) authenticity of these dialogues and wanted to remove the editors' names. Later, when they came to know from Krishnaji that I had taken down the dialogues in shorthand, they had to accept my work as authentic. Because of this incident, there arose some differences between the Indian and British foundations in terms of publication rights. These rights were originally held by the KFT, who were reluctant to relinquish their hold, which explained their resistance to our independent publication. The Indian production of the book thus set a new trend: each foundation from this time onwards commenced its publications independently.

ambience, and the other the ''outside world''. From the time Pamaji and I started living in Delhi until the time we left, Krishnaji's statements and observations helped me keep the religious dimension alive. Delhi had its distinctive ambience. Krishnaji met a fascinating variety of people, including politicians, diplomats, bureaucrats, sociologists, journalists, sadhus, and others. Some of them were invited for lunches and dinners at Pupulji's house and some for seminars. Many public figures sought individual interviews. These conversations were in India. very private. They included talking over a problem or sitting quietly in non-verbal communication. Whatever the form of contact was, a feeling of communion seemed ever-present. We had a beautiful house in Golf Links, which was an aesthetically planned residential area. Twenty-five years ago, Delhi was a good place to stay; there was no polluting smog hanging over the city, and the environs. The streets of New Delhi were clean and beautiful. It was an impressively laid-out city, with elegant avenues of trees and landscaped gardens. Our house in Golf Links was very near the Lodi Gardens, where we used to go for long walks. Krishnaji often joined us in our evening walks when he was in Delhi. H also e used to come to our home for lunch. He met different groups of people—Gandhians, social activists, architects and others—at our home. Altogether Delhi was a place of political power and patronage, each faction jockeying and manipulating to get into positions of power. Even personal relationships seemed to fall prey to these political machinations.

At this time I felt no contradictions between my personal life and my religious one. Why? Perhaps it was my focus on K's work that kept the direction alive. The work revealed the ephemeral nature of positions and friendships, and helped me to retain perspective. One did get caught in the whirlpool of activities; it would have required extreme awareness not to be sucked into the stream of immediacy. Our life there did not take 'psychological roots'. That is why, when the time came for us to leave Delhi, there was no anxiety or insecurity.

BY 1973/1974, SERIOUS DIFFERENCES CAME UP BETWEEN THE partners and the board of Orient Longman over financial policies. Pamaji and his family had only a minority stake in the company, and they decided to dispense with it. In September 1975, we bade goodbye to Delhi and to Pamaji's professional life. It was a very crucial and critical phase in our life. I was nearing fifty and Pamaji was fifty-eight. His giving up a successful profession with all its perquisites made this a difficult time. He received a few offers from other businesses but decided not to take up a professional job. Unseen, changes had also taken place within him. He had come closer to Krishnaji during our stay in Delhi. He used to visit Krishnaji at Shiva Rao's and Pupulji's place, and an acquaintance was growing. Pamajii felt that all his life he had been pushed by circumstances and family influences and that he had no control over many situations. He felt it was time that he found out where his real other interests lay instead of just taking up another professional assignment. Earlier, Krishnaji had already cautioned him, "Pamaji, you have been under the influence of your two elder brothers. Shake it off. Do not be influenced by my words, too. Find out what you love to do."

Our life was at a crossroads. Pamaji and I discussed whether we could devote our life to what we truly wanted to do and live from our earnings. Could we change our lifestyle? I welcomed it. So the decision was final: we would leave Delhi not knowing what we were going to do.
I talked to Krishnaji about our plans during his 1974/1975 winter visit. He told me, "What are you doing here in this place? You have a sharp ( intellectually brilliant? ) brahmanical brain, but you have traveled enough on this route. The time has come to put an end to this. There is nothing new to be learnt anymore on this path. Once you have learnt, mastered something, give it up. The intellect is not the instrument of ( Holistic?) Perception. It is a good tool only if you have right Perception." He urged me to leave Delhi, saying, "This is a mad
place. It is a place of power, patronage, and of much excitement. You will get lost if you continue to stay here." I said to him, "Yes Krishnaji, we are leaving, we will go back to Poona." He disagreed emphatically, "No, Sunanda, don't go back to Poona. The Patwardhan family is too well known. You know too many people there. You will be ( spiritually?) 'lost' there. Go to the south. Be anonymous. "

So that was how we chose Bangalore as our new place of residence. K's parting statement to me at that time of leaving Delhi was ''to change my destiny''. For, if I had gone back to Poona , it was very unlikely that Madras and Vasanta Vihar would have played a major part in my life. His advice urging me to go south was almost like a premonition.

1975 WAS THE DREADED YEAR WHEN Indira Gandhi imposed a state of emergency on the nation. She canceled all civil liberties and imprisoned leaders from the opposition political parties. Krishnaji did not come to India, owing to the declaration of emergency. I wrote to him that we were going to the south to Bangalore, where my family had lived for many years. In his letter dated September 24, 1975 from Brockwood Park, he wrote, 'Your decision to get away from the north will bring about a non-fragmented life."

How perceptive he was! In Delhi Pamaji had a myocardial infarct, and there was the stress of coping with it along with his business pressures. My body was not too healthy either and was weakening under repeated attacks of rheumatoid arthritis. But were it not for Krishnaji's care, my illness could have severely handicapped me forever. My mind was churning and revolving around many things, without a focus, nor was there a deepening of inwardness. Two questions began a refrain in my troubled mind: How does one live with a religious quality in the 'marketplace of life' with all its conflicts and confusions? What is that 'something' within oneself that can help one get through the conflict and turmoil of self-involvement without being drowned? I am still seeking answers to these questions.

BY THE MIDDLE OF 1975, WE WERE WELL SETTLED IN our apartment in Bangalore. My parents were also living with us. The first few months were idyllic. We had no work, no pressures, nothing in par- ticular to do. Pamaji had been made a member of the Foundation, and I was looking after the publications and editing the bulletin from my home. It was a total change from the earlier hectic pace of living in Delhi. We did not seem to miss it at all. We did not know many people except a few relatives of mine. It was a time of leisure, going for walks in the Lal Bagh or Cubbon parks. It was like floating easily on waters without knowing in which direction one was moving.

However, destiny had laid its own path for us to walk on. It was not mine alone but Pamaji's too, for we were to become an integral part of an unfolding scenario that began with a letter from Krishnaji dated December 14, 1975. My dear Sunanda, I feel it is important that you should come to Ojai for the scientists' conference. Do think about this seriously.. .. J.K.

Again, he wrote, on February 16, 1976, from Ojai: Dear Sunanda, I hope you have decided and found the means to come to Ojai. I do urge you to come. As I have not heard from you, I am writing this again. Do come a week or so before the conference begins so we can talk over things together, not only about the conference but also about things in general in India. You have to make Vasanta Vihar a real center. It is your responsibility. You have to create it and work for it. J.K.

It was the first hint I had from Krishnaji that he intended to entrust the care of Vasanta Vihar to Pamaji and myself. Vasanta Vihar was an essential element of Krishnaji's consciousness, for it was here that he came into his own after leaving the Theosophical Society and became the first established center of the Foundation.

I RECEIVED AN INVITATION FROM ERNA LILLIEFELT to Ojai, which said, "We expect you and your husband to stay at Arya Vihara during your visit here. Krishnaji wishes you to come a week before the scientists' conference if it is possible." Thus began the new journey and our first visit to the United States and Ojai. We arrived in Los Angeles, and Mary Zimbalist drove us to her elegant house at Malibu. We were given a warm welcome. Mary took us to our room and told us, a little apologetically, that it was rather small for the two of us but that she had no other room to put us in. Krishnaji overheard her saying this and said, "Maria, it is all right. Pamaii will sleep in the hall." Krishnaji gave me a great deal of affection and attention. He was "cooking" me, to use his familiar expression for preparing and training individuals for a particular responsibility. It was to be the responsibility of taking care of Vasanta Vihar.

He spoke of many things to me and stressed the importance of build- ing Vasanta Vihar into a living spiritual center. I cannot recall everything he said, but some of it remains very vivid even now. Some of these words to me were like a benediction: "I want to give you so much, pour into you so that something may happen. You have to do it. Stay here for a long time. Let us see what happens. You have to talk and live for this."

Though I was totally in the dark about what needed to be done, his asking gave me the courage to accept. He said, "Sunanda, be simple. It is not 'you' that is doing it."

We left Malibu on March 18, 1976 for Ojai. Krishnaii drove the Mercedes belonging to Mary Zimbalist. He drove for an hour on the Pacific coast Highway with the deep blue ocean on the left and mountains to the right. The drive was unforgettable, as the entire land- scape seemed to come alive in Krishnaji's presence. Krishnaji showed us round Arya Vihara. He told us that the room we used had been Nitya's room. Krishnaji reminisced a lot about Nitya, about the times they had spent together in the early twenties. The scientists' conference began a week after our arrival. It was attended by eminent economists like John Platter and others from the Club of Rome, and by professors of sciences, humanities, social sciences, philosophy, literature, and other fields. The persons with whom I came into close contact were Professor David Bohm, Dr. David Shainberg, Professor John Briggs, Dr. René Weber, and Alan Kishbaugh. At the conference, I was put to a test. Krishnaji asked me to speak after Professor David Bohm gave his inaugural speech. I was totally unprepared for this and literally quivered with nervousness. I started saying, "Krishnaji, how can I? These people are all great scientists. I am nothing. I cannot do it." Then he said, "Just talk. Do not be nervous. I am there." Therefore, I did as he suggested. Even today, I don't know what I said or did. The people we met were intelligent, friendly, and articulate. It was my first taste of interacting with people of such high intellectual caliber. I was deeply enriched by the experience, and many that I met were to become familiar faces in the years that followed.

During our stay at Ojai, Krishnaji was to address a psychiatrists' meeting in New York, organized by Dr. David Shainberg. Krishnaji requested Dr. Shainberg to invite Pamaji and me to the conference. He arranged our trip to New York, hosted us, and graciously gave us his room. He was a friendly and hospitable person. He said to me with great humor, teasing me, "Sunanda, what do you know of psychiatry? Why does K want you to attend?" I said, "It is simple, David. He knows I don't know anything. So he wants me to observe eminent psychiatrists like yourself and understand how you dialogue and interact." It was rather a tense conference. Krishnaji questioned the efficacy of analysis and pointed out that putting fragments together still did not make a whole. It was a difficult thing to accept that thought and analysis had no part in healing a patient. Some were perturbed and felt deprived of the very tools they had so long used for dealing with mentally sick patients. Our trip to Ojai and New York were thus wonderful opportunities for observing and learning. Soon after we returned to Bangalore, we moved to Vasanta Vihar.

This post was last updated by John Raica Tue, 09 Jan 2018.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Wed, 10 Jan 2018 #146
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Continuing the selected excerpts from Sunanda's Memoirs

THE PROPERTY OF VASANTA VIHAR WAS NOT AVAILABLE To Krishnaji and his work between 1968 and 1976, as it was locked up in legal controversy with Rajagopal. The latter had tried to gain possession of Krishnaji's properties by dubious means. In May 1976, the high court judge initiated a compromise by which the property of Vasanta Vihar was handed over to a new trust called the Krishnamurti Trust Madras (KTM), of which Krishnaji was the trustor for life. The trustees were Radha Burnier, Balasundaram, Achyut Patwardhan, myself, and two lawyers from either side. Radha Burnier took charge of the place and was the secretary of the trust. Pamaji was appointed as the secretary of Krishnamurti Foundation India. (KFI and KTM jointly carried out all the activities of the Foundation)
I took charge of Vasanta Vihar in July 1976, and together Pamaji and I started to build it up with the help of friends. Unoccupied and uncared for, the place was in a shambles. I remember my first impression of Vasanta Vihar: a wild garden with overgrown grasses over four feet high, and a snake seen moving across the ground, then disappearing ever so swiftly. In the main building the plaster had peeled off the walls, outside and inside. There was no underground drainage or electrical cabling.

By December 1976, when Krishnaji came to stay there, accompanied by some members from KFA and KFT, the place was ready to receive them. Talks and discussions, meetings and seminars were held there that year. Vasanta Vihar had come into being as a full-fledged headquarters of the Krishnamurti Foundation India. My primary function was to keep the place worthy and elegant for Krishnaji's stay so that he was comfortable. Organizing the talks, discus- sions, question-and-answer meetings, publicity, collection of funds, spreading of the teaching, recording of the talks, making audio and video-tapes available for the public, and the maintenance of the property were some of the functions of the secretary.
The publication of K's works was the most important responsibility, as this was central to the spreading of the teaching. Over twenty books and pamphlets were published during the two decades I was there. More than forty translations in several Indian languages—Hindi, Gujarati, Marathi—were completed, and a KFI quarterly bulletin was published. I was the secretary of the publication committee, and Pamaji's expertise in the publication field was of great help to me.

