Krishnamurti & the Art of Awakening
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Sat, 31 Dec 2016 #241
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline


(...) I hope you are listening rather than just 'hearing' because I want to go into something rather difficult: as I was saying, the 'negative' thinking is the highest form of thinking. We usually think only positively. That is, we think from a conclusion to an (upgraded ?) conclusion, from a pattern to a pattern, from a system to a system. ( But psychologically-wise ?) that way of thinking only leads to further limitation of the mind, to narrowness of the mind, to pettiness of action; it always strengthens the self-centred activity. Negative thinking is something entirely different - if I can understand the (iinward) limitations of positive thinking, which invariably leads to self-centred activity, then there is (an opportunity for ?) a new awakening in negative thinking. This 'negative thinking' is not thinking in terms of ( previously known ?) patterns and has no causation.

We will approach it differently: the negative way of thinking is the maintenance, the sustenance of the (holistic ?) quality that is discontent - discontent in itself, not with something. A radical (inner) transformation is only in the negative thinking, as we saw in relation to attachment and to discontent. The 'positive' thinking leads (inwardly) only to a dull mind, an insensitive mind, a mind that is not capable of reception, a mind that thinks only in terms of its own security - either the security of the individual or of the family, group or race.

Nobody thinks of this whole world as "ours", nobody says, 'let us do something together about it'. Instead, we have this fragmentary way of thinking which we call 'positive'. If I can see that, then there is a different approach, a different feeling of the mind : there is the love of the earth - not your earth and my earth, you cultivating your little field and I cultivating mine, and quarrelling over it, but it is our earth.

Now when we see that (ultimately) this positive way of thinking is destructive, then the 'negative way' comes into being. To think negatively there must be ( a total) sensitivity, sensitivity both to the beautiful and to the ugly. The appreciation of the beauty of a tree, a leaf, the reflection on still waters, is not sensitivity if you are not also aware of the squalor, the dirt, the way you eat, the way you talk, the way you think, the way of your behaviour.
( Inwardly speaking ?) Creation is not 'positive', ever. Creation is the state of mind in which there is no 'positive' (self-centred ?) action as we know it.

You must have watched your mind how vagrant it is, how it wanders all over the place, one thought pursuing another. When you try to examine one thought, another comes in. So the mind is full of this (mental) movement, the agitation of thought. The mind is always occupied with thought. Thought is the instrument of the mind; so the mind is never still. So, realizing the incessant activity of the thought-producing mechanism, through memory, through association, being aware of that, cannot the mind empty itself of this mechanism? If you see the positive, destructive way, of your mind's activity of producing thought and being controlled by it and then trying to empty the mind - if you can see the falseness of it, then you will also see that the mind can empty itself of 'itself', of its limitations, of its ego-centricity, of its self-centred activities. t You can see if you go a little further that the mind can be emptied of thought, can free itself from the past, not be burdened by the past. It does not mean that memories are not there but they do not shape or control the mind. Now all that is still positive thinking. If you see the falseness of it, the mind will invariably go further, which is, the mind then is not the slave of thought but it can think what it wants.

I do not know if you have ever tried to think without being a slave to thought. With most of us the mind is a slave to thought, it pursues thought, contradictory thought and all the rest of it. If you perceive that and empty the mind, it can then think, freed from thoughts associated with memory; and if you go further into it, you will see that the mind which is free in itself - and then that mind, emptied of memory, can think in a 'negative' way and can perceive that there is action in this world, not from fullness but from emptiness.

You see, we are acting now with (knowledge saturated ?) minds, minds that are incessantly active, in contradiction, struggling, adjusting, ambitious, envious, jealous, brutal or gentle and so on. The mind, being full, acts. That way of action can never produce a new mind, a new quality of mind, a fresh mind, an innocent mind - and it is only such an innocent, fresh mind that can create, that is in a state of creation. If the mind can empty itself (of the known ?) , then the action that is born out of emptiness is the true positive action, not the other. That is the only true, positive, creative action, because it is born out of emptiness. If you have done any painting, written a poem, a song, you will find the deep feeling comes out of nothingness. But a mind that is crowded can never feel that nothingness and can therefore never be sensitive.

One sees that there can be a radical change in the quality of the mind, which is absolutely necessary now because the present society is a (creatively ?) dead society, reforming itself through various forms of anaesthesia and pumping activity into itself. If you as an individual are to change fundamentally, radically, deeply - and therefore change society - then this whole thing that I have described must take place. Then beauty has quite a different significance, as has ugliness, because beauty is not the opposite of the ugly. An 'ugly' face can be beautiful. But such beauty is not conceived by the mind that has avoided ugliness.

Now, if you have really listened and do not try to do anything about it - because whatever you do will be so-called positive and therefore destructive - then it is enough. It is to see something lovely and leave it alone, not try to capture it, not take it home and smother it by thought. If you have seen for yourself the extraordinary quality of the mind that is empty, then from that emptiness there is a new birth.

It is this 'new birth' (re-birth ?) which is needed, and the mind that is really creative is the empty mind, not the blank mind or the mind that merely wishes to be creative. It is only the empty mind that can understand this whole thing - the extraordinary process of thought and thought emptying itself of its own impetus (momentum of the past ? ). Then you will see that there is a radical, deep change which is not brought about by circumstances, culture or society. It is that mind which will ( eventually ?) create a new ( truly humane ?) society. And recognizing that no tradition, no knowledge is 'permanent', we can see that the mind which is empty is in a state of creation.

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Sun, 01 Jan 2017 #242
Thumb_beautiful-nature-wallpaper pavani rao India 4 posts in this forum Offline

Dear John

It's indeed with so much gratitude I'm writing this post to convey my deeply felt appreciation for the work you had undertaken in bringing all this marvelous K 's early texts and presenting them in here . Well yes all k material is available on line but to be able to go through any content any time without exerting is indeed a great luxury and convenience :) and especially these early texts are priceless in their clarity and simplicity .

Wishing you a very happy, meaningful and fruitful new year .

This post was last updated by pavani rao Sun, 01 Jan 2017.

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Fri, 20 Jan 2017 #243
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

A meditation on ...Meditation ( from The Only Revolution)

To meditate is to transcend time. Time is the (mental ?) 'distance' that thought travels in its achievements. This 'travelling' is always along the old path covered over with a new coating, new sights, but always the same road, leading nowhere except to pain and sorrow.
It is only when the mind transcends time that truth ceases to be an abstraction. Then bliss is not an idea derived from pleasure but an actuality that is not verbal.

The emptying of the mind of this 'time'(of self-becoming ?) is the silence of truth, and the seeing of this is the doing; so there is no division between the seeing and the doing. In the interval between seeing and doing is born conflict, misery and confusion. That which has no time is the everlasting.

There they were, the yellow daffodils, and nobody seemed to care. They were there for decorative purposes that had no meaning at all; and as you watched them their yellow brilliance filled the noisy room. Colour has this strange effect upon the eye. It wasn't so much that the eye absorbed the colour, as that the colour seemed to fill your being. You were that colour; you didn't become that colour - you were of it, without identification or name: the anonymity which is innocence.
Love is like that. In it there is no time, space or identity. It is the identity (identification ?) that breeds pleasure and pain; it is the identity that brings hate and war and builds a wall around people, around each one, each family and community. Man reaches over the wall to the other man - but he too is enclosed; morality is a word that bridges the two, and so it becomes ugly and vain.

Love is like that wood across the way, always renewing itself because it is always dying. There is no permanency in it, a movement which thought can never understand, touch or feel. The feeling of thought and the feeling of love are two different things; the one leads to bondage and the other to the flowering of goodness. The flowering is not within the area of any society, of any culture or of any religion, whereas the bondage belongs to all societies, religious beliefs and faith in otherness. Love is anonymous, therefore not violent. Pleasure is violent, for desire and will are the moving factors in it. Love cannot be begotten by thought, or by good works. The denial of the total process of (self-centred ?) thought becomes the beauty of action, which is love. Without this there is no bliss of truth.

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Sun, 12 Feb 2017 #244
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

Here are a few interesting pages from Mrs Pupul Jayakar's most remarkable book "Krishnamurti, a biography':

(The year is 1948 ) Although Krishnamurti was resting and in retreat, the news of his presence in Ootacamund had spread rapidly.
Jawaharlal Nehru, now the prime minister of India, was in Ootacamund, and I got a message from his secretary that the prime minister would like to call on Krishnamurti. But the problems of arranging for security were found to be tiresome, and so Krishnaji went to see him instead at Government House. Maurice Friedman and I accompanied him, and were present during the meeting in the prime minister’s private sitting room. There was an open fire, and large bowls of carnations were placed on the tables. Krishnaji and Nehru sat on a sofa facing the fire, while Friedman and I sat on chairs on the side of the sofa. The flames lit the two noble Brahminic heads, their chaste, finely drawn faces—one from the Northern highlands, the other born amongst the most ancient Southern rocks of Andhra. The faces were sculptured, sensitive, with fine translucent skin that accentuated the bones and heightened mobility—the eyes of the seer encompassing vast distances, emanating compassion and silence; the other with the swift, nervous energy of an arrow. Nehru was a romantic, a man of action, with a highly cultivated intellect; concerned, committed, restless, seeking the unknown within the tangle of political adjustments.*

Both men were shy, hesitant. It took some time for them to establish contact. Jawaharlal Nehru started the conversation by saying that he had met Krishnaji many years earlier, and that he had often thought of what he had said. He had been anxious to meet Krishnamurti again. Achyut Patwardhan and other friends had spoken to Nehru at length on the profound work Krishnamurti was doing in Madras and Bombay. Nehru appeared anguished at the massacres and violence that had erupted after partition and independence. He spoke of it at length; he saw the two forces operating in India, the thrust for good and evil. These forces were in conflict; if the good could not contain the spread of evil, the world would perish. Krishnamurti said good and evil were always present; while it was more difficult for the good and the compassionate to function, evil was waiting for a crack in which it could gain a foothold. It needed a great awakeness and awareness to ensure that evil could not enter and gain strength. To be awake and aware, said K, was what would sustain man.
Jawaharlal Nehru asked Krishnamurti whether his teaching had changed over the years since they had last met. Krishnaji said it had, but he could not say exactly where and how. Nehru then spoke of what Krishnamurti had to say on transformation. He felt there were two ways in which transformation could be accomplished. By the individual transforming himself and so transforming his environment, and by the environment working on and transforming the individual. At this Krishnamurti intervened, “Isn’t that the same? The two could not be said to be separate processes.” Nehru agreed. He was groping, trying to express the desperation he felt at the state of the chaos in the world and what had happened in India in recent months. Greatly troubled and not knowing which way to turn, he started to question in depth his own thoughts and actions.

“Tell me, sir,” he asked Krishnaji, “I wish to be clear of this confusion within me. Tell me what is right action and what is right thought.” To us who listened it was the perennial question of the awake Indian mind.

There was silence for over three minutes. We were discovering that the silences that surrounded Krishnaji in dialogue formed part of communication; a silence of the mind in which distances between the minds diminished so that there was direct mind-to-mind contact and communication.

Then Krishnamurti spoke slowly, pausing at every word. “Right action is only possible when the mind is silent and there is a seeing of ‘what is.’ Action that arises from this seeing is free of motive, of the past, free of thought and cause.” He then said that it was difficult to go into this vast problem in a short time. Jawaharlal Nehru was listening deeply, his mind appeared fresh and sensitive, capable of receiving and responding. Krishnaji leaned forward, his hands eloquent. He said that with the growing chaos in India and the world, man could only start the process of regeneration with himself. He had to begin anew. For the world to be saved, a few individuals had to free themselves of the factors that were corrupting and destroying the world. They had deeply to transform themselves, to think creatively and so transform further people. It was from the ashes that the new had to rise.

“Like Phoenix from the ashes,” said Nehru.

“Yes,” replied Krishnaji, “for there to be life there must be death. The ancients understood this and that is why they worshipped life, love, and death.”

Krishnaji then spoke of the chaos of the world being a projection of individual chaos. The human mind caught in the past, in time as thought, was a dead mind. Such a mind could not operate on chaos, could only add to the
confusion. Man had to free himself from time as becoming, the projection into the tomorrow. He had to act in the “now” and so transform himself.

The seer and the hero politician spoke for over an hour and a half. The evening sky had darkened and the evening star had sunk behind the horizon, when we came out of the room. The prime minister saw us to the car and there was affection and grace in the parting. They promised to meet again in the winter, when Krishnaji was to be in Delhi. Later Krishnaji recorded these observations:

He was a very famous politician, realistic, intensely sincere and ardently patriotic. Neither narrow minded nor self-seeking, his ambition was not for himself, but for an idea and for the people. He was not a mere eloquent tub-thumper or vote-catcher; he had suffered for his cause and, strangely, was not bitter; he seemed more of a scholar than a politician. But politics was the breath of his life and party obeyed him, though rather nervously. He was a dreamer, but he had put all that aside for politics.

Toward the end of May certain ( very strange ?) incidents occurred which cast light on the secret mystical life of Krishnamurti.

In August 1922 in Ojai, when Krishnaji was undergoing a violent (process of spiritual ) awakening, he had two trusted friends with him. This was so on most such occasions in his life, and the emphasis on the two people is not accidental. From Krishnaji’s early years, Annie Besant had insisted that two people be with Krishnaji all the time, to protect the body. The protection of the body of the sage when it is undergoing mystical processes of mutation and transference of consciousness, was deeply rooted in Indian mystical tradition. The body at this time is immensely sensitive, vulnerable, and empty of all ego sense.

The incidents at Ooty extended over a period of three weeks, from around May 28 or 29 1948 to June 20. They took place in Krishnaji’s room at Sedgemoor. My sister Nandini and I were present. It was embarrassing for Nandini and me. Maurice Friedman had undoubtedly explained to Shanta Rao and Miss Petit something of what was happening, familiar as he was with the secret mystical traditions of the sages of this land. Anyway, there was nothing we could do.
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 tooth, 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 speak 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. When he came to, the first time, he said, “Close my mouth when I faint.”
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.” He lay down and his hand went out in a gesture of fullness. He said, “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. He was crying. “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? But, how could you know? It is this emptiness that brings power—not the power they know, the power of money, the power of position, the power of husband over wife.” He paused. “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?” He did not expect an answer. He lay silently. Then, “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 compared notes later, we found that we had both had identical experiences.

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.

On my return to Bombay I underwent a very deep and inexplicable experience. My senses, torn from their routine, had exploded. One night as I lay down to sleep I felt the pervading touch of a presence, waiting. I was received and enveloped in a dense embryonic fluid. I was drowning, for I felt my consciousness fading. My body rebelled; it struggled, unable to accept this encompassing embrace, this sense of death. Then the silent presence disappeared. This happened for three nights running. Each time, my body struggled; it resisted this encounter, unable to face this touch of death, which passed as swiftly as it had come, never to return. There was no fear.

I told Krishnaji about it at our next meeting, and he told me to let it be, neither to hold it nor resist it.
Krishnaji had asked us to keep secret what we had witnessed at Ooty. We felt that he did not wish it to confuse the precision, clarity, and directness of the teaching. But by the 1970s Krishnaji himself started talking about it to many of the people close to him. I asked, “Do you think that the physical brain cells, unable to contain or hold the immensity of the energy that was flowing into the brain, had to create the spaces in the brain to sustain it? Did there have to be a physical mutation in the brain cells themselves? Or was it like a laser beam operating on the brain cells to enable them to function fully and so contain the boundless?”

Krishnaji said, “Possibly that was so.” He paused, and then continued. “After Ojai, Leadbeater could not explain the pain, nor could Mrs. Besant. The explanation given by them was that the consciousness of Krishnaji had to be emptied for a fragment of the Maitreya Bodhisattva to use the body.”

When asked whether it was “Maitreya,” he neither said yes nor no. I asked, “Is it that we are witnessing the first mind that is operating fully, totally?”
“Possibly,” K said, “and that is what has to be done with the children here [at the Rishi Valley School].”
Krishnamurti, speaking in 1979 about the happenings in Ooty, said that for him the dividing line between life and death was fragile and tenuous. During the state when the body was a shell, the possibility existed that K could wander away and never come back, or some other elements that wanted to destroy the manifestation could harm the body. Therefore there could be no fear amongst the people near him at the time. Fear attracted evil.

I told him that while he was in those states, only the body was operating; there was an emptiness in the body. The voice was childlike. K said, “Couldn’t you explain the two voices by saying that one was that of the body alone?”

I asked, “Only the body speaking?”
He said, “Why not?”
“Only a shell?” I persisted.
“Yes, why not?” Then K asked me, “Was the voice hysterical?”
I replied, “There was no hysteria.”
“Was it an imaginative state?” he asked.
“How could I know?” I replied.

K asked what would happen the next morning. I said we sometimes went with him for a walk. Krishnaji was alive, fresh. The pain had left no mark, and he appeared to have forgotten what had happened. He laughed a great deal, looked at us quizzically, was affectionate, considerate, overwhelmed us with his presence, and had no answer to our questions. He said he did not know.

That same year, 1979, when K was in Bombay, some of us asked him to explain the phenomenon of the face changing. He said, “Many years ago I awoke and there was the face beside me. There was the face that K’s face was becoming. This face was with me all the time, happily. The face was extraordinary, highly cultured, refined.” He spoke as if his words related to another being. “And one day the face was no longer there.”

“Had it become one with K?” I asked.

K said he did not know. He also spoke of the need of the body to be protected. Nothing ugly should take place around it while K was away, nothing evil. In that state the body was defenseless, all kinds of elements wanted to destroy it. “When there is good, there is also the other.”
He was asked whether evil could take over his body when it was empty. His “no” was absolute.
“Then what could evil do? Destroy the manifestation?”
“Yes,” K said, “that is why there has to be love. When there is love there is protection.”

K also said that it was possible that the pain and what took place was necessary, as the brain was not ready. Traces of immaturity remained, the brain cells were not large enough to receive the energy. “When the energy comes pouring in and the brain is not capable of holding it, then that energy feels it has to polish it up. It may be its own activity.”

Speaking further of the need for two people to be with the body, K said, “Where there is love there is protection. Hatred permits evil to enter.”
When asked where does the consciousness of K go, he replied, “I have asked myself what happens when there is no movement of the brain.” After some time he continued. “It ceases completely. Only when it has to manifest it comes. It ceases to exist when it is not there. Has air any place, has light any place? Air is enclosed and so it is there. Break the enclosure, it is everywhere.”

He seemed hesitant to probe further. He said that he should not probe further. “You can ask,” he said, “and I will reply. But I cannot ask.”

This post was last updated by John Raica Sun, 12 Feb 2017.

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Wed, 15 Feb 2017 #245
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

Here are a few remarkable K quotes collected by Mrs Pupul Jayakar & friends in her remarkable "K Biography". This is how he was adressing his closest associates:

In 1950 to the young (then) Mrs Nandini Mehta :

Stand alone. If you have acted out of the depths of self-knowing because you feel in yourself that what you have done is right, then throw yourself on life. Its water will hold you, carry you, and sustain you. But if you have been influenced, then God help you. The guru has disappeared.”

Same year to Mrs Pupul Jayakar:
He looked at me a long time and then he asked, “Are you trying to protect me?” He then raised his two arms in a significant gesture. “There are far greater beings who protect me.

Same year to his small discussion group:

Let us see whether we can stay in the pause between two thoughts. In silence what is there to experience? Silence can only experience silence. Can silence leave an imprint?”
“There is an experience of silence and the mind remembers the feel, the perfume, the essence; how does the mind remember? ( The self-) consciousness is ( created by ?) the thought of the moment before, or the moment after. Thought is always of the moment before or or of many moments before. Thought is the result of a stimulus. We live in cause and effect, constantly rearranging them. We reject our background, our past of yesterday and of thousands of years, without being even aware that the past we reject is an aspect that lies deep within. And so the background remains undiscovered and is always in conflict, in contradiction.

“Do we see that our consciousness is never in ‘the now’, that it is always a projection, a backward or forward movement? That it is never in the present. The ( experiential) understanding of the ‘now’ can never be through thought, through ( the self-centred ?) consciousness,”

What is the state of the mind when it sees this? The ( self-identified ?) mind cannot understand the Now, which is the New. It is a fact, like a wall is a fact. What happens when you see as a fact that the mind cannot understand the ‘now?’ What is the state of your mind?”

It is silent—thought has ceased ? I offered.

What happens when the mind sees the fact that thought has ceased and yet there is movement, a freedom? I see it and thought has ceased, and yet I hear your voice, a sensory perception continues. Mind as thought is not there and yet sensory perception continues, is present. Only (the self-) identification has ceased.”

The next morning we again discussed consciousness.

First comes the layer of everyday activity—eating, going to the office, drinking, meeting people, the conditioned habits that operate automatically. It is obviously a static (steady ?) state that conforms to a pattern.

When one’s ( comfortable) routines are disturbed, this surface layer ceases for an instant and what is below reveals itself. For convenience we will call this the second layer (of course, since consciousness is nonspatial, it cannot be accurate to use terms indicating layer or level). The thinking that emerges from this layer is still conditioned memory, but it is not as automatic as the surface layer. It is more active, more elastic; it has more nuances. Here thought need not conform so completely to ( the generally accepted) patterns, it has more vitality. The next layer is conditioned by ( personal ?) likes, dislikes, choosing, judging, identifying. Here there is the sense of the ego's (reality) established and in focus.
Next come the unconscious memories of the individual and the collective, the tendencies, the forces, the urges, the racial instincts; this is the whole network
of desire, the matrix of desire.
There is an extraordinary movement here. The ego is still functioning—ego as (self-identified) desire moving in its patterns of cause and effect, the ego as desire that continues, the ego with its unconscious tendencies that reincarnate.
Is there anything further? Is it that the 'known' dimension has ended? Is this the bedrock of of the ego? Is this the structure of consciousness of the mind and its content?

Someone asked, “What sustains it?

Krishnaji was silent. After a few moments, he said, “Its own movement, its own functioning. What lies below? How can one proceed, go beyond the matrix?

“Shut off the mind?” said Rao.

Seeing the fact of consciousness—not the word, not the theory, but the fact of it—is not an ending possible? Again, whatever I do to move toward the 'other' (inward dimension of consciousness) is of effort and so destroys it. I cannot desire it. I can do nothing except be (non-personal or ?) "indifferent" to it. And concern myself with (understanding ?) the ego, with what I am and my problems.( continued next morning )

Can we go into consciousness again? Yesterday we had gone into it from the point on the periphery to the center. It was like going down a funnel. Could we today go from the center to the point on the periphery? Could we move from the inward out? Could we approach consciousness from the center?

But is there really a center?” asked Rao.

The center is only (becoming self-conscious ?) when ( the routinely life of the ?) periphery is agitated. The 'center' is formed as a point on the periphery. These peripheral points are one’s name, one’s property, one’s wife, fame. These points are constantly being strengthened. There is movement all the time at the peripheral points. There is a constant fear of the breaking of these points.

“Can I live without the formation of centers?” asked Rao.

“If I start from the center, to investigate, where is the center from which to start? There is no center, but only the field (of the known) . Except for the periphery (identification) there is no center. The (safety) fences to this field create the center. I only know the center because of the fence, the periphery. The fences are the points of ( self-centred) attention, the limits that create the center. Remove these fences. Where is the center?

“Can one remove the fences?” I queried.

“If you move in the ( mind's ) field, in the non-center, there is no (interference of) memory. See what happens as you move from field towards fence. As you approach the fence,( the personal) memory begins (to awaken) .

“So far we have been thinking from the periphery to the center. The thinking from this (non-center) must be totally different. I have to get used to the movement from within towards the periphery.”

“What happens to the points?” I asked.

“It is like slipping under and through the fences. The fences no longer matter. What we do, however, is to
jump immediately into the periphery, into the habitual. I cannot form a habit of that which has no center.

“To go (introspectively) from the periphery to the center is to stick to the center. When attention becomes (self-) identified it becomes the point. Thinking in habit is the movement of the periphery. The more I stay in the (non-centred mind ?) field, I see there is no ( egotistic) center.”

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 15 Feb 2017.

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Tue, 21 Feb 2017 #246
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

( From Pupul Jayakar's K- abiography

In Varanasi ( CCA 1956) we asked Krishnaji what he would do to create a school that would reflect his teachings. He replied, “First of all there has to be an atmosphere of immensity. The feeling that I am entering a temple. There must be beauty, space, quietness, dignity. There must be a sense of altogetherness in the student and teacher; a state of floration, a sense of flowering, a feeling of extraordinary sacredness. There must be truthfulness, fearlessness. The child must put his hands to the earth, there must be in him a quality of otherness.”

“How do you create this concretely?”

“I would go into the way of teaching, the quality of attention,” Krishnaji responded. “I would enquire how to teach the child to learn without memory being predominant. I would talk about attention and not concentration. I would go into the way the child sleeps, his food, the games he plays, the furniture in his room; I would see that the child is attentive to the trees, the birds, the spaces which are around him. I would see that he grows in an atmosphere of attention.”

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Wed, 22 Feb 2017 #247
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

Can There Be Action without Consequence?

The winter of 1955 saw Krishnaji in Varanasi. He had come there with Rosalind from Sydney. His astonishing, awesome beauty was absent. The face appeared aged, the hair had started to turn grey.
He questioned himself aloud. “What is action without consequence?” For three days he probed into the question, refusing to allow any immediate response, letting the question unfold, letting it release the energy held within it. There was no leaving the question, and during the discussion meetings our minds probed with him. He refused to let us answer from the Gita or the sacred books. For him the question had to evoke its own answer. And yet every answer from the past was a consequence, from the present a consequence, and the projected future was also a consequence.