PAMAJI AND I HAD THE TASK OF MAKING VASANTA VIHAR A conducive place for Krishnaji to stay when he came to Madras to give public talks and dialogues. The most significant feature of working there was the special relationship I had with K. He asked me to report on everything that was happening, not only in Vasanta Vihar, but also in all the K places in India, and all other Foundation matters. I used to write to him regularly once a fortnight. If I were ever slack, he would remind me immediately of it. When I look back at all that I did, and was expected to do, I am amazed how I went through such a complex situation for such a long period of time. I can truthfully say it was only because of Krishnaji's affection and understanding that I was able to keep going. But I was not spared the "stick"!

Nineteen seventy-six to 1986 were the years when, for the first time, Vasanta Vihar really came into vibrant existence. It became the active headquarters of the KFI. Krishnaji was very keen that it should grow into a beautiful place and become a religious oasis. I have looked upon my time at Vasanta Vihar as a small corner in the total landscape. It was also a period of contradictory demands, conflicting personalities, and some impossible goals—almost like a kaleidoscope, a varicolored mosaic. Inlaid in it were K's presence, his energy, the insightful dialogues, conversations, and the various personalities. Many images float before me. One of the most memorable images I carry with me is of K standing behind the door of his room on the first floor and looking down at the people gathered under the canopy of trees waiting for his talks to begin. Many people would arrive for the talks two to three hours earlier; some would be seated in meditative poses while others talked together or waited silently. Krishnaji would come for the evening talk dressed simply and elegantly in the traditional dhoti and kurta. He would be inwardly far away; he was always like that before a talk. His consciousness seemed to undergo a strange transformation, and he appeared to be different from his normal self. One naturally viewed him with awe and kept a respectful distance from him on all such occasions.

At the other places where his talks were held, someone or other always accompanied him to his seat. Here at Vasanta Vihar he would walk alone to the podium, unaccompanied. I felt this was because he regarded this as his home, as much as it could be home for a person like him who had no permanent abode. His passport address was c/o Vasanta Vihar.
HOW DID HE LOOK UPON VASANTA VIHAR? What were the activities, functions, and programs to originate from there? He seemed to lay an extraordinary importance on Vasanta Vihar and its function as the center for the dissemination of his teaching. My role and Pamaji's function as secretary of the KFI were integral to the building up of the place. Krishnaji had given me a check of ten thousand dollars before I left Ojai as the initial amount for the renovation Vihar. He has said many things to me about what a 'study center' should be. During this time, Krishnaji did not specifically use the term "study center" for Vasanta Vihar. Later, it symbolized itself into that, and all the other study centers will be only for adults who were attracted to path. Vasanta Vihar was not like a school. The atmosphere had to be quiet and conducive to a reflective and contemplative life.

In a discussion with him in the car en route to Rishi Valley School from Madras in 1983, I took down the following notes: "Vasanta Vihar should draw people who have a good brain, a good intellect. They should study the "teaching" thoroughly, soak in it deeply as you would do if you were to study medicine or Buddhism or any other subject. 'Studying' means to go deeply into the subtleties of the words used and their contents and seeing the truths in them in relation to daily life. They should be able to discuss the teaching with specialists in any branch of knowledge, as scholars do. While they are studying, these people should have a spirit of cooperation. This 'spirit of cooperation' means that one is able to share one's discoveries and findings with one another. For instance, I share with you as a friend what I have discovered. You may doubt it, question it, but I am sharing with you the discovery. It is not my discovery; it does not belong to me or anybody. The perception ( of Truth?) is never 'personal'. Such a sharing is cooperation. But it must not become a 'confession' - washing your own dirty linen in public. And suppose I am a 'liar', since we are all interested in the "teaching" and in studying it deeply, and living it in our daily life, we are responsible to each other for whatever we are. This togetherness among friends who are interested in the discovery of truth in their daily lives, who share a sense of responsibility for each other is the ''spirit of cooperation''. When everyone who lives in Vasanta Vihar has this spirit of cooperation, that will create an atmosphere in which a newcomer will also flower."

During one of Krishnaji's visits to Madras, he told me a little about the religious way of life: "Vasanta Vihar is a place where people come only to be a light unto themselves. There is no guru, no authority, no following. The individuals who come here must not only meditate, but also must work with their hands and have leisure to learn so that the mind is not occupied. They should not pick up a novel or (a 'thriller'?) to occupy thire mind. Discussions and dialogues are necessary. A person in the group should be able to get up and say, 'This is my problem, I would like to discuss it

KRISHNAJI SAID CERTAIN THINGS TO ME WHEN I CAME To LIVE IN Vasanta Vihar in 1976. These seem extraordinarily important from today's perspective and convey an immense depth of meaning. One thing that I distinctly recall and cherish were his words, "Sunanda, feel completely at home here. This is your home. Feel safe, happy, but do not 'take root. Be a guest while you are here. See the beauty of 'being a guest in life' and to be able to live that way."
He seemed to convey two messages. The first was not to be attached to a place and find psychological shelter. One could so easily and unknowingly get used to a place and become attached to it. The second message was that one had to feel a total sense of responsibility for the place and for the work undertaken and yet not feel identified with it. Responsibility without ( self-) identification was the way of detachment. It is only when one is watchful and observant that this perception and the right direction continue. He used to say, "Be responsible," not only to Vasanta Vihar but to Rishi Valley, Rajghat, Brockwood Park, Ojai, and all the places. "How could this be?" I said to him, "What could I do for other places, living here in Madras?" He pointed out that it was not a matter of 'doing something': "It is the feeling of responsibility 'per se', not merely responsibility for some thing. This feeling is precious."

KRISHNAJI SAID CERTAIN THINGS TO ME WHEN I CAME To LIVE IN Vasanta Vihar in 1976. These seem extraordinarily important from today's perspective and convey an immense depth of meaning. One thing that I distinctly recall and cherish were his words, "Sunanda, feel completely at home here. This is your home. Feel safe, happy, but do not 'take root. Be a guest while you are here. See the beauty of 'being a guest in life' and to be able to live that way." He seemed to convey two messages. The first was not to be attached to a place and find psychological shelter. One could so easily and unknowingly get used to a place and become attached to it. The second message was that one had to feel a total sense of responsibility for the place and for the work undertaken and yet not feel identified with it. Responsibility without ( self-) identification was the way of detachment. It is only when one is watchful and observant that this perception and the right direction continue. He used to say, "Be responsible," not only to Vasanta Vihar but to Rishi Valley, Rajghat, Brockwood Park, Ojai, and all the places. "How could this be?" I said to him, "What could I do for other places, living here in Madras?" He pointed out that it was not a matter of 'doing something': "It is the feeling of responsibility 'per se', not merely responsibility for some thing. This feeling is precious."

KRISHNAJI SPENT A MONTH OR MORE EACH YEAR DURINC THE decade 1976/1986 at Vasanta Vihar. It was the most eagerly awaited moment of the year both by the Vasanta Vihar residents and the entire city of Madras. His public talks at Vasanta Vihar attracted over five thou- sand people. Theosophists who attended the annual convention at the Theosophical Society during December of each year would be present in large numbers. With welcoming arches, spruced-up gardens, and the radiance of Krishnaji's presence, Vasanta Vihar seemed the perfect setting for the series of talks, question-and-answer meetings, and discussions. I would like to outline the images that are with me about Vasanta Vihar during Krishnaji's visit. It will give the reader an idea of how intense each of his visits was. Every winter, during December/January, Vasanta Vihar took on a new look and feel during Krishnaji's stay. He used to give six public talks; this was later reduced to four in order to lessen his strain. There were question-and-answer meetings, seminars, dialogues, and unscheduled informal small-group discussions and conversations. Altogether he had a very heavy schedule; he met many kinds of people, gave interviews, or met them at lunch, where the conversation would go on long after the meal. Some people could go to him directly, for they were like his friends. He met some by previous appointment, and I used to look after all the arrangements for their inter- views. In later years, he stopped giving such interviews. Those who were not able to meet with him felt that it was people like us, the hosts, who prevented them from meeting him. I could understand their feelings, but there was no basis for it.

Nearly forty persons—members, friends of the Foundations, and those invited—were guests of the KFI during this period. Hospitality was at its best. Menus were worked out; tables were laden with a variety of Indian dishes to tempt the palate. There were many cultural events to entertain the guests. At least two to three performances by leading musicians were arranged by Premaji, as Krishnaji used to enjoy listening to Karnatic music. The place was full with people. In the garden, groups of people sat, relaxed, talked or seriously discussed the teaching. They would wait for a glimpse of K he went out for walks in the evening. Krishnaji did not miss going out for his evening walk, unless he was unwell. Krishnaji walking on the beach with four or five friends, the breeze blowing through his silvery hair, is an indelible image impressed in my mind's eye. I was naturally busy and responsible to see that everything went off without a hitch. Our friends (and it is impossible to mention every one of them here) helped in different ways. Each one did his or her best for Krishnaji. All had a relationship with him, and this could be clearly seen in their actions and demeanor.

Krishnaji gave that indescribable quality of "otherness" to Vasanta Vihar by his presence each year. The talks were held under the age-old trees, which were a silent witness to his energy, compassion, and insight into life and death. The energy that flowed from the talks seemed to envelop the entire place. A special feature of the talks in Madras was that, because Krishnaji lived there, people could linger in the garden to catch a glimpse of him, or sometimes sit with him on the steps after a talk. So many of them have told me that they personally felt his compassion, and some said they felt a tremendous energy pass from him to them. Krishnaji had once said to me that a self-aware person left an aura behind, and that such presence lasts a long time.

There were some factors that I felt added to the unique ethos that existed at Vasanta Vihar. One was that Krishnaji's presence created an indescribable sense of sanctity. When one was there, one could not help feeling it and responding to it. Then there were the seminars, dialogues, and breakfast- and lunch-table conversations, which were spontaneous acts of inquiry often leading to original insights. In all these discussions, Krishnaji seemed to use the dialogue as the means to both inquiry and insight.

THE LAST FIFTEEN YEARS OF KRISHNAJI'S LIFE MARKED THE of dialogues as a profound means of exploring the nature of reality and truth. There were a variety of dialogues, "gatherings" where a dialogue was held between a small number of people, not more than twenty or so. Then there were formally organized "seminars" not exceeding thirty, with invited participants from home and abroad. Finally, there were the informal but extremely penetrating "table conversations" at breakfast and lunch. Each had its own atmosphere.

In the dialogues, Krishnaji's method of investigation was through inquiry and analysis. It is a paradox that the dialogues started with thought as the tool of investigation, whereas he had so often repeated the statement, "Analysis is Paralysis." Why was this so? Many have pointed to this contradiction. It is obviously clear to me that we have only thought as the instrument of investigation to question, probe, and come upon new discoveries, paradigms, and so on. So whatever the area of investigation be, we start with the analytical process and comprehend it. Krishnaji's mind was such that it started, as he said, with 'not knowing'. He then led the investigation with others, watching the flow of the dialogue and analyzing the issue. At some point, an insight would come that thought is an inadequate tool to understand the complexities of the psyche or to inves- tigate into the nature of freedom.

Krishnaji once said to me, "A dialogue is very important, for it is a form of communication in which questions and answers continue till a question is left without an answer. Thus, the question is suspended between two persons involved in this. It is like a bud with untouched blossoms. If the question is left totally untouched by thought, it then has its own answer because the questioner and the answerer as Persons have disappeared. At this stage, the investigation reaches a certain point of intensity and depth, where it acquires a quality which thought can never reach." It is at such a time that his statement, "Thought realizing its own limitation becomes quiet," was significant. It was a new insight. He has shown how such a mind, when it is quiet, can use thought in a totally different manner. As I understand it, right perception helps us use thought in its right place.

THE SEMINARS BEGAN IN 1976 IN MADRAS, AND I WAS RESPONS- ible for organizing them for over ten years. The small-group discussions began as early as 1948 in India and continued through the years in different places, especially' in Bombay, Madras, and Varanasi. These have been published from time to time by the Krishnamurti foundations. In the seminars, Krishnaji tried to awaken the insight of his listeners and participants by inquiring into the nature of the human mind. People attended the seminars from different disciplines and cultural streams; they included Vedantins and Buddhists, scientists and philosophers, writers and artists, specialists in computers and seekers of truth. There were a hundred or so observers who listened to the seminars. The events were concerned with the investigation of consciousness, and various issues were explored, such as bondage and freedom, sorrow, fear, aging, death, loneliness, truth and reality, to name a few. Issues that formed common ground with philosophy and science had a dominant place, and these were discussed with eminent physicists, scientists, and others. These explorations into the nature of the brain, mind and consciousness, the process of thought and time, the nature of insight and intelligence, threw new light on the inner process of con- sciousness and offered glimpses into the sacred and the timeless. Seminars took place over three days—each issue was confined to that day, to that period and that moment of insight. It took place in Krishnaji's presence and had his total attention. He initiated the dialogue and took up a theme from the various issues raised by the participants. The dialogue had no premeditated pattern or course. It was a dynamic movement in inquiry. Therefore, each dialogue was unique to that context and location. Books and audio and videotapes have frozen them on paper and tape, but that evanescent quality of a live intelligence operating with precise logic and clear insight cannot be re-created. The act of inquiry is a continuous movement and cannot be repeated exactly, just as the flow of a stream is never the same.

In a dialogue, a few people gathered in seriousness posed a searching question. Not all the people who were present participated. A few did actively; others listened in attention, watching their responses to others and in themselves. Krishnaji would start by throwing open the subject and making others ask questions and express their views and ideas. His mind, it seemed, started with not knowing, a state in which there was an absence of views, hypotheses or postulations. Very often, it appeared that his mind seemed to be moving in a different direction from that of the participants, almost as if it were a separate thought movement. The dialogue moved along parallel lines for a while. Suddenly', somewhere in the middle of the dialogue, this parallel movement came to a stop. The dialogue seemed to take on an immediacy demanding that the participants observe and reflect on the here and now. The atmosphere changed and gathered intensity and energy. There was a surcharged feeling and a sense that the dialogue had taken on a life of its own; it seemed to unfold itself, nourished by the observation and perception of Krishnaji and the participants. The flow gathered momentum as new insights were revealed. The insights did not belong to Krishnaji or to anyone in the group. It was drawn by the ener- gy of inquiry, and its light unraveled the coils of the problem.

On one such occasion, Krishnaji pointed out how a question opens out a dialogue. He said, "When a Person asks the question, instead of answering, when there is no immediate response from the listener, the question begins to open and in the very unfoldment is the answer." Further he said, "We never at any time say, 'I don't know.' It is not a conceptual statement to say, 'I don't know,' and wait for something to happen. On the contrary, if one is really in a state of 'not knowing', what happens?" He then made a leap and said, "That may be love. If you are in the state of 'not knowing', there is love. "

The beauty of these dialogues lay in the evanescence of the dynamic movement. Sometimes, at the end of such a dialogue, a silence would descend, as if the energy lay in fragrant stillness holding each one in thrall, and revealing itself in the stillness. It was a silence that seemed to touch one deeply and change one's consciousness, if only for that moment. The seminars were stimulating occasions. There were members from KFA and KFT, and the invited participants included a dazzling variety of intellectuals, scientists, religious people, writers, and others. Off and on, there would be a questioning as to whether such seminars were useful, purposeful. At the end ofa two- or three-day seminar, Krishnaji would ask me, "Do you think it was all worth it? Did they understand what we were talking about? (He always referred to himself in the plural, as "we," never as I. Two years after Krishnaji's passing away, the dialogues were recom- menced at Vasanta Vihar under the auspices of the Centre for Continuing Dialogue. I was the convenor. We had five such seminars/ dialogues, and four of them have been published under the titles, Nature of Dialogue, Learning about Consciousness, and Dialogue on Death. I was responsible for organizing and editing them for publication. Dialogues are undoubtedly essential for inquiry and insight. Very often, they tend to become verbal and deteriorate into sophistry or rheto- ric. Most of us don't know how to dialogue or to listen to another. We often make speeches. Each one needs to listen to another, to hold the words instead of bursting out with what one wants to say. On a few occasions when a few minds start investigating with seriousness, the group moves together and we come upon new ideas and understandings. Yet somehow, without Krishnaji, these seminars seemed to lack the vitality and dynamism we experienced before.

I WOULD LIKE TO NARRATE A FEW CONVERSATIONS TO GIVE THE reader a feel for the seriousness of the dialogues that took place around the lunch and breakfast tables. Some rare and insightful moments occurred during these dialogues. Over the years I had taken notes in shorthand and had them transcribed. I have chosen the ones that I think were significant in terms of understanding the teaching or one's sadhana, or were important in the light of prevailing political and social issues or in helping one understand the persona of Krishnaji.

Social Justice

ACHYUTJI AND JAGANNATH UPADHYAYNS CAME FROM A SOCIALIST background and they would often talk about social justice with Krishnaji. This was especially relevant in the context of the inequalities that prevailed in most societies. They asked whether the teaching provided an answer for the problems faced by the socially marginalized groups. On one occasion, they asked, **"Where does one look for social justice in the teaching?"

Krishnaji said, "Please do not say that the teaching do not consider the 'untouchables,' the underprivileged, and others. First of all, there is no equality [in this world]. So instead, ask where is the source, in you, of this duality, of equality and inequality. If we can find that source, then we can deal with our desire to find out where equality, justice, and happiness lie for mankind."**

Achyutji and Jagannath Upadhyaya observed that institutional efforts to bring order and justice have been self-defeating. Both of them had tried all that, and now they had accepted their failure in this direction. Krishnaji pointed out, "If you admit that institutions cannot alter the world, and that revolutions have not brought about change, and social service, sympathy, pity, and so forth have not done anything, then, if collective activity has not produced the result, we have to face the truth that all known paths so far have failed, including the 'collective' (attempts) , to bring equality and justice. If you accept that, only then can we proceed." He then asked, "Can I act justly as a human being? Can I act as a human being with equality to another being? Do not say it is impossible. There is compassion that is the only basis for equality and justice. Find out then why you have no compassion."

Many visitors came from the field of social work, helping the poor and the needy. To one of them he said, "Receive this teaching with both hands, and then whatever you do will be right action. It won't be a Personal action, but whatever comes out of that receiving will be right."


''The brain is the center of all activity, all desire, the whole movement of that. All that content is found within the brain. Anything that happens within that is still held enclosed. As there is negation going on, the very movement of nothingness is compassion. It is not nothingness first and compassion later. The two go together."

There was another conversation on negation between Krishnaji and myself in Calcutta. It was an evening when there was no electricity for a while; candles cast their soft light and shadows, and outside the darkness was gathering. **Krishnaji asked me, "What have you learnt all these years? Are you still a disciple, or are you both the teacher and the disciple?" I said, "I would say I know what it is to perceive something that arises in consciousness, and the very observation ends that formation. Every such act of perception and negation adds a depth and vitality to the mind. In a small way it is an experience of the ending of time."

Krishnaji said something very revealing: "Don't you see what you have done? All right, you know what it is to Perceive, negate, to 'end something' at the moment of perception, and you say you have been doing this. But don't you see that the whole thing is anothet time-process: perception-negation, perception-negation? Process is time, and this way you do not end 'time'. When you say, 'I know the way of negation,' you have brought it within the field of technology, a tool towards something. The moment you learn a process, it is a technological tool, it is time, it is becoming. Stop saying 'I know.' Then the Process ends."**

Early Experiences: Theosophical Background

THERE HAS RECENTLY BEEN A LOT OF DISCUSSION ON THE influence of Theosophy on Krishnaji. This dialogue reveals some of his feelings about his early training. This discussion started with the "discipleship" that Krishnaji underwent in the Theosophical Society when he was first discovered on a deserted beach and taken charge of by C. W. Leadbeater, one of the main proponents of Theosophy at that time. On the morning of 25 December 1980, in Vasanta Vihar, Krishnaji was discussing a few questions that some of us had raised: What does it mean to say that Krishnaji went through the Theosophical phase without being affected? Was he really untouched by

Theosophy, although he used idioms, ideas, and definitions similar to those of the Theosophists? Is it correct to say that what is Theosophical is not just Theosophical, because it is equally Buddhist, Christian, and so on, and so no denominational conditioning went with it? When Krishnaji wrote At the Feet of the Master, was he conditioned by his Theosophical training?

Krishnaji began by saying, "I was not conditioned by the teaching. I mean by this, it 'came in' and it 'came out'. Sir, I would say that they tried to condition me; they tried to say that ''this is the line you are going to take''. They tried to induce me to accept their church, canons, and all that." After a moment's reflection he said, "K had that 'original thing' in Ojai, but he was still within the idiom of Theosophy. I would not call that conditioning. I can assure you that none of that mat- tered. All that thing never touched that boy."
A question was asked at this point: "You have never denied that there are Masters." Krishnaji replied, "What you think of the Master is not what it is. They ( the TS people) 'personalized' something immense into personalities." One questioner insisted that belief in the Masters was a fundamental part of Theosophy. Krishnaji said, "Listen to what he [K] is saying. He says C. W. Leadbeater and H. P. Blavatsky made the Masters into something 'personal'. There was certainly a Master here, a Master there, and so on. That was part of Theosophy. But they reduced that immensity to this shoddy little affair."

A question was again posed: "It is one thing to say, 'Don't deny immensity,' but it is another thing to say you accept the immensity in Theosophical terms." Krishnaji said, "Just a minute. Would you grant that the boy was vague, vacant, totally lost, not there? You came along—C. W. L. or Dr. Besant. You came along and saw the boy had something, you picked the boy up, put him between the two leaders with his brother, and they pour this thing into him, every night—meditation, going to the Masters. The boy repeats all that. Repeats it. It was poured in and poured out. "Now, I would say a totally independent experience took place at Ojai, you follow? That was original, independent, away from the ambience, away from the influence, away from everything that they put into him. I would say that that was the beginning, as that was authentic. Right? But he was still within the idiom of Theosophy, and he broke away ultimately. That's all." The conversation ended here. Krishnaji was silent. He did not pursue it.

In another conversation with Achyutji, Krishnaji asked, "Have you read Masters on the Path?" said, "Yes. I have. I remember everything." Krishnaji said, "Have you noticed something? Their bodies are refined bodies. But it sounds like an ordinary person when it is said that he has a beard, he has such-and-such color of eyes. It is to corporealize the incorporeal. C. W. L. has distorted the concept of the Masters and brought it to the level of idolatry."

I am not presuming to represent Krishnaji's relationship to Theosophy or to the Masters. It is too profound and mystical. What do I make of it all? I have no means to know the truth.

Sound and Silence

KRISHNAJI HAS SPOKEN MUCH ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF SILENCE and sound as when he said, "Sit under a tree and listen to the sound of a tree trunk." One day, he said to me, "I do not know whether you will understand what I am going to say, but write it down:

'There is sound with formation
sound without formation,
sound within sound
and sound deep within.
Stay with the sound deep within.'

I asked him whether he could elaborate on all this. Krishnaji replied, 'There are many things which are not talked about."

One afternoon four or five of us were having lunch with Krishnaji at Vasanta Vihar. Loud music was resounding through the whole neighbor- hood, as had become a customary practice during the festival times in Madras. Krishnaji began the conversation by asking why we separated sound from silence. One of us pointed out that there was a wide spectrum of responses. At one end of the spectrum existed the one who was in meditative awareness, who had no hopes, no desires, no reactions. At the other extreme end was a person who lived a life propelled by desire, who responded to his wants. In between these two extremes were many indifferent people. Krishnaji said, "This morning, there was that noise. It was at this end. Does it enter the individual who is in meditative awareness? Does that noise enter him with the music? Or does he resist? Or is there no response at all. The fellow at the other end resists. What is the difference between the person who does not resist, and the one who resists, and the other who is totally indifferent?"

A question was then asked, "Is the man who hears and has no resistance also in silence"? Krishnaji said, "Sound is silence. This morning, Sir, there was music and chanting of the suprabhatam [a special Sanskrit chant usually associated with the morning hours]. Both were going on at the top of their voices. I listened to it for a long time. I had no resistance. Therefore, silence is. Therefore, sound is ( part of) silence. The least resistance would be sound. The fellow who resists all the time is therefore not living in silence. The other fellow, the first fellow, is living in silence. The other person does not even know, he is not bothered about it. Meditation is a form of seeking silence to make the brain silent. Control thought and you have the whole process.