Krishnaji asked, “Can there be action without consequence? Can the past, future, be brought together in the present and extinguished? The past mistake was a consequence, my action on it is a consequence, my refusal to act on it is also a consequence, and yet there has to be action without consequence.” He went on searching. He would take up the question, letting every intimation surrounding the question arise, perceiving the response without condemnation or justification and so negating it. All enquiry was tentative, there was a total absence of any assertive statement.
Then suddenly, on the third day, as if there had been revelation, he said, “Can one live without self-concept? Can one live without the reflected self-image? Only in that is there action without consequence.”

“What does that imply?” we asked.

“To live without self-concept,is to be aware of the constant projection of the self and seeing it, to negate it.”

Another morning he said, “We die through disease, old age, suicide. The dying is the sinking into the unknown, a sudden cutting away, an oblivion.” Then he asked with great gravity, “Living, can one enter the house of death?”

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Tue, 04 Apr 2017 #248
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

Here are some more detailed excerpts from LEENA SARABHAI's booklet


In 1933, J. Krishnamurti first came to Ahmedabad and stayed at ‘The Retreat’, Shahibaug, in our home, with my parents Shri Ambalal Sarabhai and Smt. Sarladevi Sarabhai and our family of five sisters and three brothers. Extracts from my diary of 1933- 1934 have been reproduced in this book. A major part of the book consists of dialogues with J. Krishnamurti - Krishnaji as he was called by those who knew him. These were originally recorded by me in both Gujarati and English and included in the book of my pen-sketches of some eminent persons, including the poet Rabindranath Tagore, the artists Abenindranath Tagore , and Nandalal Bose, and the teacher Karunashankar Bhatt, which originally appeared in 1955, in the the Gujarati publication Vyakti Chitro.

Krishnaji came on 23.1.33. Yesterday, that is on the 26th,That afternoon, at lunch time, he started telling me his story with great earnestness and fullness of heart, without considering me young and insignificant. As always, there was a smile on his face. While we were talking, the rest of the company could only see his gestures. These created so much interest that everyone expressed a great eagerness to hear him. He then spoke to us all. I do not remember all his words, but those that I remember I have recorded. While he was speaking, we were moved to tears.

I asked Krishnaji, “ How were you brought up and educated?” Krishnaji said : “ I hardly remember anything of the incidents of my childhood or youth. Whatever I relate to you, is what I have heard from others, the way a child does. My memory is very bad. If you were to ask me what my brother looked like, I would not be able to tell you, because I do not remember. “ My father had thirteen children; just imagine ! My father was poor. What was he?” At this, he tried to think and his two companions had to remind him. “ Oh! he was a clerk. You know, some rot! Out of all us children, only two are alive. A third one is alive too but he is not right in the head.”

(Later I heard that this second brother, who is older than Krishnaji, is a doctor in Madras).

“ My mother died when I was five years old. She was extremely orthodox. I was her eighth child. Our father used to beat us. He was getting only fifty rupees as salary. We lived in utter poverty, in starvation and dirt, and were miserable in every respect. My father was a Theosophist, and sometimes we used to go to Adyar. “ There, Dr. Annie Besant saw us - me and my brother, Nitya, who was a year younger than me. At that time I was ten or eleven years old. She formed some hopes for us. She promised us nice clothes and enough good food if we would stay with her. We were children, and what else could we desire? We welcomed her suggestion and Dr. Annie Besant took us in her charge. She sent us both away abroad. At this time Dr. Besant used to teach us herself and she had also engaged a few learned tutors for us. Most of the time, she used to read to us from Dickens, Alice in Wonderland, The Jungle Book, etc. For a long time, we never read ourselves but preferred always to listen to someone else reading.

At that time and even now, I hate ( Walter) Scott. In those days, our hair was long and came down to our shoulders. An English newspaper remarked, ‘Dr. Besant has come with her two black monkeys’. “ In the meanwhile, some antagonists of Dr. Besant instigated my father against her and financed legal proceeding against us. A search was made for us; so we wandered through the whole of Europe in hiding with Jinarajadasa and Dr. Arundale. During that time, we were not able to come out openly. We read a great deal, saw a great deal. We saw paintings in museums. We enquired about who’s who. We went to Sicily. There, a golf instructor told me, ‘If you will learn golf for three months, I will get you +2.' 1 did as he told me and attained it. In England, we were living with aristocrats and came into close touch with them. We were very intimate with the family of Lady Willingdon’s sister, Lady De La Warr. Five years passed. “ My father took the case to the Privy Council, but Dr. Besant won the case and we were placed in her charge. So, for the first time we were sent to a school. Although we had been leading a rich and unsettled life, we did not find it difficult to settle down in that school in Kent; but it took us about a week to get accustomed to other boys eating meat at the same table. I used to hate algebra and geometry, but I liked Latin and French. But more than anything else, I liked to sit for hours in a comer by myself. I used to look at the sky and think. You know, I was very dreamy. My brother was clever. If he went through a book once, he could secure first class marks in it. In Latin, he secured 100% marks, which is unheard of.

We studied for four years in that school, after which it occurred to Dr.Besant all of a sudden that we should get admitted to Balliol College at Oxford. The authorities said, 'For God’s sake and for the sake of these boys, don’t send them here. We do not want Gods here. They will be ragged to death. ’ Through Lord Curzon, Dr. Annie Besant tried to influence Lord......; he tried to bring pressure to bear on the authorities concerned; but nothing could be done. “

At this period I had been proclaimed as the World Teacher. In consequence, we had to suffer very much. Those who did not accept me as their Teacher made fun of us. Those that believed in me made such a fuss that we felt shy to meet them. ‘ ‘In the beginning, I used to play with the boys in our school, but then I used to creep out of their company. I did not like their ways; spitting on one another, throwing mud. English children play such dirty tricks! They used to call us black devils, brownies and blackies, but we too bullied them. In this way we managed to get on well with each other. “ In the school, we got to learn something; but we learned more on our vacations. We used to go to Lady De La Warr’s with her. We went to her big house in London. There, amongst butlers, many servants, fine linen and silver plates, we lived lavishly. We met people in political circles and had occasion to know Labour leaders McDonald, Lansbury and others, and hear their discussions. I belonged to the Labour party. They would ask us our opinions, but we could not express them; yet when I and my brother were alone, we criticized them all thoroughly and tore them to pieces.

We started to attend Labour meetings and to canvass for their Party. We met members of the guards and the most fashionable folks. Most of them were aristocrats - people of fine breeding - good company, but no brains. “ In this way our school days eventually came to an end. We had to appear for our examination. I could repeat very well all the words that I had learnt with my master; but when I went for the examination I became vague, I was thoroughly nervous, and my paper was left blank. But my brother would go to the Lincoln’s Inn, read a book half an hour before the examination, and secure first class honours in law. In this way, I tried to pass three examinations respectively - London Matric, Senior Cambridge and Responsions, but I failed in all these. I gave up my studies. My brother was very keen to go to college; but he gave up the idea because of me and we went to Lady De La Warr’s. “ Now, we started to criticize and censure everyone openly.

We did not even spare Dr. Besant. We quarrelled with Dr. Arundale, also a lawyer. One Mr. W-----was made our guardian. He led a very loose life; but when he became our guardian, he gave up everything. He was very fond of us. He supplied us with money whenever we were in trouble. “ The war broke out and in its excitement we joined the Red Cross. We lived at Lady De La Warr’s and as we were short of servants and men, we boys and girls milked the cows and made hay. There, we came in contact with Lord Curzon’s daughter, Lady Cynthia Morley, and some persons related to Lord Lytton and Lady Emily. “ Most of our acquaintances got irritated by our views. One day Lady De La Warr said to us, ‘If you want to say such things and hold such opinions you can’t stay here. So we left the house.

Many efforts were made to bring us back but we chose to live on our own in Piccadally in great style. “ We were exceedingly fond of fine clothes. We rejected a suit after we had worn it twice during one week. Our tailors told us that we were the best dressed men in London. We were so fastidious about our shoes that to give them a particular shine we used to polish them with our own hands. We had an allowance of only £ 700 lent to us; we ran short of it. We could have got more if we had asked for it but we did not like to do so. The best way and the easiest was to reduce our diet. All our money was spent on attending opening nights at the theatres and at fashionable resorts. As we had no money for our food, we managed to get invitations for lunch or dinner with our friends. “ Due to undernourishment my brother developed T.B. and began to spit blood. We were young and inexperienced and did not understand many words, yet I used to repeat the sense of what I had heard in another way. “ My brother’s health worsened and it caused us all anxiety.

A friend said, ‘Why don’t you come over to California?’ So we left India with Rama Rau. We were not sure if we would reach California safely. At each port I had to dress up my brother and stand in a line for the medical examination. When the doctor came to us I stepped forward and attracted all the attention so that my brother’s illness should not be noticed. I had to nurse my brother, wash him and do all that was necessary for a sick man. I just did it. I never thought that it was either a burden or a pleasure thrust on me.

“ All this time I was very pulled down and my brother was like a stick. We used to look each other and only weep. We were so miserable that we could not speak. At last we reached California. There we lived in a small log hut, in Ojai, about 70 miles from Hollywood. We rarely saw anyone. There we ruminated upon all our past experiences, thought and became more mature. It was like butter which comes up and floats when whey is churned. You might wonder why we did not form any vices in this life of enjoyment. I can’t say why we had an aversion to wine, smoking and anything that was morally wrong. Some people used to rag us. They tried to pour wine in our mouths by force, but we hated it. My brother was a perfect intellectual. He gave me the intellectual side and to him I gave the emotional and thus we were together one perfect being. He did fall in love but he gave it up for my sake and once I too fell in love and I gave it up for him. The other reason was that I did not want to be tied down to anything for all my life. Nitya considered me as his Teacher. He did not look upon me as his brother; he adored me and worshipped me. Please do not misunderstand me, as you want to know all the facts I am relating them to you. “ I was at that time made an offer to join the movies as an actor on $ 2000 a week. But I had no craving for money. What would I do with all that money? So I refused the offer. It has become a regular practice with the producers now to offer that job to me whenever I go to America. “ As I was announced as the World Teacher, many people came to see me. I felt nervous to meet them. So I asked my brother to see them and he sent them away. We used to hold camps. My brother wrote for me and I repeated his words in my talks. “ From this time I was set to thinking as to what I should do.

I had not yet found the medium for my expression. I had started to write poems and articles. But these were not satisfying. Whatever I did, I wanted to do it first class. I tried painting, sculpture, music, dancing and many such things. I had started ballroom dancing but I did not like to go round and round with my arms around a lady’s waist. I even tried politics. Whatever we did we used to think, ‘By doing this what have we done? What have we achieved?’ We were discontented. It was this discontentment that lead us forward. I started to make experiments on spiritual growth. I had heard about ‘kundalini' so I tried to develop that condition and read about it in a book called The Serpent Power. I slept on the ground. I began to fast. The first day I felt hungry, the second it was unbearable but on the third day hunger died out and I felt at peace. But it made me very weak. I used to faint. 1 could prolong my fast for three weeks. Now I feel that there was no point in that. I have not developed by it. Nitya and I did all our own work, cooking, sweeping etc., as it is very expensive to have servants in America. A servant costs $100. “ While I was doing these experiments, my brother’s illness was worsening. One day, he vomited a glass full of blood. I felt very nervous and I sent for the doctor. When he came I was shivering all over and I said,‘My brother has a haemorrhage.’ He said, ‘Oh! I thought Indians never minded death.’ Then I was set thinking for the first time in my life; I said ‘ My God’ and I did some deep thinking. Many a time I felt like committing suicide.

Many people tried to console me with ideas of reincarnation; but I found no consolation. “ When I came to India, I found everything was wrong. I spoke to Mrs. Besant and clearly put before her my point of view. In the beginning she objected; but then she said, T consider you my Guru. I shall do as you wish.’ The Order of the Star was dissolved. “As a result of my experiments over the last six or seven years to awaken the kundalini, it was released from the chakra at the base of the spinal cord. I felt unbearable pain. One day in Vienna I fainted 17 times.” (Rama Rau told us afterwards that to awaken the kundalini, Krishnaji went alone in a room fitted with cushions. People outside heard him weep. In Ooty, he once had a vision of Lord Maitreya.) “Then I went to America. On my arrival, reporters surrounded me. They had interviewed many renowned people and they had a way of asking quick and abrupt questions and of making nervous the person whom they cross-examined. One reporter asked me, ‘Are you married?’ I said, ‘No’. He said, ‘What do you do then?’ Another said, ‘If you are Christ, why don’t you walk on the sea?’ In America, many women and heiresses said to me, ‘Won’t you marry me?’ Oh! I felt such a fool!