During another conversation at the lunch table at Vasanta Vihar on January 19, 1985, Krishnaji asked, "What is sound? Is sound different from silence? There is sound and there is silence. Are they separate, or is silence a part of sound?" Inquiring into it, he said that there is no silence without sound. "I want to meditate on silence during silence, you understand? Sir, there is sound when the wind blows among the leaves, there is sound when you people make noise, there is the sound of the birds, there is the sound of my voice. Sound is an extraordinarily important thing. I want people to understand silence. I listen to sound, listen to it, because the universe is sound. Because there is sound, there is silence. They are not two separate things. Sound is in silence. Now, Sir, have you listened to a tree when it is absolutely quiet, listened to the sound of the tree? It is great."

On Living and Dying

I REMEMBER VERY VIVIDLY A POIGNANT INCIDENT IN DELHI IN 1984. Some of us were at the house of Pupul Jayakar. It was a terrible moment in time. It was the morning when Indira Gandhi was assassi- nated, October 30, 1984. We heard about it, and there were various reactions from the people gathered there. Some were stunned and bewil- dered. Some of us stood silently, grave and sorrowful. It was an immensely tragic event, and for some time there was a shocked silence. people and was deeply interested in knowing what was happening in India. A little later conversation started; many questions were posed about who were the 'king-makers' and other issues concerning the political future of the country. Yet death was there, palpable and pervading. I saw how difficult it was for us to hold on to that moment of suffering, and because it was painful, too painful the mind sought relief in some activity, in frivolity, or irrelevant thoughts. To live with that extraordinary poignancy of suffering for a long duration Krishnaji was there, watching us all. He was looking out into the garden where the dewdrops on the grass were reflecting the sunlight. He said to us, "Look there! That is life. There is death here, and there is life there. That is the whole movement; life and death go together." He added, "It is a day of mourning for the living, not for the dead. She is gone. Life goes on. Look at the sunlight and trees and the bushes... life goes on." It was an extraordinary thing to say what he did at that time when the atmosphere was so emotionally charged. He brought sanity and perspec- tive into the occasion. He helped us to see death not as an isolated single act but as part of the movement of life.

This post was last updated by John Raica Thu, 11 Jan 2018.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Thu, 11 Jan 2018 #147
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

And...that's all she wrote

On Good and Evil

KRISHNAJI SPOKE OF A RESERVOIR OF GOODNESS WAITING TO touch human beings. This Goodness had nothing to do with the pairs of opposites as 'good' and 'bad'. Good and bad are relative, they are social values, whereas Goodness per se has no relationship to the opposite—it is beyond value. Of evil, Krishnaji said, "Evil exists, but you don't know anything about it." By 'evil' Krishnaji seemed to imply the thoughts and actions that arise out of violence, envy, and the will to hurt. He felt that it was essential to keep one's consciousness free of such thoughts and feelings. One day when I was telling him stories about a charlatan guru, he told me, "Don't even think or talk about such evil people. By thinking and talk- ing about them, you make it [evil] stronger. Don't allow entry to it."
I can now understand why the mandalas for protection came into existence. They prevent the seeds of evil taking root in the soil of our consciousness; they are the lines of protection. Of mandalas, Krishnaji said "It has so often happened to me that I have been to homes where I have felt unpleasantness or evil. I then walk around the room to form a protective circle. You call it 'mandala'; the Theosophists use the term 'tiling the room.' The 'tiling' shuts out all evil influences. Then my body is at peace and can rest."
A question was raised, "What is the seed of degeneration that exists in human consciousness that grows and wipes away all the good?" Krishnaji probed into the question of this destructive seed that seemed to have more power than good. He stated, "One spot of evil seems to be far more powerful than the good. So what is this factor in human beings, which, although exposed to the Good [to the teaching], corrodes and destroys that Good?" He then went on to say a strange thing: "Do you know, that in Masonry it is believed that after the thirty-third initiation, two angels appear in order to protect you anytime you need them? When evil touches you, these 'angels' (or 'devas'?) come and look after you. But you are supposed to live a way of life which does not demand their Presence." He further added, "Do you know that C. W. L. used to say that arrogance, power, self-importance, selfishness, and hate are black Powers? To have any one of these is to have the seed (of evil) ."

It seems to me from his words that one has to try, scrupulously and attentively, to 'clip' the arising of self-importance, the taste for power and position, and the stealthy movement of vanity. These tendencies corrupt the mind. To eliminate the seed of corruption is part of a religious way of life.

I said, "Krishnaji, you are asking us to act from there, from the 'Other,' to touch that, and then everything that we do will be right. What is the rela- tionship of this field of good and evil to the 'other'? Is evil transformed through negation?" Krishnaji replied, "No, you have to negate the whole of this field ( of the collective 'known'?) with all its 'good' and 'evil'. In this is evil, power, arrogance, selfishness. And there is (the relative ) 'good', man trying to better the world, social work—the whole of that. This 'good' is always the feebler, the weaker, as compared with the other. Evil overcomes the good (but anyway) the 'good action' has to go on. Let us call 'good action' the action done with a cause, with a motive, with a direction. But you have to understand that the whole of that, both the 'evil' and the 'good' with a cause, are within the area of the known. The 'Other' is beyond (the field 'known')

What was his relationship to them? Krishnaji's relationship to 'organiza- tions' has been rather ambivalent. He left the Theosophical Society, for he felt no religious organization could lead to the truth. Yet, paradoxically, he established 'centers' in different parts of the world. What impelled him to do this? As I see it, first Krishnaji was associated with two organizations— one, the 'Theosophical Society' in his early life, and the other, the K foundations, the schools, and the study centers. The Theosophical Society had its specific goals, structure, ceremonies, and rituals. For nearly two decades, he was an integral part of it, and one can even say he was the focal point of its activities. My observation from what I have read and heard is that he was not directly connected with the manner and method of its management. His life seemed to move in a different sphere, a closed and protected orbit, in the midst of an international Theosophical network.

A fundamental change took place when he came to India after the war years. I do not have any personal acquaintance with those interven- ing years, 1929 to 1947. From the existant records, it is clear that after he left the Theosophical Society in 1929, another group of people looked after him from 1930 onwards. They took charge of his personal needs, the arrangement of tours and talks, and the management of his financial affairs. He seemed, again, to have had very little, if any, part in the way these affairs were managed. He trusted these (R&R) people unquestioningly and seemed to have accepted the manner in which they managed the ( KWINC) organization.
In 1947, Krishnaji, contrary to his past dealings with the Foundation, took complete charge of organizational matters in India, including the direction the schools should take. The then-members of the Rishi Valley Trust resigned 'en bloc', enabling him to reconstitute the trust as he wished, including inducting new members. The Rishi Valley Trust later became the Foundation for New Education and finally evolved into the KFI. It was a movement from non-involvement to involvement. Between 1968 and 1969, he broke his connection with the KWINC. I think it was this parting of the ways with Rajagopal that gave an impetus to his establishing the various Krishnamurti foundations. It was at that time that the Krishnamurti Foundation Trust, Krishnamurti Foundation of America, and Krishnamurti Foundation India also came into being.

KRISHNAJI DID NOT LOOK UPON THE FOUNDATION AS A religious organization with a hierarchical structure. He regarded it as a functional body established to spread the teaching by making available to the public books, videos, and audiotapes. Neither the Foundation nor any member was to be a successor to the teacher or the teaching. No one was to 'inherit the mantle'. At the end of his life, he had expressed the wish that the purity of the teaching was to be kept intact and that there should be no distortion. He consistently maintained throughout his life that there should be no interpreters of the teaching. There could be dialogues and discussions, but no one had the authority to speak in his name. There was neither temple nor dogma to be built around him and the teaching. He held that it was the primary function of the Foundation to preserve the purity of the teaching.

Why did K categorically maintain that no organization could be ( truly) religious? It can be observed that no organization can be said to have been religious. Only people in an organization can be religious. Throughout history, religious organizations have been sectarian, divisive, and hierar- chical. Krishnaji was firm in categorically stating that the Foundation was not a religious body.
Then the question arises, what is the responsibility of the members? Is it merely to publish books, spread the teaching, and manage the schools? K held that each member's primary responsibility was to live the teaching. I felt he expected members to be worthy of the trust that was inherent in their being in the Foundation. It was almost a sacred duty to discover what it meant to lead a holistic life, moving in that direction, never losing touch with the spirit of self-inquiry. He spoke of members being able to absorb the teaching and be authentic to his or her insights.

As I look at it, by historical accident or personal destiny, over the years people came into the Foundation or into his orbit and did what was needed at that time. Krishnaji felt that Foundation members were linked together by their being invested with this sacred responsibility. If any misunderstandings arose, he felt that they should be discussed and resolved immediately, as otherwise it would vitiate the spirit of the Foundation. For instance, when there were strained working relations between some colleagues, he wrote to me, urging, "You should all work together, help each other to grow, to flower. If there are any misunderstandings among you, as there are sure to be, they should be dissolved immediately by talking things over, and not postponed to the next day or even the next hour. If postponed, the misunderstandings will grow and become barriers between you. I would most strongly urge you, if I may, not to keep each other's work in separate, watertight compartments. We are all working together, either externally or inwardly."

On another occasion when there was some estrangement between two colleagues, he said that such relationships should never be broken. As they were part of the Foundation, he felt they were beyond the personal, something much greater and as such, he felt the bond could not be broken. "You have come together sharing in common something profound, as seekers after truth. You should keep your hearts open." This was the kind of harmony he wanted to weave between the Foundation members. He felt that as members, as individuals who were together in search of truth, they were bound together. Such a bond was a sacred one that could enkindle the flame of insight, not in isolation but in being, communicating, and working together.

INHERENT IN ANY ORGANIZATION IS ( the temptation of?) POWER. NEARNESS TO Krishnaji can be heady. It gave one self-importance and one easily and unconsciously became a victim of the movements of self-projection and power. These movements were so subtle that one had to be constantly vigilant. The urge to identify oneself with the place or position, one's self projection, had to be observed and negated; he felt this was essential in order to preserve the sanctity of the place. Living in the midst of power conflicts and schisms, this was a constant challenge. Krishnaji invested care and detail in every project he undertook. He seemed to seek a perfect harmony and expected it of others who worked for him. Slipshod work would not be tolerated, nor would he accept my defenses or excuses for something not done. One had to be punctual to the minute. As he used to say, if there was no order outwardly, there would be no inner order either, because they go together. He was not a person to praise you or pat you on the back. It was understood that this was part of one's role of being in the place. This demand of the totality of one's energies created many dilemmas for Krishnaji and the members. For instance, a person could become slack, losing the original vitality and drive. Then the place suffered.

He dealt with people and such situations in different ways. At such times, two different streams seemed to have operated within him. One was 'surgical' and harsh, and the other was compassionate. He would say that whatever decision was taken must be right for the person as well as the place, and if that person had to go, then so be it. Many people thus left their positions of responsibility in his lifetime.
In such a situation, one went through feelings of rejection, disap- pointment, and failure. In the final event, it was not a question of being approved or disapproved, found adequate or not, nor was it relevant to ruminate whether things were fair or not. For what was right for the place had to prevail.

WAS KRISHNAJI INFLUENCED IN HIS DECISIONS? HOW MUCH credence did he give to other people's views, judgments, and assessments? Generally, people around him had a feeling that he was influenced and that some persons were able to use their nearness to him in ways that colored his judgments of people and matters in the Foundation. In 1980, when we were in Saanen for the gathering, after a lunch with him at Chalet Tannegg, I was with him in his room having an easy conversation about both little things and serious matters. In the course of the conversation, I asked him "Krishnaji, why do you get influenced by some people? It is X in India and Y abroad." He did not seem to mind my asking such a question, nor did he think it intrusive. He thought it over for a while, then said, "No, I don't think I am being influenced. When K was a boy, so much was poured into him, and it came out. He obeyed the instructions given to him. He was a weak boy, physically. He trusted people." He continued to say that as he grew up, from the twenties onwards, he started questioning everything around him. However, it was really when the Rajagopal episode took place and he felt betrayed by someone whom he had trusted implicitly that he 'woke up'. "From that time onwards, I have been very watchful. I listen to what others say, but finally I do what I see is right. No, I am not being influenced."