“ I was invited to Romania. On my arrival, our host gave me a huge packet of letters signed in blood. In these letters, I was threatened. I was told that if I entered their country or talked I would be shot. I was kept under police protection, and when I lectured, the police had to search the people who came to hear me. These people were excited with me because they were told that my mother was a Hindu and my father a Jew.”

(Leena's note;) This is what we heard afterwards: Krishnaji’s food was poisoned one night in the hotel. He felt very uneasy and he fell sick. For three or four weeks he was put in a sanatorium. From then on, his digestion was ruined and he had to be very particular about his food.)

“ When I was in Chicago, I was warned not to go out alone as they were afraid that I would be kidnapped by gangsters. Now I go wherever people call me. One friend gives me £ 200 every year and this is more than enough for my personal expenses. I only spend a small amount from it, and the remainder I give to charity. I have so many clothes which belonged to Nitya and me, that I have them altered and I wear them. For a long time to come I shall need no new clothes.” (Krishnaji had a large collection of clothes which belonged to him and Nitya - fine ties, handkerchiefs and shirts. He gave these away to porters in the hotels and on railway stations and his suits to his friends and poor people. Now he has only a limited wardrobe). “ If I am invited for talks, the people of that place give me my travelling and other expenses. If I am not invited, I am not worried because I am happy alone. I have been often invited to China and Japan but they do not send me any money and so I am unable to go. I am invited over and over again to Europe, America, Australia and India.

“ Recently I wanted to go to America. So I went to the American Consul for my visa. He said to me,‘You are a dangerous person, I can’t allow you to go there.’ I said ,‘I will get it from the Ambassador of America in England.’ ‘I will see to all that. If I say no, you shall not go.’ ‘If you do not, I don’t care. If a person does not want me in his house, I can’t force myself in. I shall go somewhere else.’ Then he said,‘I shall let you go.’ He gave me the visa.” Then we asked Krishnaji, “ Do you like Europe, America or India? Suppose you were told that you would be interned in one of these, which would be your choice?” He said: “ I would choose to be in India. I have nothing which belongs to me. I am poor. How would I then be able to live in America or in any other country? Do you know what poverty means in these countries? Cold, misery, disease and all that which follows it. There, money is everything. People care for riches and if you haven’t got it you are shut out and driven from everything. This is why I would like to stay in India. I don’t think I am a patriot but that India adores poverty. For a homeless, poor man like me, it would be easy to live here. In this country, a man who puts on a loin cloth, travels in third class, eats but little, and has no home, is worshipped. My elder sister Bharati said, ‘You look very young.’ “You know I am just thirty five but I look younger because I have not wasted myself on sex as most young people do.” Referring to his daily routine, he said, “ I get up early in the morning. Usually I sleep nine hours at night and one hour in the afternoon. I run for an hour. For 20 minutes I do shirshasan and Muller’s physical exercises, The rest of my time, I spend in thinking - really what I do I cannot tell. Sometimes I write down my thoughts. I do not like to read, but if I do, I like to read the works of Bernard Shaw, Galsworthy and other such authors. I am always in a state of joy. I do not have other emotions like that of anger and jealousy.” “ Neither do I recollect faces nor do I remember the names of people in general. I have no preferences in my affection. To me, my followers, or people who understand me, or the man on the street, are all the same. This feeling has not been with me from the beginning, but it has grown gradually. I have not tried to cultivate it.”

Krishnaji addressed every one as ‘Sir’. One day B addressed him as ‘Sir’. With a gesture as ifhe was dizzy, he said, ‘Oh! I shall faint’. B said, “ But you call everyone ‘Sir’!” To this he replied, “ Yes, Ido, but that is because I always forget names. The easiest way is to call people in that way. Then I haven’t to remember all those complicated things.” If Krishnaji’s attendant was referred to as a servant, he did not like it. Like a child he would plead, “ He is not my servant, he is my friend. Velu is my companion.” As far as possible he did his work with his own hands. He carried his own baggage. When a servant entered his room carrying something, he would press his hands as if to relieve him of his fatigue. Ifhe saw a piece of paper or any rubbish thrown carelessly around, he picked it up and put it away in its proper place. Krishnaji bowed to every man, irrespective of his status, before the other bowed. The day before he left Ahmedabad, a reception was given in his honour by some citizens. Some girls sang and danced before him. The programme was long, uninteresting and tedious. Sometimes, it was even ridiculous, and we could not help laughing. We were sitting behind. Krishnaji and my younger sister Geeta were sitting in the front on a gadi, a mattress. Krishnaji asked Geeta, “ Do you like it?’’ She replied: “ Not very much. It is boring” . After a little while she said, “ Do you?” ‘ ‘Yes, I enjoy it, because the performers seem to,” he replied.

We asked Krishnaji if he was the son of God. He said to us, “ What good is it to you to know that? What will you do with this knowledge? If you want to know, I shall tell you alone.” When we asked him about his supernatural powers, he seemed to hesitate. We gave up making such queries, thinking them too personal. Some people say that some years ago, while he was lecturing he fainted for some minutes and spoke something in verse (this has been recorded). The audience saw him transformed into the figure of Christ or Krishna. It is for certain that he can heal. A man with a spine broken in the last war was healed by his very touch. A blind woman in America who was operated upon several times was healed by him and she could see. My mother had fever; her temperature came down due to his healing her. I asked him, “ How do you heal? Did you learn it from someone?” He told me: “ I had this power since I was a child. I don’t know how I do it. I did not learn it from any one.” “ Could you heal yourself?” “ I don’t think so.” We asked Krishnaji why Dr. Besant had chosen him. He said, “ They say that some Masters who live in the Himalayas told Dr. Besant that I was an avatara (an incarnation). Lord Choudhan and some other Gurus direct this world through Lord Maitreya and other Masters.”

Once, while we were driving in our car, he said, “ Of course everyone has to tell conventional lies. My brother and I were very clever at it. Once we were invited, as chief guests to a party in London along with Dr. Besant. You know, she is very particular about keeping appointments in time, but we were thirty minutes late! She was there before us. ‘Why have you come late?’ she asked. We tried to look very disturbed. ‘We had a terrific accident with a motor bus’, we said. She caught hold of our hands and said, very sadly and kindly,‘My dears! are you hurt?’ You know, how sorry we felt to have told that lie?” On the way, Krishnaji recited Sanskrit shlokas (verses). He has a resonant voice and sings with great emotion. Krishnaji knew many indoor and outdoor games. One night, after dinner, he was very keen to play some games with us. We preferred to talk to him and did not wish to play. He suggested about a dozen games to us but we did not know a single one. He said jokingly, “ I see you are lacking in your education. Y ou must know games. You have missed much in your childhood.” Then he recalled what fun he had as a boy when he played hockey and other games.

Krishnaji used to relate funny anecdotes. An English boy asked Sir Edwin Lutyens, ‘Why did God make the black and white man?’ Sir Edwin said, ‘To play chess with.’ A four year old boy was told by his mother, ‘Tomorrow you shall have castor oil.’ The boy created an awful fuss and cried, but the mother was adamant. The next day the boy was not to be found. After a great search, he was found in a street nine miles away!

He found our countryside very arid and he wondered why Gandhiji chose such a place for his ashram. He liked the monkeys very much. He said in fun, ‘‘They look like my brothers." We said, “ Surely you do not mean that.” “ Of course, I mean it. I say they look like my brothers.” Krishnaji was fond of animals. He liked movies with animal casts. Here in our home he used to play with my birds for hours together. He was often seen gazing at the swans in our pond. “ I used to chase them in Holland. Great fun! ' he used to say. In the morning he ran along the path near our garden wall. When he saw a bird or came to the aviary, he paused. Wherever he was seen, running or strolling, there was a constant smile on his face. Krishnaji was also fond of dogs. Our little Pekingese dog, Remus, went up to him. Krishnaji stretched out his hand towards him. We said, ‘‘Be careful, he bites.” But Remus was friendly with him and Krishnaji fondled him a little. ‘ ‘ It must have been teased by someone, ” he said. When we were boys, we had Poms in London. We pampered and teased them so much that they developed an awful temper.” One day we went to the river. He stood in the sand and threw pebbles to encourage our Alsatian, Belle, to run after them and bring them back to him. Belle was slow in running and did not care to bring them back. Krishnaji shouted in great excitement, “ You lazy thing! Go on! Bring it!”

Though he had a very poor memory for most things, he knew the make of every car and remembered the names of their owners and the occasions when he had motored at great speed. On the 29th, that is on the day of his departure, we went to the riverside for a drive and our car got stuck in the sand. He pushed it with boyish excitement. He sat at the wheel and tried to accelerate it. He dug the sand in which the wheels were sunk. Krishnaji cannot bear heat or dust, but he forgot all about these in the attempt to rescue the car. The place was full of thorns. We were bruised and he must have been hurt also. We suggested that we should return by some other car, but he was so excited that he would not rest till the car moved. He told us that when he was young he liked K assemble motor cars. On the same evening, before going to the railway station my father gave him a cheque of Rs. 2000. My father said, “ Please do not consider this as arrogance of the rich. I offer this to you as friendship in the same way as you have given us your books. I hope you will accept this.’’ Krishnaji said, “ What shall I do with it, Sir?” My father insisted. Krishnaji asked, “ Sir, would you like it in charity?” My father replied, “ We would be very much happy if you would utilize it for your own self.” Before he left our house he went to every servant and bowed to him with regard. Some of them were standing behind the doors. He searched for them and brought them out from every nook and comer. One servant said to my father afterwards, “ Many people have come and gone but only today did we feel that someone has gone away from our home.”

This was our first meeting. The second time after a few months we met on 26th October 1933, on the HM.S. Victoria at Genoa. We had very eagerly awaited his arrival on the boat that afternoon at half past three. When we saw him, we went up to him. He greeted us with affection and said, “ Where are your parents?” I said, “ My mother is unwell and they could not come” . “ La-la. great Scott! It will be fun. I will take care of you. Will you dine with us?” At four, our steamer sailed and we had tea on the deck.

As we were vegetarians, Krishnaji was busy ordering our menu and fixing up the table. He did not allow us to do anything. The sea was rough. My two younger brothers and sisters felt sick and they went straightaway to bed. I took my bath and sat down to meditate. My sister Geeta, who was in the adjoining cabin, was in bed. Krishnaji came in. I did not recognize his voice. He said, “ My child, you are not feeling well. You are lonely. My brother also got seasick. I used to look after him. Let me take care of you. ’ ’ He sat down and he saw me through the slit of the curtain and he said to Geeta, “ Is she meditating?” Then he said, “ You will feel better with a hot water bottle; where is it?” Geeta said, “ It is in one of my three suitcases. You won’t find it.” But Krishnaji said, “ Don’t worry, I shall look in all the three bags and tidy them afterwards.” He went to the bath and filled the bottle with hot water. I heard the sound of the running tap and I got up, but he would not let me do anything.

Then we went to my brother’s cabin and talked for an hour. He wanted to know what we had done in Europe and what plays we had seen. He was a little surprised to hear that we had had late evenings and had seen a play every night and that we had even been to Folies Bergere and Moulin Rouge, but he did not show his disapproval. He ordered our dinner and closed the port holes, and said, “ Call me if you need me at night.” We arrived in Naples the next morning and went around the place together.

The next day, after we left Naples, I said to him, ‘ ‘I want to tell you what happened to me after you left Ahmedabad. When you came to our place I heard you intently and meditated on your words thoughtfully. There was a great chaos, a struggle, a conflict, and there was a real revolution in me after a long period of stagnation.” “ What is your age?” He asked with surprise. “ I am eighteen, Krishnaji, can there be a definite age to think about certain things? I cannot help thinking about these things just now. Some people tell me I am too young and that these questions about life should be thought out at the age of fifty.” “ No, no, that is wrong. Then the mind gets old and does not function intelligently. At that age, matters get so entangled that it is impossible to be free. I asked you your age because if you think very seriously it may harm your growth. You know, you are yet but growing.” I was a little nervous when I started to relate my experiences. He said, “ You are nervous.”

After a little while, I started again, little by little: “ I saw that I was unhappy. There was a great disharmony in my life. Knowing not the true values of life, I was petty. I lived in a state of constant fear of public opinion, etc. In the name of affection, I brought misery to myself and others. I was not self-sufficient nor self-reliant. I was wasting my energies on unimportant things and thus I had no leisure. As I thought, I went deep into the cause of all these and they vanished like a cloud, and sunshine came to me. My manners, my speech, my life, everything in me was changed. People saw this remarkable change and thought that I had disciplined myself, but all this had come so spontaneously and so naturally that I myself do not know how the change has come about. “ And as I sat thinking, I felt something stirring in me. Something that made me weep and smile and thrill with joy. When I was a child, I used to worship dead images and offer flowers and lamps to them. As I grew up, I questioned worship and even the very existence of God. No one could give me the right answer to my questions. I could not worship as before without understanding what I was doing. I could not believe in a God high above us in heaven, who mercilessly punished and rewarded. So I came to a stand-still. This was the most miserable time for me. I was lost.

At this time, you came. I think I have a glimpse of that something which is eternal behind the transient; infinite behind the finite, the true self and the essence of everything. I have been exceedingly happy and sometimes I am almost in a state of ecstasy. The glimpse of that is only possible when my mind and heart are in complete harmony. The harmony only exists when thefe is perfection. By the perfection of the mind, I mean a mind that is balanced in all circumstances at all times. By the perfection of the body I mean a body that is healthy and beautiful. “ My constant desire has been to find that something which I have felt but not seen. It is like a hidden flower whose scent I have known, but know not what it is like. I have a great longing for it. That thirst can only be quenched when I am perfect. I have tried to lead my foot steps on that path to perfection which leads to the realization of my true self.’’ It was lunch time, and a fellow-passenger interrupted. We were too often interrupted, so the next day we went to the cabin and I asked, “

When you were in Ahmedabad you said, “ I have realized.’’ What is it that you have realized? What was the process and what were the stages of your realization?’’ He replied, “ I have realized. If you were to ask what it is that I have realized, I cannot describe it as I would describe any solid object. Can I give you any idea of the beauty of the sunset or the sweetness of sugar if you have not experienced what beauty is, what sweetness is?” “ Is it then something which is your own self or something which exists apart from you?” I asked. “ It is and it is not. I am sorry to answer you like this. But I cannot say anything else,” Krishnaji said. In reply to the second half of my question, he said, “ I have not followed any process. Since I was a very young boy, I was tremendously dissatisfied with everything. I used to criticize everything. I criticized Dr. Besant and all my friends. You know what this criticism means? It is devoid of all personal prejudices. It is not merely an intellectual game but it is for true understanding. It is where intellect and emotion are linked. When I criticized others, I criticized myself; and acted accordingly. “ I experienced everything actually or experienced it intellectually. I tried everything and saw the futility of it. In this way, I went on - 1 went on giving up things that did not satisfy me. At last, I came to that realization of Immortality- God-Nirvana, whatever you may call it.”

“ Didn’t Dr. Besant and others try to teach you spiritual practices and force certain ideas on you?”

“ Thank God! They did not. If they did I took no notice of them.”

“ But you did say that you tried certain practices for the kundalini, that you fasted, and read books on these things. You did go through a stem life of an ascetic.”

“ Yes, someone said, ‘Try this’ I tried it for sometime and left it. Just as some women came along in my path, they fell in love with me, but I stepped aside. They got angry with me and they left me. I do not think those spiritual practices helped me in any way. If they did, I do not know. My process was of negation. This can be the only way.” I said, “ It is true that you knew the futility of those things and you abandoned them. But what about those of us who have no such knowledge? Is it then wrong to practise these things?” “ No one can stop you from doing what you wish. But I sa\ that to grow out of childhood into youth, it is not necessary to have measles, chickenpox or smallpox, to gain knowledge. It is n necessary to go through the process of Yoga, dogma or any sue practices. I had no goal. I had no definite ideas of the Ultimate by following a certain prescribed path, dogma, theory or religioi belief, you narrow your vision of truth. How then can you realise the Whole?” It was time for dinner and so our conversation ceased.

Krishnaji’s last sentence was like a heavy blow. What had I done? I was in darkness before and a lamp had been lit; I saw my path in its light. Then I had started to build walls around me and the light was obscured. I was lost, and fool that I was, I did not know it. I had come out of one bondage, to be tied in another. I had seen the light but blindness had come upon me. I had thought for a short while, and then started to read and branded my power of thinking. I had read Vivekananda, the great thinker and interpreter of the Vedanta in the last century, and jumped at the idea of Non-Duality. I did not even have the glimpse of truth, and I had made myself believe that Non-Duality was the truth, because all such beliefs give one a sense of comfort and cosiness. I had been building great edifices on these false premises and a mild breath brought my whole structure to the ground. I was again lost. I was miserable and uneasy. I felt that I could do nothing with my limited outlook. There was no need to go into the controversy of Duality and Non-Duality. If realization had to come, it would come on its own. I had to know life - I had to know the present.

Next morning, Krishnaji said to me, “ What was the effect of my talk?” “ l am extremely miserable. I am again lost. I feel very small. ’ ’ Then I told him all that had passed since yesterday. “ I have to begin again. I am very dissatified with myself and everything about me.”

From that day onwards, I could not do the mala (the beads), nor could I name the omkar, nor meditate on any particular idea. I saw that when I turned a few beads of my mala my mind could no longer attach itself to it. Only the hand was functioning mechanically. I was reciting the Gayatri Mantra but the mind was wandering far away, as if I wanted to have it all over, as if everything in me was eager to finish with it. By forcing one’s mind and emotions to such forms, they are destroyed. It is true that there are moments when in joy one feels like reciting the Gayatri, but one should not do anything with obstinacy. Every morning I see the sun rise and and I feel such joy that I want to say the Gayatri. In that, there is life. There is no motive in it. I will do nothing out of convention or rigidity. I shall not do it with desire. I shall not force myself to meditate on Soham, or Satchidananda.

This is what is natural to me: (1) To sit relaxed and feast my eyes on the beauty of my surroundings. (2) To watch the movements of my mind and allow them to work themselves out. (3) There are moments when I feel submerged in something inexplicable. These moments should be allowed to come but not be pursued. This is how one could observe the moments in one’s self, but not kill or control. This is how one regains one's well-being. By the vow of silence, I find peace of mind. In that case. I shall keep to it. It is good to live on fruits for one day in a fortnight. I shall continue to do so. My experience has been that reading too many books on religion and on schools of philosphy obscures one’s capacity to think. It makes one’s mind narrow and dogmatic. One starts to judge things with preconceived ideas and with false values. Having realized this, I have no mind to read such books for some time.

The next day I said to Krishnaji, “ You said there is only one way, then what about other people who have realized or at least claim to have done so? Are they hypocrites?” “ If you give me some concrete examples I shall tell you what I think about them.”

“ I mean the thousands of sanyasins who practise a certain Yoga and become enlightened.”

‘ I call them lunatics. A lunatic means a person who is always thinking about the same idea. These sanyasins catch hold of one idea, go on thinking of it all the time, and mesmerize and kill their minds completely. They imagine a thing for such a long time that it becomes a reality to their destroyed minds - this they call self-realization.”

“ Do you know then, anyone whom you would call enlightened?”

“ There must be, I do not know.”

On another occasion, he said with great anguish, “ Everyone is seeking personal immortality and self-preservation. That is what is wrong with this world.” I said to him, “ I know no one who seeks anything else but these two objectives.” I asked, “ If someone were to hit you, would you not hit him in return?” “ I do not think so,” he replied.

One day I said, “ You travel so much and feel worn out. You must rest.”

“ I like my work very much. Two more years and then I would like to live in seclusion for some years - maybe in the Himalayas. Before that, if I die, I die; it can’t be helped.” Krishnaji, as before, had pain in the head. For this reason, he stayed all by himself in Holland for a month. I said to him, “ Since you have such pain, why don’t you consult some doctors?” He said, “ It is not pain. It is an inexplicable joy. ’ ’ Often, he exclaimed, “ What a world! Oh, what a world! ' ’ So one day I said to him, ‘ ‘Krishnaji, don’t you feel sorry to see the inequality in this world between man and man? Quite often I feel that we have millions to waste upon ourselves, whilst there are many who have not even the barest necessities of life. Sometimes, one feels like giving up all one’s possessions.” “ Yes,” he said, “ one feels pain to see this inequality. One man’s attempt to give up his possessions will not improve the world. On the contrary there will be one more pauper on this earth.”

“ Does it then mean that the individual must make no eltort as long as the world has not changed? How can the world change, if the individual does not change?” I asked.

“ If you pity a poor man and give up your wealth, that is not going to help him. I suppose you know the story of the American millionaire. Some communists went to him and said, ‘Thousand of poor people are starving. Your money is wasted, give it to us’. The millionaire said,‘Rightly so. How many dollars do you think I have?’ ‘$ 100,000,000’ ‘ And how many people do you think there are in this country? ’


‘Well then, take all that I have and give each one a dollar’.’’ “ Then,’’ I asked, I suppose you do not approve of Gandhiji’s vow of poverty and travelling in third class?’’ “ If he does so to improve the condition of the poor it will not be to any avail. He has been travelling third class for so many years but has this improved the condition of the poor people?” “ Before, people were ashamed to be poor and travel third class, but Gandhiji gave them dignity. If everyone were to follow suit and were to become poor and travel by third class, there should be no rich, and there would be no class distinction.” “ It is impossible that such a thing should happen. If it does it is because they feel Gandhiji does this thing and so we shall also. There is no change of heart. The attitude has not changed. One may change his outward behaviour but the differentiation in the mind still remains. Attitude is very important. You may travel first class or third class, you may be rich or poor, that is of little consequence” .

‘Then why don’t you have property?”
“ People value property and money not because these are valuable but these are means to possess other things that one holds valuable. I have no greed to possess other things, therefore I attach no value to property and money. What need have I for money? There is greater happiness in a beggar’s life. With such an attitude it is right not to have possessions but it is not right to pity someone and give up your possessions.”

After this conversation, we went up to the dining room and saw many rich Maharajas and business magnats. I said, “ Something must be done. What a contrast between the rich and the poor.” Krishnaji replied, “ The rich must be heavily taxed by the Government.” Once again he said to me, ‘ ‘A beggar’s life is the best.” I said, “ How can everyone become a beggar? Who would feed them?” He put his hand on his forehead. “ To become a beggar you must have real intelligence.” I said, “ Looking to the past history of the world and the present, man seems not to have changed at all. It is true that he has changed his mode of living and his manners and customs, but his emotions and instincts and his concepts have not changed fundamentally. Man is the same brute as he was.”

“ It is true,” he said, “ but he must change or I do not know what ruin will come upon this world.”

“ Do you think that everyone would accept the life you talk about, and that the world would become ideal?”

“ I know everyone would not like to be as I say, but if some people were to become the image of perfection, they will form the nucleus of that ideal world.” On another occasion I said, ‘ ‘People say that no human being can be perfect because to them perfection means a condition where nothing remains to be achieved. They believe that man is weak and sinful and has all the limitations of the body, and so he cannot be perfect.” “ In technique, there is always something to achieve. Science can always go on developing new things; but the mind is different. Let me ask you, what is perfection?”

“ I have no clear idea. Perhaps perfection of mind shows perfect balance in all conditions at all times.”

“ No, I will answer you. To me, perfection consists in a really critical, intelligent and alert mind. Imagine a goat or a donkey tied to a rope which is fixed to a point. The goat runs only up to a certain point, goes round about and inside the circumference. Its freedom is limited. But consider a goat that is not tied to a point. Then its flight is unlimited and free. Such is perfection. Perfection is a plane without a radius and without a fixed centre.” I said to him, “ Suppose I do something and I know harms me, but still I do not know it so well. I desire it and I cannot abandon it. It takes me some time to realize fully what harm it does to me. In that circumstance, should I control myself and resist my desire till I fully understand and give it up through know ledge?” ‘ ‘That is exactly what ought to be. To know the falsehood well is to get rid of it at once and spontaneously. That requires true intelligence. If you do not possess it, you must control yourself.

I was glad that he corrected me, and I said to him, ” wnenever we make any mistakes or appear funny in our manners, speech or behaviour you must correct us.” He said, ‘‘You should use simple and unostentatious words in English, like jewels for ornaments. Indians are in the habit of using long and pompous words which are quite out of use. Do not use the word ‘costly’, instead ‘expensive’ and ‘dear’ sound better.”

Often in fun he said, ‘‘I wish I could be your tutor.” On the back of a menu-card, Mr. Patwardhan, a barrister, wrote down the terms of a contract in which was stated that Krishnaji promised to be our tutor in English for sixty years on a salary of £10,000. Krishnaji, Patwardhan and I signed it, and it became a real legal document! We asked him to teach us correct eating habits and table manners. He said, ‘‘Keep your plate neat. Drink water half an hour before and after the meal but not in between. ’ ’ He showed us three or four amusing ways in which people eat. Some of us were eating that way. We were very amused to see how ridiculous we looked.

For instance, long before the morsel reached our mouths, as if in eagerness to swallow it, we sat gaping at it.

Krishnaji’s secretaries Raj Gopal and Patwardhan were with him on this trip. Raj Gopal asked us one day, ‘‘What would you think if Krishnaji marries?”

“ Nothing, but people would talk about it.”

Then we asked Krishnaji, “ Why don’t you marry?”