Pondering over this, and being a witness for decades to the many happenings in the Indian and other foundations, I tentatively observe that he may have been influenced temporarily in certain matters. But deep down, it seemed he could never be touched or influenced. Sometimes, though some members did not accept his views and suggestions initially, in the final analysis his wish would prevail. He gave one a long rope, and when things did not progress as expected, then he would intervene and somehow see to it that action was taken, as he thought fit. When I look back at the time when he had decided that Pamaji and I should leave Vasanta Vihar, he was very affectionate and tender, but he told me that I had to be fully aware of my actions and that time had run out. perhaps he felt that we were not in a position to give Vasanta Vihar the religious spirit that he thought it required. Perhaps the place needed a change of persons. When he said all this to Pamaji and me, was he influenced? Yes and no. It was his perception. I saw that. Krishnaji did have that quality of seeing our inadequacies in terms of the teaching.

What he asked from one was a total transformation in oneself. So neither Pamaji nor I felt devastated because of what he said. Yet it did not mean that there were no influences being brought upon him. Those influences probably strengthened his view and directed the manner in which action followed. These factors made the experience unpleasant. In some cases he could act decisively, but in others he seemed to be helpless in spite of his strong feelings that things were not being done correctly. Krishnaji was such a towering personality with an overwhelming spiritual presence that one granted to him the right to correct, reject, or modify as he thought best. It may have been difficult at that moment for one to accept it, but later, on reflection, one felt that one's ego was in operation, subtly, and that he, the teacher, had the right to point it out. It seemed to work ( ultimately) towards one's inner growth. After all, one entered the Foundation not to seek power and self-importance but to deepen one's understanding of the self. So though his actions appeared severe, it seemed to help us mature within.

QUESTIONS ARISE AS I LOOK AT THAT TEN-YEAR CYCLE OF events from this distance of time. What did the movement of years unfold to me, about the place, myself, the personalities in the Foundation, and the organizational pressures that were inherent in such a situation? What was happening to me during all these years of activities and responsibility? Was there something more that was expected of me? Something deeper and more profound than all that I did? Was I fully conscious of my responsibilities and duties, my capacities and inadequacies? It was like a karmic circle of which I was a part. The waters I sailed in were stormy and clouded. I was often torn between powerful schisms withinthe Foundation. I lost my moorings, and consequently my actions were confused. My position as a functionary in the organizational context brought with it tremendous responsibilities. Pamaji had to manage the place, and I had a special assignment of giving the place a religious feeling. What did this mean to me when I began my work in Vasanta Vihar? I often wondered what more could I do when Krishnaji himself was the "spirit" of the place. Yet he had given me a special responsibility; in fact, he had chosen me for that. I looked at my situation and found that my role was varied. One was my role as a sadhaka (one who practices spiritual disciplines); then there was the organizational responsibility, to look after the place, reflect friendliness despite antagonisms; to be worldly and at the same time be grounded on the "other." Could all these demands be met? There was always the image of the enlightened consciousness of Krishnaji in front of me, which I identified as a model. Perhaps this image influenced me unconsciously and came in the way of looking at myself? I did not seem to have the maturity to penetrate the various conflicts nor the strength to stand firmly on my beliefs and live by my perceptions.

A few of these confusions seemed to rise from the contradictions embedded in the context of my location. The teacher as the head of the organization demanded right action at the pragmatic and organizational levels, and at the same time called for an integral response from within that was not ego-based. Then there were the various self-motivated movements from individual members who were part of the organizational ethos. Finally, there was the solid ground of affection between K and myself, which was the most precious blessing and yet this impelled me to demand more of myself than I had to give. It also gave one a false awareness of one's position that led to a growing sense of self-importance and self-projecting tendencies, which was disquieting. These opposing configurations and forces led to inward turmoil. Naturally, I felt I could not measure up to the task that lay ahead of me. I said to Krishnaji once, "I am doing my best, but it is not enough. I feel I am inadequate." He said laughingly, "Your best is peanuts," and then added, "There is no such thing as being 'adequate'. You can never be adequate; it is all too big, but be profoundly aware."

To 'be aware' meant so many things. I was not to act out of a feeling of inadequacy. It was the ''me" which has to be absent in relationships and actions. What he wanted of me or any of us who had listened to him and taken the teaching seriously was ''to be a light unto oneself''. It may not be a flame, but it could be candlelight. Light is light. He said, "If you are a light, then people will come to you like bees to honey." A compassionate person touches the hearts of people. Did I have it? Do I have it? Do we all, who speak of being religious, have that 'goodness' of compassion?

FOR NEARLY SEVEN YEARS, EVENTS WERE MOVING WELL. Krishnaji's yearly visits, publications, and all other activities went off well and there were no manifest, serious tensions. But gradually dissatisfaction came to be expressed by him, and a feeling that there was a need for a change at Vasanta Vihar. The first attempt to change things was in 1983 but nothing came out of it. We offered to resign at that time, but we had to continue at Vasanta Vihar, as there was no one else to take over. Krishnaji expected one to do all the things required for the place and remain inward. He would ask me, for instance, "What is happening to you? You have not come here just to look after all this. What is happening to your mind? Are you deeply aware?" Unless one was 'ever-diligent', watching oneself like a hawk at what was happening inwardly, one would find it almost impossible to face the immense responsibility. In any organization there were bound to be conflicts, power plays, schisms, tense relationships, and so on. Krishnaji was deeply concerned about members working together and trusting in each other. He considered, for instance, that my relationship with Pupulji was important for the functioning of the Foundation. So even when differences arose between us, he urged me to 'mend the relationship'.

"My dear Sunanda, Now with regard to your confidential letter of the 15th, look, Sunanda, I meant what I said. I said to you and Pama that you should treat Vasanta Vihar as the Headquarters of the Foundation and also treat it as your home—and I mean it. But I also said, "Don't take root in the place." I mean by that, please do not become attached to it. .. . If one becomes "attached," then the place will lose its (timeless?) perfume. That is what happened with the previous management. .. This is just a warning, and I hope you will understand, and in any case I still say to you and Pama "Treat it as your home," but if I may point out most gently, do not get identified with the buildings or property. Then the other point is that you and Pupul must get on absolutely in harmony. I know there are some misunderstandings between you and her. I saw it when I was last in Bombay. If I may suggest, slur over all the past hurts and misunderstandings and disagreements, and please, Sunanda, see the importance that you and Pupul must get on really well together. In the moment of anger or irritation we say things we do not quite mean, so let those moments pass by and do not recall them. I am giving you a 'grandfatherly advice' and hope you understand what I mean. J.K."

It was indeed a timely advice for one to learn to live without pettiness, to slur over the hurts and not to recall. It did help me in my interaction with Pupulji and with my other colleagues, relatives, and friends. This emptying process becomes the source of a freshness in daily living. During these years I also had to face difficult challenges in my marital life, some of which emanated from my responsibilities and functions in the Foundation. Krishnaji often used to talk to me about Foundation matters although it was Pamaji who was secretary of the Foundation. He used to tell Pamaji, "I have talked it over with Sunanda; she will discuss it with you." It was not easy for anyone to accept a situation where one's rôle was superseded. It was my nearness to Krishnaji that gave rise to these unpleasant comparisons. Our marriage would have developed cracks but for a strong relationship based on mutual respect and affection. I feel that in every marriage there are occasions where there can be jealousy and comparisons between a couple. What sustains such relationships is trust in each other, an understanding of each other, and an abiding affection that can take on all these storms of life. There were also other factors that helped us over these patches; our shared awareness of these incidents lessened them, and furthermore we felt our pettiness being washed away in Krishnaji's presence. For when we are open to the vibrations of an enlightened person, we do go through a kind of purification. presence and our perceptions had helped us continuously over the years.

I WOULD LIKE TO NARRATE IN DETAIL SOME OF THE EVENTS OF K's last visit to India. It was significant in many ways, as numerous decisions were taken that affected my life and that of the Foundation. The narrative assumes the form of a journal, marking time, as it were, until the end.
In November 1985, when Krishnaji came to Delhi on his yearly visit, I started keeping a day-to-day taped account of the conversations and happenings that were taking place in the Indian Foundation and elsewhere. When I look back upon this peculiar and inexplicable phenomenon of my talking into the tape, which I had not done with such consistency ever before, I am amazed at my own actions of that time. Krishnaji spent nearly two months between New Delhi, Rajghat, Madras, and Rishi Valley before he abruptly ended his stay in India and proceeded to Ojai in January 1986.
Why did I feel like keeping meticulously recorded notes of the day- to-day unfolding situations and Krishnaji's conversations with me? I now see that there must have been some premonition that that year was going to be extremely significant to me personally and to the Foundation. How true it all turned out to be. For ten years, 1986/1996, I put away these tapes in a cupboard. Never have I even once played them, heard them, or even thought about them. I had forgotten about them. Now that I have entered my seventies, I feel an urgency to tie up all loose ends, to put down whatever record I have about myself in relation to the teacher, to the teaching, and the Foundation. I feel that an authentic and personal report of the last visit of Krishnaji would be significant at this time.
Two unpredictable events marked this trip. The first was that this was to be Krishnaji's last visit to India, as it was followed very soon by his passing away on February 17, 1986 at Ojai, just a month after he left India. The other event was that this was another turning point in my per- sonal life. Pamaji and I were to leave Vasanta Vihar, and this decision had to be taken with Krishnaji's consent.
The entries contain accounts of Krishnaji's deteriorating health, the changeable states of his mind, and his thoughts on some matters related to the Foundation. He seemed to be suffering tremendous pain while he was in India, and I could see this clearly at Vasanta Vihar. Listening to the tapes, I feel that he was acutely aware of his mortality. This perhaps made him restless and brought with it an urgency to settle matters in the Foundation. Many decisions were taken at that time, and Krishnaji seemed under great pressure. Numerous problems were sorted out regarding the Foundation, and towards the end of the visit he felt that he should be disassociated from all organizational matters.
New Delhi, October 27, 1985 KRISHNAJI ARRIVED IN DELHI ON 25TH MORNING. WHEN I met him two days later, he looked extremely frail. His mind seemed to be far away from India. I felt he was somehow different that year. Some of us were discussing with him about the world situation. At the end of an hour's conversation in the morning, he was able to see that there were great complexities to the political and economic situation in India. At the end of the conversation, Krishnaji raised the question: What is the future of mankind? Then that quality which was so much Krishnaji entered. He started talking about conditioning and the future of human- ity. "Is there any solution to the human condition? Will there be peace? How does it come about? We are trying to solve problems through organization, social reform, welfare work, but these will never solve the (inner) problems of man. The crisis is in the individual, in the human being and not in organization."