Krishnaji replied, “ I feel no need for it. When one is not self-sufficent, one needs someone to complement one’s physical, economical and other needs. I feel no such insufficiency in myself and so the question of marriage does not arise at all.” Many passengers on the boat thought that we were Krishnaji’s children, or at least that my ten-year-old younger sister Gira was his son, since she always wore boy’s clothes. Krishnaji used to call her ‘‘my adopted mother” . Sometimes at the dinner table he would say to us in fun, ‘‘I wish I could marry you ladies.” We retorted, “ That shows you have a special liking for us.” “ Then let me correct myself. I wish I could marry you all.” Then we said, “ You are even greater that Lord Krishna.” Then often we teased him, reminding him of the past lives of ‘Alcyone’ (a book published by the Theosophical Society on the past lives of Krishnaji), and he felt very bashful.

We had a grand time with Mr. Patwardhan. We asked many questions and he furnished us with a great many detailed and interesting facts about Krishnaji. When he was young, four or five young boys of his age promised to dedicate their lives and serve him unto death. In the beginning Nitya and Yadunandan Prasad were amongst these, and now Raj Gopal had been his constant companion. The first two died and now Krishnaji and Raj Gopal stayed together like two brothers. Every evening, we stood with Krishnaji on the game-deck and searched the sky for Venus, the evening star. Whoever spotted it first showed it to the rest. In Aden, we had great fun looking down from the deck at the Bora pedlars in small boats selling cheap, vulgar silk garments. For hours together, the passengers of our boat and the pedlars for Rs.60 to start with were brought down to the price of Rs.10! All these transactions were carried out by shouting and by means of baskets tied to ropes. The pedlars after each sentence shouted at the top of their voices: “ I say! Last price, how much I say.” Krishnaji, for a long time afterwards, recalled this scene, and we had a hearty laugh over it.

We reached Bombay and we stayed there for a week. The next day, on our arrival we went to the house of Mr. Ratansi Morarjee, who was his host. Khan Saheb Abdul Karim Khan was giving a special concert for Krishnaji. Abdul Karim’s voice was like a flute. Krishnaji was very fond of his music and so each time he was in Bombay, Khansaheb came to sing to him. Krishnaji’s favourite tunes are in the ‘Todi’, ‘Bhairavi’, ‘Jaunpuri’ and ‘Bageshree’ ragas, musical modes characteristic of Indian classical music.

Then on the third day we went to Krishnaji’s talk. He seemed to have a greater command on his language, on his thoughts, on his expression and delivery . This time I could understand him with greater ease. On the fourth day a discussion was arranged where a great many people had assembled. They interrupted Krishnaji very often. They didn’t even allow him to explain, since they simultaneously formed smaller groups and discussed points amongst themselves. Krishnaji did not seem to mind it because their behaviour reflected their understanding. He said to one with mild reproach. ‘ ‘Now J, how often, perhaps in every talk, you and others have listened to me and I am sure you have not understood a word. ’ ’ In the evening, we went to Juhu with him. There, we drank coconut water, ran and walked along the beach. The sun was setting and the sky was red. The wet sandy beach was also coloured red. The beach is crescent-shaped and beautiful with the coconut palms. Two girls were dancing on the verge of the water, with their feet lapped by the waves rolling forward and receding. Krishnaji saw them and he started to dance. He flung up his hands and ran. We thought he would fly away like a bird. Then we held competitions as to who could run the fastest and throw the coconuts farthest.

That night, with my brothers and sisters I went home to Ahmedabad. For a second time, Krishnaji came to Ahmedabad soon afterwards. Every morning I saw him for a moment and then went to study. At 10 or 10-30 a.m. I returned and then we met in the sitting room, where everyone came one by one until we formed quite a large circle. Krishnaji was in high spirits and talked with great zest. He had been to Greece recently and spoke about it with deep ecstasy. “ No one has reached the perfection of Greece, barring of course ancient India. Even today we go to them for inspiration.”

After lunch we sat talking for one or two hours. We rested in the afternoon, had tea together and then walked briskly around the garden wall, completing four or five rounds, which came to about four to five miles. Then we went for a drive, or stayed at home and talked. Some afternoons he read the Bible to us. He was particularly fond of the book of Job, Ecclesiastes, the Song of Songs and some of the Hymns. He said, “ Lady Emily reads the Bible everyday When we were young boys, she read some parts of it to us. I liked it so much that I made it a point to read two chapters of it everyday.” Then he added, “ I do not agree with the thought, but I think that the language is beautiful. Each time I read it I feel thrilled. I have read the Italian and French Bibles but those translations are nothing compared to the English version. If I had to teach someone English, I would start with the Bible.” He opened a chapter of the Song of Songs and said, “ It is so passionate that really I should not read it to you young people. It is really meant to illustrate the love of man and woman but was later on interpreted as the love of the Church for God.” Then he read it aloud to us. His manner of reading was very beautiful. He created such a taste for the Bible that we too wanted to read it on our own and so we noted the passages which he thought were particularly worth reading.

One evening we created a tremendous row. We collected in the music room. Each one of us had a musical instrument, drums, castanets, cymbals, tambura (the drone), violin, accordion and bells, and each played in his own fashion! Krishnaji was not less rowdy. The situation quietened after some time and Krishnaji started to sing a dhoon, a chorus sung usually with a religious motive, and we joined him -Then Krishnaji recited Sanskrit verses. He knew sti (hymns, usually from well-known religious works) by heart mantras (verses intended to evoke spiritual blessings selected deities, or to create a meditative condition) pertainii Agni (the God of Fire) and ritualistic worship. He knew pass from the GeetGovinda (A long and beautiful descriptive poem of the poet Jay adev about Krishna). He remembered Bhandarkar’s Sanskrit readers and repeated by heart ‘R, Ramo, Rama, and ‘Gama Gachcha’(noun and verb forms o go’). We ended up with jazz music and some hit songs! Krisl sang to us some songs which he had heard in the popular pla; his time, like ‘Mary Mary is my only sweetheart. ’ He said, ‘ I knew all these by heart.”

We had an early dinner. My father and Krishnaji talked about absurd things and we had a hearty laugh. After dinner, conversation was rather serious and penetrating. About nationalism he said, ‘‘Nationalism can do no got the country. Through patriotism and nationalism, we in Indi trying to resist the British. Maybe we shall have the rigt legislate and rule but we are not going to be free; because such ‘freedom’ we shall still continue to be narrow-min orthodox, bigoted, superstitious and tyrannical and still rer exploiters. At present there are white exploiters and then we'll have brown ones.”

My brother Vikram interrupted, “ It is better to have our own exploiters than have strangers to exploit us.” Krishnaji replied: “ No, not at all. It is the same to me whether a white man or a brown man were to steal my thing. After all, I have lost it. Would I feel it less, if a brown man were to snatch it away from me? This is merely an empty sentiment.’’

To this Vikram said, “ Let us assume that our people are tyrannical, bigoted and orthodox, and that when they assume power they shall be even greater exploiters than the English. But after some time they shall learn how to rule and they shall improve. We must drive out the English first. For this we must become national minded and patriotic.”

“ Only by driving out the British, it is not going to improve matters. We must change our emotions, our thoughts and our attitude. In these lies freedom. Nationalism; I hate the word. There should be a World State.” “ We have no power in India and we have no freedom, then how can we form a World State? The first step to a World State is to have a National Government,” Vikram persisted. “ If, through a National Government, one is to attain a World State then that should have been attained long ago in Europe. On the contrary we see each country with its narrowed outlook trying to make itself powerful and preparing for war. If it continues like this, Europe will be overwhelmed by wars and will be destroyed. Do we also want to cultivate this nationalism and bring destruction to this country?”

My father added, “ How can we even say that India is my country? Punjab, Gujarat, Madras and Bengal and all these provinces are at present in the Indian Empire and they are coloured red in the maps. Why should not Punjab be a separate country and why not Gujarat also? Why should not people of these two countries develop nationalism? Why should not they have separate kingdoms and fight each other? Even then, when we shall drive out the British we shall try to keep Gujarat and Punjab under one domain. It will be like the British Empire, just another small version of an Empire.”

Krishnaji said: ‘‘Some of our leaders seem to be mistaken in trying to imitate European politicians and economics without really knowing true Indian conditions. They don’t seem even to be up-to-date in their ideas. About fifty years ago that which was discarded as a mistaken ideology has been taken up as a political programme by us. The problems of India are different. The way to solve these is not to imitate but to co-ordinate our thoughts and emotions and become an entity for the achievement of freedom.”

“ If our fight is not on the right lines what would be the measures you would employ?

“ I would take steps to first get rid of dogma, custom, superstition and ignorance. I would bring awakening through education, books and newspapers.”

One evening, my father and Krishnaji sat discussing how they would plan India if they were dictators. They seemed to agree on many points : (1) To abolish religious beliefs as they stand just now. To maintain temples as objects of art and to use them for public utility. (2) To establish a minimum standard by which everyone shall have sufficient food, clothing a n d living accommodation. Along with these one should have ample leisure. It shall be the choice of everyone whether to spend away or hoard what is given to him. After the death of a miser, his savings will go to the State. (3) Everyone shall have the opportunity to be educated and to develop his abilities to the fullest. Books, movies and theatres should be widely used for this purpose. (4) Marriages may be permitted, but one would have to take a licence before becoming a parent. Others will resort to birth control or will be sterilized.

After that, Krishnaji went to his room. As he had a very severe cold, my mother and I went to attend on him. We treated him with simple home remedies like a foot bath, gargles and steam inhalation. Then we retired at 11 or 11-30 p.m.

This post was last updated by John Raica Tue, 25 Apr 2017.

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Fri, 21 Apr 2017 #249
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

Here are a few selected excerpts from Mr Lakshmi Prasad's interviews with K during the early 80's in India, for 'Andhra Pradha Weekly'

The first question dates from January 1986

Q: We are soon entering the 21-th century. Beyond the political & economical predictions, what is the best spiritual approach to solve the problems of this country, as well as those of the world ?

K: The problems that India is facing are enormous -poverty, over-population, etc. And our government seems incapable to solve them.
Besides we have already entered into the Computer Age - and it is not unlikely that the computer will eventually surpass man. It is already competing with the human brain and its 'thinking' can go infinitely far both in the past as in the future. So, what will happen to the human brain ? Will it shrink and perish ?

And, what should we think about the actual education system ? Why are we educating ou children ? In order to become good technicians concerned exclusively to make (a lot of ?) money ? and live a life based on pleasure ? If education does not teach us to observe life (holistically ?) and to understand it, what is its purpose ?

We were having these interviews which you publish in India every year; are there at least a few who are reading them seriously ?

Q: Certainly, the more thoughtful of them...

K : But they don't pay any ( responsible ?) attention to what I am saying. In fact, nobody wants to 'learn'...

Q: Te 'self-preservation' instinct seems to generate selfishness in all the areas of life. How could we avoid this trap ?

K: Why are we always emphasising the 'ego', on the existence of a separated consciousness ? The whole structure of society as a whole does encourage self-interest . And this was a problem throughout our whole history: how to create a society in which self-interest is not the dominating factor. The verious religions, the sects and the Gurus have also sought to solve this problem, by using all the available means. But, these Gurus, have they really gone beyond their egoticism . In fact, I think that all the forms of power -far from facing it, have only encouraged its expansion.

Q: Doubtlessly ' for the greater benefit of the many' ...

K: Yes, for the so-called 'general interest'.
You want to know how to get out of this trap ( of self-interest ?) ? Well, one has to observe oneself, to become aware of how selfishness is born in himself, what form it takes and under what 'mask' it is hiding. This is a (hard ?) work that everyone must do within oneself.

Q: In fact, our approach must be almost 'scientifical', even non-personal.

K: Exactly.

This post was last updated by John Raica Fri, 21 Apr 2017.

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Tue, 02 May 2017 #250
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

Here are a few 'lost & found' interviews given by K in India (between 1981-85 ) to Lakshmi Prasad, a local journalist for the (telugu publication) Andhra Prabha Weekly

(Author's Intro)

In 1971, I bought The Penguin Krishnamurti Reader and endeavored to read it with all due attention. But my hopes were somewhat disappointed and I ended up abandoning this project. A few months later, while rummaging through a library, I accidentally fell onto one of the volumes of Commentaries on Living, which I read this time with the greatest interest. Seized with a sudden passion, I decided to scum bookstores and libraries - including those of my friends - in search of the works of Krishnamurti, which I devoured after my hours of work, sometimes extending my readings very late at night .
I even devoted my days of vacation to the study of the said works, which always filled me with unmixed joy. Moreover, if I borrowed a book from the master to some one, I had to imperatively recopy the most important passages in my notebooks before being able to separate from it. In a word, Krishnamurti had literally spellbound me.

At that time I was working with T. Vedantam, who was in charge of the census operations. In December 1972, Vedantam, who also admired Krishnamurti, advised me to join the Rishi Valley school for a few days. Naturally, this proposal delighted me, and I thanked him from the bottom of my heart. On this occasion, I met Mrs Pupul Jayakar and Mr Achyut Patwardhan, who also lived in Rishi Valley. A few words exchanged with them sufficed them to understand that my fervor in the master's place was not feigned. So they cordially invited me to lunch with him, along with some other visitors. But this kind of formal meeting could not satisfy me. What I wanted was to get in touch with Krishnamurti - but how? At the time, I was ready to climb the walls and burst into his room to be able to talk to him privately.

A few years later, when I told him of these "impetuous" impulses, he contented himself with murmuring: "Well, very well," not without a broad smile. Subsequently, I attended his lectures in southern India every year. But, although I had become a true exegete of his work, ten years passed without my being able to approach him.

In 1980, a journalist friend, Rao was appointed Editor - in - Chief of Andhra Prabha Weekly, a reputed weekly magazine with considerable popularity in Telugu. Rao, who knew nothing of my passion for Krishnamurti, offered to interview him. Needless to say I jumped at the opportunity. Finally, I went to see the master up close ...
The interviews gathered in this book repeat word for word the notes taken both by my wife and myself while Krishnamurti answered my questions. During one of our interviews, he asked me: "How do you proceed exactly? "My wife and I note your answers with the utmost accuracy." Then I try to transcribe their spirit in telugu before giving them to the publication. - Why do not you use a tape recorder? Krishnaji suggested. I have a very good one. "I'd like to conduct the interview in my own way," I replied without hesitation.

 The presence of a tape recorder would, in my opinion, have given an artificial character to our interviews - whereas I wanted to preserve the spirit of a simple and natural conversation. Krishnaji understood my intentions and nodded with a smile.
During a life devoted to teaching, Krishnamurti spoke to thousands of people - and his words have deeply transformed the most sincere of his disciples. But each one of us, according to his means, can at any time receive his grace

This interview was conducted in the reception room of Vasanta Vihar, headquarters of the Krishnamurti Foundation in Adyar, Madras. On that day, my daughter Padma, who was then a high school student, was very interested in seeing the teacher, whose papers she had read. We also accompanied Achyut Patwardhan, former socialist leader and longtime companion of the master.
No doubt I was the only journalist who pushed Krishnaji to stammer a few words in his mother tongue, the Telugu - when he had been using only English for decades. This demand was naturally formulated in the tone of the joke, but he yielded to it with much sportiness.

The last question I asked him - why men merely adore the pioneers who cleared new territories instead of embarking on the adventure themselves - broke the ice between us and I believe that readers will find his answer extremely relevant

Struggle and Conflict

Prasad - Everywhere in the world, communities and individuals seem to be torn apart by ongoing disputes and quarrels. How do you analyze this situation?

Krishnamurti - You see, the conflicts that separate the man from his neighbor begin at the individual level, that is to say within the family. Indeed, the incomprehension already reigns among the members of the same household. Ambitions, dreams, aspirations - each one thinks only of himself. And everything that characterizes the family is found on the level of the community, extending to the whole nation. Therefore, these conflicts must be resolved at the first level, that of the individual, before we can move on to the next stage.


Prasad - The rapid development of communications should, it seems, have led to a better understanding among the peoples of the world. We are seeing everywhere an increase in ideological conflicts. Is there not some correlation between the growing advancement of technology - in other words, the acceleration of progress - and the decline of certain values, including generosity, which constitute us as a man? And if so, what is the reason?

Krishnamurti - Obviously, these values ??are weakening day by day, while on the contrary strengthens the attachment to the goods of this world - money, sex and power. But your question was about the inevitability of such a situation. Indeed, the very existence of technology has allowed the widespread expansion of all these desires. The least politician runs today after power. As for money and sex, they are the dominant factors in everyday life. Add to this the formidable speed of communication that characterizes our era ...
In such a context, how do you expect man to evolve differently? Our moral defeat is to the exact measure of our technological advance-
The Though many gurus stretch out on true values, they do absolutely nothing to prevent them from perishing - to say nothing of the established religions which generally confuse discourse and action. What interests gurus is power. And those will certainly not encourage you to go further.

Prasad - In general, they do not invite to the discussion ...

Krishnamurti - The gurus are content to decree what to do. But as soon as it comes to taking action, they can not be found.
Busy in strengthening the foundations of their power, they spend their time evaluating the numerical strength of their disciples.
Then who will save man? It can only be man himself.


Prasad - As you preach self-control, you fight at the same time against any form of discipline imposed from the outside.
Yet, considering the state of India today, do not you think that all sections of the population should be subjected to a minimum of discipline?

KRISHNAMURTI - Who should control who? Are all these corrupt governments able to teach people anything? Are our educational institutions capable of transmitting the least authentic value to our youth? Of course, many teenagers turn to drugs and adopt suicidal behavior. But how did the college professors get their place - if not then through corruption! And you want them to set an example for their students! Do you think young people are blind? They know how their parents act, how they live, and what methods they use to make their way into society. Hence this rebellion, even this revolt of a great part of them. In truth, both boys and girls must receive an adequate education
and understand for themselves the requirements of an impeccable life. And this is decided at the level of the school.

Achyut Patwardhan - What Prasad seems to suggest is that, as in communist countries, there could be censorship of certain forms of literature or other artistic productions - in short,

Krishnamurti - Who taught me discipline? To tell the truth, I was raised in the greatest freedom. Never has anyone banned me from smoking, drinking alcohol or eating meat. And yet these desires are unknown to me.

Ayyut PATWARDHAN - There is the discipline that we forge ourselves, and the discipline that society imposes upon you.

Krishnamurti - The latter is devoid of purpose. Remember Bhagalpur ... (Krishnaji is referring to those thieves whose eyes were broken when they were detained on the decision of the local authorities.) This drama made a great noise at the time and raised storms of protest.

PRASAD - Should we leave a madman free?

Krishnamurti - What if the internal one is even crazier? What is Discipline? It is "learning". It is imperative that each of us learn. Over the centuries, many constraints were imposed on monks, sects and religious orders. See the result. Today, some "men of God" can abandon celibacy. And they would certainly not have gotten the right to marry if they had not demanded it themselves ...

Two generations

Prasad - You have taught more than two generations and observed how those-civous express only in English . And maybe you never learned that this one language ...

Achyut Patwardhan - Prasad would like to know if you have kept some memories of the telugu.

Krishnamurti - Doubtless I can count up to ten.Prasad - Very good. Okrat, Rendu, Moodu, Na-lu-gu (one, two, three, four in Telugu). (After a long hesitation, he continues by mixing the languages: five, sei, etc. - before bursting with laughter.) That 's it. See, I have already slipped to Italian.

Deeper depths

Prasad - Every epoch arises an exceptional being. He digs a well, quenches his thirst, and shares the water with the others. Then he goes his way. But his "disciples" do not make the slightest effort to dig in their turn - and the well ends up drying up. So they build a sanctuary at this site and turn it into a place of worship. Why do not they have the will to dig for themselves? Is this the destiny of humanity?

Achyut Patwardhan - This is an excellent question.

KRISHNAMURTI - (He looks at the face of the interviewer with an incredulous air, as if it seemed impossible for a journalist to have such concerns.) That is indeed an excellent question. (Penetratingly.) But are you the author?

Prasad - Of course! You know, I have read many Sufi texts, and especially Rumi. And when I discuss these subjects with people, some even exclaim "Listen to him, he speaks like Krishnamurti!

Krishnamurti - Good, very good. (He seems to plunge into himself.) What was taught to man if not to follow the greatest of us? And this not only in the spiritual realm, but in every sphere of activity. Whether it is art policy or science, it has always been the rule. One will want to imitate Picasso, the other Beethoven. Man has been conditioned to follow in the footsteps of others. And in this conformism, which responds to his deep desire, he finds himself safe. We do not want to think for ourselves, because we have been taught what to think - not how to think. Society, our education, our religion have encouraged us to imitate, to obey - in short, to conform. For thousands of years you have been pushing me to imitate others. And my brain resists all your solicitations. What else can I do? You see, man does not like change. Did you attend the meeting yesterday?

Prasad - Of course.

KRISHNAMURTI - As you can see, I have spoken to a lot of people. But how many have really listened to me, how many have accompanied me on the way - before falling back quickly in their ways? Such are the human beings.

Prasad - May we now take leave ?

I got up, as did my daughter Padmapriya. Krishnamurti went downstairs with us and said, "Whenever we are together in Vasanta Vihar, do not hesitate to come and see me. The interview, which was not to exceed twenty minutes, had lasted three quarters of an hour. Afterwards, Krishnaji always took care to treat me as a friend

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Wed, 03 May 2017 #251
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

K's last interview in India taken by Lakshmi Prasad ( Madras 1985)

There were many rumors about Krishnamurti's ill health and the fact that he had to cancel his Bombay conference to return directly to Los Angeles from Madras. The atmosphere seemed filled with sadness and gravity. However, in his room on the first floor of Vasanta Vihar, we found the master ready for this final interview.

I knew we were putting pressure on him by trying to interview him anew. I therefore proposed to postpone our conversation so as to avoid any unnecessary fatigue. "Do not worry, and do what you have to do," he replied. - Would you like me to read the questions directly? "Do your best," he said.
A certain weariness was read on his face. Just before our meeting, he had briefly received a Quakeress who came especially from Europe.

And no doubt I was the last Indian journalist to speak to him before he left for the United States. I had long wanted to bow before Krishnaji in the traditional Indian way, but I also knew his reluctance, if not his dislike, for this form of salvation. He had one day told one of his relatives that if someone prostrated himself before him, he would have to do the same. For Krishnaji, indeed, every human being participates in the sacred. Another day, when I stood before him in an attitude of deference, he "rebuked me", remarking: "You have no need to bow to me. You can do it elsewhere, if you want to, but not here. Not between old friends.

However, I could not get rid of this desire: prostrate myself before Krishnamurti at least once in my life. So at the end of our conversation, when all three of us sat cross-legged on the floor, I asked not without some hesitation, to bow my respectfully before him. "Since you are so fond of it," he answered, smiling. And, to our surprise, he bowed before us to the ground.

Disconcerted, we rose and he saluted us with hands joined. Krishnaji then walked to a small table near the wall, sat down and turned his back to us . Usually he accompanied us to the door of the room. But this time, my suggestion, quite stupid for that matter, seemed to have disappointed him. "To show too much devotion is a bad thing," he said one day. And no doubt we had fallen into this trap ...


Prasad - The conservation instinct seems to engender selfishness in all areas. How to avoid this trap?

Krishnamurti - Why do we always emphasize the ego, the existence of a separate consciousness? The social structure as a whole encourages self-interest. Is this a problem that haunts our history: how to create a society in which self-interest is not dominant? Religions, sects and gurus have, it seems, sought to solve it by all means. But had these gurus themselves overcome their egoism? To tell the truth, I believe that all forms of power, far from attacking this evil, have favored its expansion.

Prasad - Probably in the interest of the greatest number ...

KRISHNAMURTI: Yes, the so-called general interest. A lure designed to hide the personal aims of those who hold power ... You want to know how to get out of this trap?
Well, everyone has to observe himself, to find out how egotism is born in him, what form he takes and under what mask he conceals himself. This is a task that must be carried out.

Prasad - In fact, our approach must be quasi-scientific, even impersonal.

Krishnamurti - Exactly.


Prasad - If I believe that your talks , you link conformism to "violence" ...

Krishnamurti - By nature, man conforms to things. And the outside world imposes a specific mold on it. The violence comes from the fact that he is desperately trying to adapt to this environment. Imagine that you are a career in politics. If you want to succeed, you will have to comply with the requirements of this kind, whether or not they are right. And every decision will be a source of endless conflict for you. Thus, violence exerts both on the individual and on society


Prasad - One knows the misdeeds of nationalism, but what about supra-nationalism, which uses terrorist actions to achieve its objectives?

Krishnam urti - What is the purpose of a terrorist? To do everuthing frightened you. Whatever the method used - hostage-taking, assassination, sabotage, etc. - terror is a means of achieving its ends as quickly as possible.
Why does an individual join a terrorist organization? Because he can not reach his objective by the usual means. If I am unable to convince you, I (will) impose my ideas on you by force ...

Censorship in the Soviet Union

Prasad - Your books do not circulate freely in the Soviet Union (1984) , although the authorities seem to tolerate the spread of other religious texts. Would you represent a greater danger?

KRISHNAMURTI - I am aware of this censorship. If the government authorizes the publication of so - called religious books, it is simply because it considers them to be harmless. As for my own writings, they speak much of liberty, which a dictatorial regime can not naturally endure. I do not resist the pleasure of telling you one of those stories of which the Russians are fond. A drunkard walks through the Red Square screaming with all his might: "Brezhnev is a furious fool! The police immediately arrested him and led him to a judge. The latter, having listened to the charges against the accused, sentenced him to twenty-two years' imprisonment. At the sentencing, the man tries to plead his case: - I would have admittedly admitted that you inflicted two years in prison for this crime. But such a heavy penalty, it passes the limits! "You are right," replied the magistrate. For drunkenness on the public highway, I have indeed condemned you to two years ... As for the other twenty years, it is the punishment that is usually inflicted on those who have revealed a secret of State

Prasad - Are not they sensitive to the light and clarity of your writings?