Rajghat, November4, 1985
I FOUND KRISHNAJI RATHER AGITATED. HE SEEMS TO HAVE MADE up his mind about some matters relating to Vasanta Vihar. He felt that I had not discharged the responsibilities he had entrusted to me. Vasanta Vihar, he stated, had not become a religious place. It was not possible to respond, for he seemed to have come to certain definite conclusions. At one level, he would point out that I had not done this and that, but then there would come a flash of compassion, an intimacy of communication, of great beauty. He would say something extraordinarily profound in themidst of the conversation, communicating a different dimension that helped me see the whole picture, and every reaction in oneself got wiped out. If I had reacted to him even in a small measure, my ego would have entered it with defensive argument and that would be the end of communication. Therefore, I allowed everything to flow in.
Raighat, Nov 6, 1985 HE WAS TALKING TO ME ABOUT MYSELF. AFTER TELLING ME something about what was happening to me, he ended the conversation. Then, as he sat on the bench in the verandah, putting on his shoes, ready to go out for a walk, he said, "Sunanda, I have talked to you about so many things. Listen. Sunanda is dead. It is no longer I who am doing this,' but we are all together doing it." That was his message, his benediction, whatever words we may use for that grace. I felt this deeply from the depths of my heart.
Vasanta Vihar, November 9, 1985 A MUSIC CONCERT WAS HELD IN VASANTA VIHAR. PUPUL CAME and sat next to me and said, "I am rather worried, Sunanda. Krishnaii has said he is not going to live long. He seems very wobbly on his feet this evening. If anything happens to him here..." So, before the end of the concert, Pupul, Nandini, and I left the music hall and went to Krishnaji's room. He was sitting on his bed having his dinner. Pupulji asked him with concern, "How are you?" He said, "I am not dead yet. I am just a bit too tired. That's all." So, the three of us stood quiet for a few minutes and came away. I felt deeply disturbed last night, heavy with the feeling that Krishnaji was not going to live long. Reflecting on the nature of my work and rela- tionships during the last ten years, particularly with regard to making Vasanta Vihar religious, I see I am caught in a strange situation. While on the one hand he continues to say that I have not done this, done that, and one is not living the teaching, he also says, "Don't leave." What am I to do? So I told myself, "Just listen to him. The many events and pressures that are happening around him are part of 'lila' [the divine play] —passing and ephemeral. I should not be drowned in it.
Vasanta Vihar, Nov 15, 1985 I WENT TO HIS ROOM TO SAY GOODBYE, AS HE WAS LEAVING FOR Rishi Valley. He said, "Come, sit down. I want to tell you something. Did you notice what happened this morning? Did you see what is happening right in front of my nose? The discussion is all about function and money. Where is the Teaching? It has always been like this historically; see it. I am talking of something, and the Foundation is talking of 'function'; you are separating the two. The division between function and the 'spirit of the thing' is not the Teaching."
Rishi Valley, November 22, 1985

AT RISHI VALLEY ONE DAY, I SAID TO KRISHNAJI, "IT IS VERY strange that I discovered certain things about myself. First, I have to die to all my traumatic experiences. Krishnaji, let me go back in time. In 1947, I met you, and for seven or eight years, I was doing fourteen hours of work a day as your official stenographer. During all those years, I had no difficulty of communication with you. But in the last two or three years, things have changed."
Krishnaji said, "I am telling you, wipe out the past. Wipe out every- thing and start over. " He said, "You have talked to me. So let us start afresh all over. You have to wipe it out." I then got up. He said, "Look, this is the last time I am saying it; you have to take full responsibility for Vasanta Vihar. I am saying all this, I won't say it again." And I said, "Sir, I realize that I have to be totally alone, not seeking alliances, security in certain relationships in this context."
"At last," he said, "you are seeing this."

I came back with the feeling that he was still entrusting Vasanta Vihar into my hands and that I had to act. I was thinking about the impossible requirements that he had posed to me, like "You have not done it, you have not made Vasanta Vihar a religious place, and you will have to do it. You have to be tremendously responsible from now on and wipe out all the past." I don't know what it means to create a religious place. Can I really say ''I don't know'' and find out the shallowness of that statement?

Vasanta Vihar, December 25, 1985 I WENT TO KRISHNAJi'S ROOM TO CHECK WHETHER THINGS were in order and comfortable. He was lying down. He said, "Sit down, Sunanda, listen, I have lost five to six pounds. I will immediately have to leave India. Do you realize the seriousness of it?" I was looking deeply into his eyes. He held my hands, and there was a great deal of unspoken communication while he was saying this. I was suddenly deeply grieved and afraid of the import of what he was saying. "Look, the body is not picking up, and I may have to be taken on a stretcher. I won't have it. Bombay is out; I will leave for Ojai. I cannot stand the cold of England. It is warm here. Rishi Valley was cold. The body needs warmth without a sweater; then it feels well." He said, "Look, the body is going. It may not last long. I will have to settle everything. I have settled Rishi Valley, Raighat, and there is something unfinished at Ojai. I must go back before I fall ill and get grounded here."

I was listening to him with a deep weight in the pit of my stomach because I knew that the time was nearing. I said, "Sir, I feel it is necessary to see a doctor here this afternoon. After all, nothing is lost. If something is wrong, we can treat it. If you have the energy, would you consider?" He said, "All right." He kept quiet. Half an hour later when I went to see him again, he said, "Yes, I have talked to Dr. Parchure, and he said yes. So fix it."

Vasanta Vihar, December 27, 1985
DR. THIRUVENCADAM, A PHYSICIAN OF RARE EMINENCE WHOM I had requested to attend K, rang me up and spoke to me, saying that Krishnaji's prostate should be examined. Nobody except for half a dozen people in the world knew that Krishnaji had (a prostate) cancer ( surgery) earlier. Therefore, when he was losing weight rapidly it was a situation of alarm and concern. Krishnaji insisted, "I will not be examined by any doctor here. Even when Dr. Thiruvengadam examined me, my body was quivering. I don't want to be touched. I want to be examined by my own doctor in Los Angeles.

"Vasanta Vihar, December 29 and 30, 1985
AT FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING, I WENT UP TO HIS ROOM To see him. He was sitting on his cot and started talking. He felt that he would cancel some of his programs and then leave for Ojai, a little earli- er than planned, on January 12. Then Scott came into the room and said, "Many people come to see you here, and I will stand at the door and pre- vent people from coming in. I will guard the door." I said, "Please, you don't do anything of that kind here. We are looking after him." Krishnaji turned round and said to Scott, "In India I will never close my doors. I can't say no to people. I have always been like that. It is all right."
Later Dr. Parchure and I agreed with him. Krishnaji should do whatever he wanted. There was no point in having enforced rest for him. That evening he came down for a walk, very late, and there were one hundred people waiting to have his 'darshan' (blessing of a sage). He greeted them all, went for a walk, and returned soon. Even in frail health he was sensitive to the needs of other individuals around him and felt he should discharge his responsibilities as far as he could.

Vasanta Vihar, January 5, 1986 KRISHNAJI ASKED ME, "SUNANDA, TELL ME VERY SIMPLY, NOT IN your roundabout Tamilian way of talking [Krishnaji often made fun of me]. Tell me simply." He said, "The Indian mind says all kinds of things except gives a direct answer. It is like an Italian: if you asked an Italian how to reach the other village, he would say, 'Go straight, and then turn left, and then a little there, ten yards of that, go towards the right, and then left.' Then he would ask how much time you have?" Everything except the direct answer." We both laughed.
Krishnaji was reclining on the back of the cot He looked extraordinarily beautiful. One was not even aware that he had fever at that time. He did not seem to be aware that he was ill. He began to talk, "He [refer- ring to himself] said that the computer and genetic engineering are going to change human behavior. Then what are you going to do? What is it that he conveyed to you in the talk? He also talked about life, the origin of life, and that there is no beginning, you can never know the beginning.

I started to say something. He said, "Keep quiet." Again, he went on to ask I got out of the talk. And before I could answer, he started speaking again. With Krishnaji, one must never interrupt him. Then he asked me to say what I wanted to communicate earlier. So I said, "Krishnaji, two years ago I did not realize that the time has come for us to leave Vasanta Vihar and allow others to carry out what you wanted to happen there. Last year I could have told you this, but I thought that if I said that to you, then you may think that I am going away in reaction to what you had said then. Even now, when you told me in Rishi Valley that you are leaving Vasanta Vihar to me, I hesitated. But I know now, whatever you may say, the right thing for me to do is to leave this place."

He said, "Sunanda, are you quite sure that you are saying this not out of any pressure, not out of any motivation, not due to force of circum- stances? Are you doing this without any reason?"
I said, "Krishnaji, it is not that I have not talked to people. It is not that I do not know what others feel, but that has nothing to do with my decision. My decision is final, and it is right for me to leave." Then he asked again, "Are you sure you are not doing it out of Pressure or motivation? Does it mean that you are leaving the Foundation?"

I said that this act of mine was complete in itself. "As far as leaving the Foundation is concerned, I am not leaving the Foundation unless you want me to do so." He said, "No, no, don't leave. I just wanted to know. That means, where will you stay." I said, "I will stay in Madras and rent an apartment or a house." Then he said, "Find a house near the beach." He was compassionate and asked me, "What do you want to do now?" I said I did not know, but perhaps I might talk, dialogue, and share with others whatever understanding of life I have. He said, "Do it." Then he said something very beautiful: "At the age of ninety or ninety-one, if someone were to ask me what I would like to do, I will go back; have a lovely car, probably a beautiful Mercedes. Then I will go for a drive with the wind blowing, I will watch the mountains, the sky, the stars. What's wrong? I would love to do it."

I thought he had finished talking and so kept quiet. But after a while he started talking again. He said, "This was to be the last talk which he will ever give, and he is gone. What have you got out of it?" I told him what I felt about the talk. I added that I did not understand what he said about creation, but there was something indescribably sacred in the atmosphere. I went to Krishnaji's room before his evening walk and helped him to put on his kurta. I told him that I would like to have five minutes after his return from the walk. Later I went up to his room to on his bed and I also sat on the bed facing him.
"Now, tell me," he said. I started by saying, "Krishnaji, I think it is the right thing for me to leave. I would like to leave because this place has to be free for who comes here to do what they want to do. I have done my bit "
Krishnaji said, "So, you are leaving this place. Will you be connected with Madras school and all that?"
I said, "Krishnaji, I have not thought about all that. The first thing for me is to leave and see what happens." Then Krishnaji asked whether I was very clear that I was not leaving with any bitterness or resentment, without ill will to the place. I said, "Krishnaji, for thirty-eight years I have seen this happening—a person leaving a place, a K place, and getting bitter and angry or nursing resent- ment. I hope I do not have any such feelings. I go with all goodwill, but it will take time to digest this."
He said, "I am so glad that you feel that you are leaving with a great deal of goodwill. That's good." Then he said, "You should gather yourself in greater attention; it's like a perfume. Recent events have disturbed you. Your mind is not stable. Unless it is stable, it will be lost in this search for something beyond the brain. Only That matters."
That was his blessing, I felt. He embraced me and said, "Be well."

Vasanta Vihar, January 9, 1986
THE EVENING BEFORE HE WAS TO LEAVE FOR OJAI, HE CALLED Pamaji and me to meet him in his room. Three members of the Foundation were also present. He told us, almost commanded us, to stay on in Vasanta Vihar even though we may not be holding any position. I said to him that it was no longer right to stay on. Despite what of the other members said, I repeated that our decision was final. It was accepted. Vasanta Vihar, January' 10, 1986 WHEN HE LEFT VASANTA VIHAR SOON AFTER MIDNIGHT FOR THE airport he was looking very ill. He seemed to be far away from everything around him. some said that they did not feel any contact with him at the time of his leaving. He certainly was very critically ill

SINCE K'S PASSING AWAY, PEOPLE HAVE ASKED ME "What kind of person was K? What were his habits, his likes, his dislikes? Was he psychic?" I would therefore like to narrate some anecdotes that show different facets of his personality.

Krishnaji was very much human. We often do not expect him to be so, for we imagine a person of enlightenment to be all sorts of things. We are quite surprised and shocked when the image we had did not merge with what one saw. He had many facets, some paradoxical and some even contradictory. He was compassionate and yet seemed remote and harsh in his relationships. He appeared aloof, yet when one knew him he could be close and easily approachable. Distant and near, affectionate and admonishing, he was a person of whom one could never really say, "l have known him." There was something in him that, one felt, could never be touched or understood. That "Otherness" gave his actions and behavior at different times and different levels an unknowable quality. That's why I could never make any judgment or remarks about him, although I was aware of the apparent contradictions.
And what was the nature of my relationship with Krishnaii? I did certainly have a good relationship with him. There was affection and a complete vulnerability to him on my part. Yet there was always a sense that I never really knew him. He could say to me, "Sunanda, we are friends. If I am getting senile and you observe it, you must tell me." There was that kind of openness, and he was, in a deep sense, unknowable. I once asked him, "Krishnaji, what is my relationship with you ? What he said in reply throws some light on what one could or could not expect from him: "Sunanda, I am like the wind. can you hold the wind in your fist? I am like that. There is nothing to hold. That's why I telling you, don't be attached to me. "For instance, if someone close to me died, I could not come. I, told him that I saw clearly that there was no 'personal' relationship with him. This was not like any other normal relationship of affection. He said, "You are putting it wrongly. Don't put it that way, I have affection for people. But I say, don't get attached to me, I am like the wind; you can't hold it. There is nothing to hold."

Yet there was something else that he said to me later that gave me a sense of strength and support. It was something of a "mystical" nature: "Do the right thing, and I will be always there with you."
Another observation I have made is that during the many years that I had known him, I felt that he seemed to have no attachment to anyone. I am not talking of his earlier years, but the years after I met him. He could pour affection on an individual and have compassion for one. But he did not seem to communicate attachment.
Krishnaji had the quality of giving total attention to whatever he undertook. For instance, when he was at a particular place, say Rishi Valley or Vasanta Vihar, he was totally there, looking into every little detail, attending to problems, meeting people with affection. But a day or so before he left that place, there seemed to be some kind of withdrawal, an 'emptying', as it were, of relationships to that place and the people around it. Probably that is why he seemed to have no attachment as we know it. He appeared to be alone, somewhere else, far away.
KRISHNAJI'S BIOGRAPHERS HAVE OFTEN WRITTEN ABOUT THE many psychic powers he had, such as healing, telepathy, reading other people's thoughts or reading the contents of a letter without opening the envelope. I have known him to heal some people, including myself. In 1969, I was ill with a very severe attack of rheumatoid arthritis. But for his healing "passes," I would have been crippled years ago. In later years, Krishnaji stopped healing people physically. He said it is much more important to heal psychologically. By this he meant living a right kind of life.

He would say that it is easy to acquire siddhis (paranormal powers). He felt that these powers were a deviation for a person who is interested in meditation and liberation. I would like to narrate a couple of events that I had discussed with Krishnaji.
I had a strange 'out-of-body experience' in Vasanta Vihar. I had just finished my morning yoga exercises and was lying flat on my back in 'shavasana'. Suddenly I found myself floating on the roof. I could see my body lying inert on the ground /It passed after a few minutes . I told this to Krishnaji . He said that these things happen 'naturally' when one is sensitive but I should not think about it as a special "experience," and he told me to forget it.
I was a witness to a peculiar psychic phenomenon. I was sitting in his room talking about certain matters. Then there was a pause in the con- versation. My mind must have wandered. A little later, he asked me whether I was thinking about such and such a person. I was surprised. I said "Yes, but Krishnaji, how did you know?" He said "I saw the face of that person behind your head."

I wondered what it was. Was it a thought form? Materialization? I did not know. He did not say anything more or talk about it.
I used sometimes to argue with him. Once I was trying to convince him about some matter related to the Foundation, and he was saying something different. After a while he said, "Stop arguing; listen to what I am telling you." I then said, "Krishnaji, you are always telling us to listen, but you are not listening to me now." He put an end to my talk by saying lightly; "I know what you are going to say." It was as if he could read my mind. Then he said something revealing: "Sunanda, people come to me with masks. They reveal only what they want to. It is up to them. I don't look behind their masks. It would be an invasion of privacy if one did it."
How extraordinarily sensitive he was. He seemed to imply that he could communicate with another only to the extent the other is open, vulnerable. He used to talk to the trees and plants. He was so gentle. For a couple of years, some young trees were not growing well in Vasanta Vihar. He would talk to them: "Come on, old lady, grow." He seemed to have an extraordinary oneness with nature, trees, plants, and animals.

KRISHNAJI WAS OCCASIONALLY FULL OF FUN. HE HAD A bantering relationship with me. He used to rag me, and would say, when I answered a question of his by shaking my head, "Don't shake your head. One never knows whether you mean 'yes' or 'no."' Sometimes he would reveal this teasing side in his letters too. I quote relevant parts from three letters he wrote me that reveal this aspect of him.
Handwritten letter dated July 21, 1959 c/o Postmaster Pahlgam, Kashmir My dear Sunanda, .. Thank you very much for your letter, and it was nice of you to have written, though I didn't know you had changed your name to Krishnaji! You had signed your letter by that name... J.K.
I was obviously absent-minded when I signed it that way. He had cut out that portion of my letter to him where I had signed myself as Krishnaji and enclosed it in his letter to me.
Sometimes I used to write to him about a book or an article that I had read. After teaching in the university for a while, I had developed an academic and complex way of writing. Here is a letter from him dated March 2, 1975: My dear Sunanda, I was so glad to get your letter, although it is a bit professorial. Thank you for writing about the memory imprint and behavioral insight. I think I catch the meaning, but I would like to have it explained in more simple language. As I used to say to you, come down to my level and explain what you mean. What you have said is important but I would like to have it clearly explained because I see something which may be my own or perhaps my distortion of the experts... J.K.
Apart from "pulling my leg" about being abstruse and professorial, it is overwhelming to see the utter humility that he had. He was an extraordinary person.

I had learnt many things from observing him, from little things to the extraordinary significance of being sensitive and caring for people. He used to say that it was not enough to care for a person one day and then forget him or her the next day.
His sense of humor sometimes expressed itself in other ways: I liked to chew 'pan' (betel leaf with some spices to help digestion), especially after a good, substantial meal. It so happened that one day I had taken a 'pan' when Krishnaji was also present in the dining hall. He called for me and said, "Sunanda, you don't go to a guru chewing pan! Go, throw it out and come." Everyone gathered around had a good laugh.

Krishnaji was a person who seemed to belong to both the East and the West and was at home in both the ambiences. At home, yes, and yet not. At a personal level, his lifestyle was different at these places. In India he wore the pajama-kurta every day and the traditional-style dhoti for the public talks. Soon after landing in India, he would put on Indian clothes. Once it so happened that his Indian clothes did not reach him on the day he arrived in Delhi, and he pulled me up for it. He was very particular about all such matters. He was looked upon as a "guru" here in India. He was even referred to as ''a guru who was a non-guru''. People fell at his feet. He did not discourage them, as he understood their background, but he was always shy when someone bowed down and touched his feet and showed their deep reverence in the traditional Indian style.
The lifestyle of his hosts everywhere, Eastern or Western, determined to a certain extent his activities. He could go for a walk or to a movie in the West, but going to a theater or a favorite restaurant was not possible in India. He was too well known. To that extent, such little freedoms, human as they are, were not to be for him in India. In Ojai or Brockwood, he used to tell us that he met very few people outside the Foundation except for those who came to the gatherings. In India, his day-to-day engagements were very heavy. He met many more people in India and worked hard. Especially in the last years of life, his schedule of talks, dialogues, and meeting people were much more than his frail body could bear. He had little time for himself except he rested or wrote or went for walks. Many distinguished people were often invited for lunch. He liked people and was deeply interested in knowing what was happening in India.

Since he always wore traditional Indian clothes here, I remember my first reaction after seeing him in a tracksuit at Brockwood. I could not imagine him in that dress, it was so alien to my image of him. There were no televisions in his rooms here, whether at Vasanta Vihar, Rajghat, or Rishi Valley. At Brockwoocl Park or Ojai he would spend quite some time watching "westerns." Those were his relaxations. In India he would read detective novels.
Perhaps he needed the two lifestyles, Western and Indian, two pat- terns and cultures, two different idioms of life. A part of him was Indian and another, Western. I had often observed that after a sufficiently long stay of two or three months in India, he would be eager to leave for Ojai or Brockwood Park. In a similar way, he would look forward to coming here after spending some time in the West. Where did he belong? To both? To neither?

From a very young age he had been brought up in the Western tradition, taught and cared for by British members of the Theosophical Society. His outward manner and behavior were Western, but he seemed to have retained at a deeper level the essence of the culture that he had been born into. The Indianness in him could be seen in little things: he liked listening to Sanskrit chants recited by orthodox brahman pandits, especially in Madras and Benares. He responded to Karnatic (South Indian) classical music, and we used to invite some of the most distin- guished dancers and musicians to perform on the vina, flute, violin and mridangam. He appreciated the aesthetic traditions of this country. He told me in 1976 at Malibu, "When you go back to India, have all the dec- orations done in Vasanta Vihar as they do in South India—'rangoli' [traditional floor decorations made with white or colored powders], coconuts, mango leaves strung together and the clay lights, incense and so on." Right through the ten-year period from 1976 to 1986, every year before the talks began, we had those lovely traditional ornaments adorning the entrance gate at Vasanta Vihar.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Fri, 19 Jan 2018 #148
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

Continuing the selected excerpts from Pupul Jayakar's memoirs of K

( India, 1948) "It began on an evening when Krishnaji had been for a walk with us. He started to say that he was not feeling well, and could we go home ? When we asked whether he wanted to see a doctor, he said, “No, it is not that.” He would not explain further. When we got home he went to his room, telling Friedman that on no account was he to be disturbed; but he asked Nandini and me to come into the room. He closed the door and then told us not to be afraid, whatever happened, and on no account to call a doctor. He asked us both to sit quietly and watch him. There was to be no fear. We were not to speak to him, not to revive him, but to close his mouth if he fainted. On no account were we to leave the body alone.

Although I had been swept away by my meeting with K, I had a skeptical mind and observed very intently the events as they took place. Krishnaji appeared to be in extreme pain. He complained of severe toothache and an intense pain at the nape of the neck, the crown of the head, and in the spine. In the midst of the pain he would say, “They are cleansing the brain, oh, so completely, emptying it.” At other times he would complain of great heat, and his body would perspire profusely. The intensity of the pain varied as did the area where it was concentrated. At times the pain was located in the head, in the teeth, the nape of the neck, or the spine. At other times he groaned and held his stomach. Nothing relieved the pain; it came and went at will.

When the Process was operating, the body lying on the bed appeared a shell; only a body consciousness appeared to be present. In this state the voice was frail, childlike. Then suddenly the body filled with a soaring presence. Krishnaji would sit up cross-legged, his eyes closed, the fragile body would appear to grow and his presence would fill the room; there was a palpable, throbbing silence and an immense strength that poured into the room and enveloped us. In this state the voice had great volume and depth.

After the first evening he started going for a walk alone in the evenings and used to ask Nandini and me to come later to the house. In the beginning the experiences started at 6 P.M. and were over by 8:30 P.M., but later they sometimes went on until midnight. On days when he had to meet people (Jawaharlal Nehru, for instance), nothing happened. Toward the end the periods grew longer, and on one occasion went on all night. On no occasion did he complain of dirt or express a desire to leave the room as he had done at Ojai, though Sedgemoor was not particularly clean; nor did he speak of disturbing thoughts.

On one occasion he asked Nandini to hold his hand, as otherwise he would slip away and not come back.

While he was in the midst of the ordeal, his body would toss on the bed. He would have fits of shivering, would call out for 'Krishna', and then put his hand to his mouth and say, “I must not call him.”

May 30, 1948: Krishnamurti was getting ready to go for a walk when suddenly he said he was feeling too weak and not all there. He said, “What a pain I have.” He caught the back of his head and lay down. Within a few minutes the Krishnaji we knew was not there. For two hours we saw him go through intense pain. He said he had a pain in the back of his neck, his tooth was troubling him, his stomach was swollen and hard, and he groaned and pressed down. At times he would shout. He fainted a number of times.

He kept on saying: “Amma—oh, God, give me peace. I know what they are up to. Call him back. I know when the limit of pain is reached, they will return. They know how much the body can stand. If I become a lunatic, look after me—not that I will become a lunatic. They are very careful with the body. I feel so old. Only a bit of me is functioning. I am like an India rubber toy, which a child plays with. It is the child that gives it life.”

His face throughout the occurrence was worn and wracked with pain. He kept clenching his fists and tears streamed from his eyes. After two hours, he fainted again. When he came to, he said: “The pain has disappeared. Deep inside me I know what has happened. I have been soaked with gasoline. The tank is full.”

He then said he would speak so that he would not think of the pain inside him. “Have you seen the sun and the soft clouds heavy with rain? They pass over the sun and then the rain comes down with a roar on the earth that waits like an open womb. It washes clean. Every flower, every leaf. There is fragrance, a newness. Then the clouds pass and the sun comes out and touches every leaf and every flower. The gentle little flower that is like a young girl that ruthless men destroy. Have you seen the faces of rich men? Hard busy with their stocks and money-making? What do they know of love? Have you ever felt every limb of a tree, touched a leaf, sat by a ragged child? You know when I drove to the aerodrome, I saw a mother washing the buttocks of a child. It was beautiful. Nobody noticed her. All they know is to make money and cesspools of their women. Love to them is sex. To hold a woman’s hand, when she is not a woman, that is love. Do you know what it is to love? You have husbands and children. But how would you know? You cannot hold a cloud in a golden cage.”

He was silent for a time, then said, “This pain makes my body like steel—but, oh, so flexible, so pliant, without a thought. It is like a polishing—an examination.” We enquired whether he couldn’t stop having the pain. He said: “You have had a child. Can you stop it coming when once it starts?” Then: “They are going to have fun with me tonight. I see the storm gathering. Oh, Christos!”
After some time, Maurice brought in some soup and then went out. Krishnaji had the light put on. He had sat up with the legs crossed, body erect. The pain had gone from his face. His eyes were closed. He seemed to grow. We felt tremendous power pour into him. There was a throbbing in the atmosphere. It filled the room. Our eyes and ears were filled with it and with sound, though there was no sound; and every pore of our bodies felt a touch, but there was nothing in the room.

Then he opened his eyes and said: “Something happened—did you see anything?” We told him what we had felt. He said: “My face will be different tomorrow. I will be like a raindrop—spotless.” After a few minutes, he told us he was all right and that we should go home.

June 17, 1948: Krishnaji went out for a walk alone. He asked Nandini and me to wait for him. We sat by the fire and waited. He entered the room as if he were a stranger. He went straight to his table and wrote something in his file. After some time he grew aware of us. He came and sat down near the fire. He asked us what we had been doing and said that he had walked far beyond the Golf Club. There was a flute being played in the distance and he sat silently, listening to it intently. It was only after it stopped that he appeared in that semiconscious state. Twice while we sat there, that tremendous presence filled him. He grew in stature before us. His eyes were half-closed; his face silent and immensely beautiful.

And then he lay on the bed and there was just the body. The voice that came from it was that of a frail child. The Krishnaji we knew was not there. The body of Krishnamurti started saying that he was very hurt inside, that they had burnt him inside; that there was a pain right through his head. He was shivering and started saying that something had happened on the walk. He turned to us and asked, “Did you see him return?” He could not synchronize his body and mind. At time he felt he was still in the woods. “They came and covered him with leaves.” He said, “Do you know, you would not have seen him tomorrow. He nearly did not return.” He kept on feeling his body to see if it was all there. He said, “I must go back and find out what had happened on the walk. Something happened and "they" rushed back. But, I do not know whether I returned? There may be pieces of me lying on the road.” Twice he got out of bed and made for the door, but lay down again. Later, he went to sleep. When he awoke, he felt himself and stared at his hands.

June 18, 1948: Krishnaji asked us to come at about seven in the evening. He was out. We waited. He came in some time later. He was again the stranger. He wrote something in the book and then came and sat with us. He said: “Thoughts of my talk in Bangalore are pouring in. I am awake again.” He closed his eyes and sat for some time erect, silent. Then he complained of hurt and went and lay down. He said he felt he was burnt. “Do you know, I found out what happened on the walk. "He" came fully and took complete charge. That is why I did not know whether I had returned. I knew nothing.” A little later, “Then in the emptiness, there was a light and a storm and I was tortured that day in the wind. Do you know that "emptiness" that has no horizon, no limit, it stretches?” His hand moved to show empty space.
Then a little later: “They have burnt me so that there can be more emptiness. They want to see how much of Him can come.” Then later: “Do you know emptiness? When there is not a thought? When it is completely empty? It is this emptiness that brings power— This is pure power—like that in a dynamo. You know, on the walk I was in an ecstasy. I have never cried like that. As I walked I met a poor man. He saw me crying and thought I had lost a mother or sister. Then he smiled at me and I could not understand.”

Suddenly, he said, “I have a 'thought—time' and 'emptiness'—that’s it. I hope I remember when I wake up.”
He started saying that he could not bear it, that he was all burnt inside, hurt. Then suddenly he sat up and said, “Don’t move,” and again we saw him like the other night. His face was in the dark, but the fire leapt up and his shadow lengthened on the wall. All pain had disappeared from the face. His eyes were closed, his body was throbbing, as if some power was entering his body. His face was pulsating. He appeared to grow and fill the room. He sat without movement for about three minutes and then he fainted. He woke up calm and peaceful.

Although the notes we took on the final night are lost, Nandini and I remember the occasion vividly.

Krishnaji had been suffering excruciating pain in his head and neck, his stomach was swollen, tears streamed down his face. He suddenly fell back on the bed and became intensely still. The traces of pain and fatigue were wiped away, as happens in death. Then life and an immensity began to enter the face. The face was greatly beautiful. It had no age, time had not touched it. The eyes opened, but there was no recognition. The body radiated light; a stillness and a vastness illumined the face. The silence was liquid and heavy, like honey; it poured into the room and into our minds and bodies, filling every cell of the brain, wiping away every trace of time and memory. We felt a touch without a presence, a wind blowing without movement.

We could not help folding our hands in pranams. For some minutes he lay unmoving, then his eyes opened. After some time, he saw us and said, “Did you see that face? The Buddha was here, you are blessed.”

We went back to the hotel, and the silence came with us and enclosed us for the next few days. We were held by a pervading presence. Most of the time we were in the room with Krishnaji, we had no part to play; yet our presence seemed necessary. There was nothing personal in him during the incidents—no emotion, no relationship to us. The ordeal appeared physical, and yet the next day left no trace on his face or body. He was aflame with energy—joyous, eager, and youthful. Not a word he said had psychological overtones. A weight, depth, and strength was present in the silence that permeated the room and the atmosphere on every occasion.

When Nandini and I left Ootacamund, Krishnamurti asked us to “go to Bombay and rest. You have gone through a great ordeal.”
In one of his letters to me, K later referred briefly to what had happened. I had asked him one morning what was the reason for the two voices—that of the frail child and the normal voice of Krishnamurti. I said that it looked as if some entity goes out of the body and some entity reenters the body. Krishnamurti said in his letter, “This is not so. It is not that there are two entities.” He said he would talk about it later; but it was to be many years before he spoke of it again...

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Tue, 23 Jan 2018 #149
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 695 posts in this forum Offline

K Talking to school children at Rajghat ( in the 60's) :

You know, the other day a boy remarked that I had talked here for several years, and he went on to ask what the good of it was. I think that that was a very good question. You see, we listen, but we do not change. This indicates that inwardly, we are 'dead' (inert ?) . We hear a lot of words, acquire knowledge, new techniques, new ways of expression, new methods of teaching but, inwardly, that 'thing' is dead. That is why there is no change, there is no revolution.

Not to 'die' inwardly is hard work; it is as hard as getting up at 4 o’clock and meditating. It requires a great deal of perception and insight. That is why it is so important, while we are young, to be educated properly. And it is the function of the educator not only to educate himself in his relationship with the student, but also to help the student have this extraordinarily creative mind, a mind that is timelessly learning.

STUDENT: The rishis and the sages spend years searching for God.
Do they really find God?

KRISHNAMURTI (K): You know, it is only a very simple mind, a mind that is really innocent, that is always in a state of 'not-knowing', and of not-accumulating, that can find God or Truth or Beauty or Goodness. And it is very difficult to have such a mind.
If we go into it very deeply, we will realize that God cannot be found. 'That' thing must come to us; we cannot go to it. Therefore we cannot seek it. But, because we want to get hold of that Reality, we chase it up and down, and it eludes us, it escapes from us. We think that the Real will solve all our problems and give us happiness, peace. So we find various methods by which we can pursue it more persistently, determinedly. But it is only the mind that does not ask, that does not seek, that is infinitely simple and innocent, that is really very clear, uncluttered by innumerable pieces of knowledge, and that is sensitive to everything—to the cruelties of man to man, of man to animal—that can find God.

S: When you leave this place, don’t you regret leaving us, and parting from us all?

K: It is rather difficult to answer that question. Please do not misunderstand me when I say that I don’t regret parting from all of you. I don’t regret it because, you see, Love is something that abolishes time. Love is not something extraordinarily mysterious and divine. You know, when the heart is full, there is no space for anything else, and that is the beauty of ( Selfless ?) Love. You see, one is probably sorry to leave, but there is no space for sorrow because, after all, what is going to happen? You will lead your own lives, won’t you? You will have to go through the mill of existence.

Either you will get squeezed dry and empty and die or, having had the right kind of education, you will come out of it and blossom. So, whether the other is sorry to leave or not has very little meaning, because it is your life, and you have to live it. It is you who have to face all the struggles, the miseries, and the joys. And to help you come out of it all, innocent, simple, and with a clear mind, is the function of education.

S: Why do we have such implicit faith in God?

K: A little boy asks why one has such implicit faith in God. As you grow to maturity, if you begin to enquire—and enquiry can only be when there is freedom—you will find out for yourself that that very enquiry, that very capacity to enquire, to probe, is its own devotion, its own faith.

S: It requires energy to observe and be free of all influences. How are we to get that energy?

K: Energy comes with urgency. When the house is on fire, you have to do something about it at once, don’t you? The burning house demands that you act, and the very urgency of that demand gives you the energy to act. Similarly, when you realize the urgency of living without being influenced, and the urgency of doing something about the corruption and the rottenness that exist in this world, then you will have the energy to do it. Your life is a series of challenges which are constantly demanding immediate action and, when you face these challenges all the time, you will always have the required energy to meet them.

S: What about the person who has to support a family? Can he have the sense of urgency that you speak of?

K: Everybody has a sense of urgency, to some degree, about something or the other. For example, a hungry man has a sense of urgency about eating; a man who has made himself responsible for the education of several younger brothers and sisters has a sense of urgency about what he has undertaken; an unemployed man urgently feels the necessity of a job. But most of us have become (inwardly) dull. We have no real sense of urgency because we refuse to face the challenge of life. The challenge is there under our noses, it is not just for the few; any man can pick it up.

You see, most of us just play with life. Yesterday, as we were sitting in that room, a dead body was being carried to the river. I personally felt the urgency of seeing for oneself the extraordinary significance of death, which is a thing that is happening every day. This challenge is there in front of us, but we refuse to look at it. We refuse to respond, because we have answers like reincarnation or resurrection—life after death—or are so terribly preoccupied with the immediate necessity, the immediate desire, that we give no thought to anything else. The real challenges, the deep challenges, like a bird falling from a tree, are taking place around us all the time, but we refuse to recognize them. We want some superhuman challenge to wake us up, and that will never come.

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Wed, 24 Jan 2018 #150
Thumb_2018-01-20-120616 Daniel Paul. Ireland 34 posts in this forum Offline

Hello John, just a quick friendly visit to you..

I was struck by this so that I did not even finished reading

if we go into it very deeply, we will
realize that God cannot be found.
'That' thing must come to us; we
cannot go to it. Therefore we cannot
seek it.

the implications of this statement are immense as I see it ..

then it all make factual sense to my own always took place this same way as described here..

so what take place ...??

a recent quote from this site :

Question : What is the shortest way to get rid of our worries and troubles and our hard feelings and reach happiness and freedom ?

Krishnamurti : There is no shortest way ; but hard feelings, worries and troubles themselves liberate you if you are not trying to escape from them through the desire for freedom and happiness. You say that you want freedom and happiness, because hard feelings and troubles are difficult to bear. So you are merely running away from them, you don’t understand why they exist ; you don’t understand why you have worries, why you have troubles, hard feelings, bitterness, suffering, and passing joy. And since you don’t understand, you want to know the shortest way out of the confusion. I say, beware of the man who shows you the shortest way out. There is no way out of suffering and trouble except through that suffering and trouble itself. This is not a hard saying ; you will understand it if you think it over. The moment you stop trying to escape you will understand ; you cannot but understand, for then you are no longer entangled in explanations. When all explanations have ceased, when they no longer have any meaning, then truth is. Now you are seeking explanations ; you are seeking the shortest way, the quickest method ; you are looking to practices, to ceremonials, to the newest theory of science. These are all escapes. But when you really understand the illusion of escape, when you are wholly confronting the thing that creates conflict within you, then that very thing will release you.

Now life creates great disturbance in you, problems of possession, sex, hatred. So you say, "Let me find a higher life, a divine life, a life of non-possession, a life of love." But your very striving for such a life is but an escape from these disturbances. If you become aware of the falseness of escape, which you can understand only when there is conflict, then you will see how your mind is accustomed to escape. And when you have ceased to escape, when your mind is no longer seeking an explanation, which is but a drug, then that very thing from which you have been trying to escape reveals its full significance. This understanding frees the mind and heart from sorrow.

Of course I factually reckon that this is quite tricky of course , all this sounds both great and impossible !

since early childhood as you know it for now of course :-) , this is in fact my main concern....with " entre autre" finding time and means to walk somewhere in the mountains ..

never solved for good must it so solved as soon as it is there as a tiny warning that something is right that it leaves some involuntary space for some unexpected goodness to visit oneself ..

if so k may have spend his life solving problems when they were arising...that leads oneself wherever but not where thought wants..


will be in Brittany first week of April !!

Dan ...........

Sign in to recommend
Back to Top
Displaying posts 121 - 150 of 158 in total
To quote a portion of this post in your reply, first select the text and then click this "Quote" link.

(N.B. Be sure to insert an empty line between the quoted text and your reply.)