Krishnamurti: They do not want it. Their only desire is for their system to perpetuate itself to infinity.

Prasad - We are fast approaching the third millennium. Beyond the economic and political forecasts, what spiritual approach should we adopt to solve the problems of this country, and of the world as well?

Krishnamurti - The difficulties India faces are immense - poverty, overcrowding, etc. And our government seems incapable of controlling them. In addition, we have stepped into the age of computers - and it is not excluded that the computer can one day override the man. He is already able to compete with the human brain. And his "thought" can moves indifinitely into the past or the future. So what will happen to the human brain? Will it atrophy and die? And what should we think of our pedagogical system? Why do we educate our children? So that they all become good technicians, busy exclusively in earning money and leading a life based on pleasure? If education does not teach you to observe life and understand it, what is its usefulness? You talk to me every year and then you publish these interviews. Are there a few to read them in depth?

Prasad - Probably the most conscientious...

Krishnamurti - But they pay no attention to what I say. Indeed, no one wants to learn anymore.

The ultimate salutation

The last Krishnamurti conference in Madras took place on 4 January 1986 in the evening. The next afternoon, the teachers of Rishi Valley, to whom we had joined, took leave of the master. I emerged from behind the group and headed for Krishnaji. - Hey! He said, laughing, "I was sure you were hiding behind everybody. "May I take your hands?" I asked. "Naturally," he replied, "and he immediately seizes mine." "At least that's what my wife confirmed later." I bowed my head until touching our hands together. Indeed, I was no longer aware of anything. Krishnaji therefore left India for California, where he died on February 17, 1986.

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Wed, 03 May 2017 #252
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline whom it may concern:

For a right education

Prasad - How to get young people to discover the ultimate meaning of life?

Krishnamurti - If they are very young, the question does not arise. But see how the children are treated. What do their parents want? That they find a good job, that they marry and that they found a home.

See how (psychologically ?) "corrupt" society is. Do you want children to find their way in such a context? When they enter life, their mind will be completely absorbed by a multitude of material problems - employment, marriage, etc. And they follow, unconsciously, the path traced by their parents ... So, everything depends on education.

We have recently offered some fertile land to a group of teenagers (in India) , with all the necessary equipment to put them into cultivation. Well, can you imagine that they refused this offer because they did not want to get their hands dirty? During my life, I planted all varieties of vegetables, milked cows in the mountains of California and learned to do everything by myself, including cooking. Today, young people do not even know how to cook. In such a society, how do you expect them to discover "the ultimate meaning of life"? Hence the importance of a right education .

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Thu, 11 May 2017 #253
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

And from the same 'centennial' edition, here's a rather 'odd' K anecdote

"Perhaps the most significant of Krishnamurti’s personal experiences was told to me in December 1949. It was during Krishnamurti's visit to Colombo, as we were driving out of the city for our brisk evening walk. Gordon Pearce, who had known Krishnamurti since his childhood, and who was to become the principal of the Rishi Valley School later that year, was sitting in the front seat, and Krishnaji and I in the back. Gordon enjoyed talking about old times, and this evening he was questioning Krishnaji about those early days.

“Is it true that you used to talk with the Master Kuthumi ? Did you actually see him and talk with him ? ”

It came as a great surprise to me, when Krishnaji answered, “Yes." After a pause, he repeated, “Yes, I did"

Then he went on to explain what took place. He told us that he had talked with Kuthumi on a number of occasions, usually in the early morning while he was meditating. One morning, just after sunrise, Kuthumi appeared in the doorway of Krishnamurti's room. They talked for a while, until Krishnaji, who had participated in similar discussions before, decided that he wanted more than verbal communication, not just words. He needed some 'tactile' contact, to actually meet and touch Kuthumi. So he stood up, and walked to the sunlit door.
Then came the telling words. “I walked right on through the figure. I turned around. There was no one there. I never saw the Master Kuthumi again"
There were no more questions. We rode on in silence.
— INGRAM SMITH , Colombo, Sri Lanka 1949

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Tue, 23 May 2017 #254
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

Here are a few lost & found souvenirs of K recollected by his nephew and close collaborator Narayan

In 1947 I was a student at Loyola College, located on Sterling Road in Madras. I was cycling after a game of tennis and saw a billboard which announced forthcoming talks by J. Krishnamurti at Vasanta Vihar. I found out that he was staying in a house on the Sterling Road. My father, Dr. Sivaram, who was a physician then working in Nellore as a district medical officer, had told me that Krishnamurti was his younger brother and that they had not met for many years. I went to the house where Krishnamurti was staying in my tennis kit and had to wait for some time as he had gone for a walk.

I was standing on the threshold of the main door of that house, and when Krishnamurti returned from his walk, I introduced myself as the son of his brother Sivaram. It took Krishnamurti some time to remember his brother. He asked me to come up with him to the first floor. We sat down and he asked me many questions about his brother Sivaram and his many children. [In 1985, to my surprise, before he left India for the last time, Krishnamurti pointed out to me that I was in tennis kit when I came to see him for the first time. There were many other members of the Krishnamurti Foundation [KFI] in Vasanta Vihar when he made this remark.]

The next day I went to see Krishnamurti, and among several things, I asked him about the Buddha and the 'sangha' [the Buddhist monastic order]. According to legend and tradition, there were sixty-three disciples of the Buddha who were enlightened during the Buddha’s lifetime. Krishnamurti said that there were not so many but only two or three who may have attained enlightenment.
I wrote to my father at Nellore. My father came and I took him to Krishnamurti. He could not recognize my father, as they had not met for many years. Some snacks were offered. After some time, my father asked Krishnamurti whether he was self-realized. Krishnamurti did not give a specific answer.

My father then asked Krishnamurti, “What is the self?” Krishnamurti answered that it was a bundle of memories. My father responded by asking if that was all. To this Krishnamurti replied that there was nothing more to the self. The discussion came to a sudden end, as Sivaram was thinking of atman and Krishnamurti’s approach was that of the self as a projection of thought which is conditioned and limited. The conversation ended there. They held each other’s hands, and soon my father and I left. I took my father to Madras Central Railway Station and saw him off to Nellore. This was the last time that Sivaram saw his brother Krishnamurti.

This is the essential difference between the Hindu and the Buddhist approach, which is hard to reconcile. In Buddhism, and also according to Krishnamurti, the word "self" is always used with a small 's'. In Hindu thought the word 'Self' is used with a capital 'S' to indicate Godhead and is also used with a small 's' to indicate the ego, egotistic attitude, and self-centered activity.
Subsequently, Sivaram read some of Krishnamurti’s talks to understand the teachings. He was happy doing that and told me that Krishnamurti’s mind was pure and cleansed.

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Thu, 25 May 2017 #255
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

More excerpts from Narayan's memos of K

I met Krishnamurti again in Bombay in late 1952. I was working in Bombay and lived in Andheri, a suburb. He was staying in Ratansi Morarji’s house on Carmichael Road.10 There was some difficulty getting into the house. The lady at the entrance asked me if I had an appointment with Krishnamurti and I said yes. It was after five o’clock in the evening. Fortunately Krishnamurti came out of his room and saw me standing there. He took me inside and said that he had just returned from his evening walk.

Krishnamurti went to the windows and drew the curtains. The sun was just setting in the western sky above the waters of the sea. It was a glorious sight with the full disc of the sun slowly sinking into the Arabian Sea. I felt a sense of beauty and peace.
The room was well furnished and had an elegant look. We sat on the floor facing each other. After some conversation about my stay in Bombay, Krishnamurti asked me if I would like to go and teach in the Rishi Valley School in Andhra Pradesh, in which case he would talk about it with the principal when he visited Rishi Valley. I had visited the school in 1948 when I went to play a tennis tournament in Madanapalle F. Gordon Pearce was the principal. An Englishman, he was a well-known educationist in India and Sri Lanka, and was associated with the public schools [the British term for private boarding schools] and the scout movement in India. His wife, Anasuya Paranjpe, was the daughter of an Indian Theosophist from Varanasi [Banaras].

I went back to my residence in Andheri. That night, as I was sleeping, I had an interesting experience. My chest region was diffused with light, mingling white and blue with a great sense of calmness. I awoke and stayed quiet and went back to sleep. Again the light with a blue tinge spread all over the chest and there was no thought. Only a feeling of beauty. It was a unique experience, though it lasted only a few minutes.

There is a difference between 'experience' and 'experiencing'. The former is rooted in the past, with the latter gathering knowledge and cultivating memory.
Experiencing has a quality of the present not colored by the past. The experiencer is absent while experiencing, and so there is a freshness and renewal.

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Wed, 14 Jun 2017 #256
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline


(...) It was in 1944, during the war. I had a friend who was a doctor, a regular medical doctor, but he was very interested in all kinds of psychiatric things, and so was I. So, whenever I went in for a flu shot, or whatever it was, we’d wind up discussing the brain or the mind and how it worked and such. Well, one day, in the spring of 1944 I went into his office for some medical reason, and he said, “Oh, come in. Come in. I have something I want to tell you.” He proceeded to tell me about a friend of his, a psychiatrist, who had learned that he had some fatal form of heart disease. On learning this, he had up and left his family, his friends, and everything in Chicago where he lived, and said, “I’m going to California to learn how to die from a man named Krishnamurti,” which doubtless startled everybody. My doctor friend was very curious, so he went to see his friend, the dying doctor, and of course, he meets Krishnamurti.

That was on a weekend, and I happened to come in on the Monday afterward, and he said to me, “I’ve met this extraordinary man, who knows more about the human mind than anyone I’ve ever heard of.” Well, of course, I was all ears at this description. And then there was a pause for about a month or two or maybe three when I heard that this Krishnamurti was going to resume giving talks in Ojai. As we all know by now, during the war he was in Ojai because he happened to be there when the war broke out, and he couldn’t travel. So he simply led a quiet life in Ojai, and didn’t talk publicly at all. However, now that the war was winding down, it was decided that he would speak again. Well, I thought I wanted to see what this was about, so I drove up to Ojai from LA found the place where he was to talk, and heard the talk—the first talk. I remember quite vividly his coming into the Oak Grove; his dignity and his quiet, and his doing what we later came to see so often: his looking around before he spoke. And then his speaking; being struck by his voice, he had an English accent but with his own intonation. I found the talk and his manner of giving it very impressive, but it was all strange to me in a way. So, afterward, I went and bought some of the booklets, the things that we have come to call “The Verbatim Talks,” those little pamphlets. I took them home, and started to read. I found that, because of my background in psychoanalysis, I argued with him down the page. I couldn’t advance in these things. I kept thinking, why does he say that? This went on for a couple of days, but luckily it dawned on me, somehow, that I should just go and listen to what he said and not argue through these written things.

He was speaking, in those days, standing up, I think on the ground and not on a platform. I sat on the ground, and most people sat on the ground, as I remember it.
Probably several hundred people, at least. It wasn’t as full as it could’ve been, but it was a goodly crowd. The whole set-up was the same, except that they had the tables with the books, or the pamphlets for sale, and a few books. One of the people who was selling the books was a Mrs. Vigeveno. I bought the pamphlet from her. She and her husband had an art gallery in Westwood in Los Angeles, where I had gone to look at pictures at some point. I don’t know whether she knew my name, but she recognized me from having come into the gallery, and, so, when I bought the little pamphlets, she asked, “Are you interested?” Anyway, I continued to go to the rest of those talks. That was my first sight of Krishnaji.

Now the relevance of Mrs. Vigeveno in the story is that sometime later that year I had a telephone call, I think from her, and I don’t know whether I’d been into the gallery and seen her again, but I was invited to join a discussion group at their gallery (their gallery was part of their house) once a week with a small group of people. So, I went, and I think there were probably a dozen or fifteen people, maybe a few more. Some of the people there I already knew, two couples I knew, plus the Vigevenos, whom I knew but just very casually. Rajagopal was at those discussions, and it was said that Krishnamurti might come, and indeed, he eventually did come. I can’t remember now whether Krishnamurti came to the first set or only the second set, but I was in both. I also remember that I got my husband Sam. He was curious in what interested me, and he only went out of that curiosity. Later on I heard that Krishnaji would also meet people individually. So I wrote, and in due course I got a reply saying that, if I could come on such and such date at such and suc h a time to such and such a place, I would have an appointment with Mr. Krishnamurti. The address for the meeting was a house in Hollywood, not Ojai. So I went, rang the bell, and the door was opened by Mr. Krishnamurti. And I remember very vividly the way he sort of bowed. He had beautiful, very formal manners. “Good morning, Madame,” he said.In I went and apparently there wasn’t anyone else in the house. I don’t know. It was very quiet. We went to a sort of sitting room and I felt it behooved me to say why I was there, and why I had come. I told him a little bit about myself, and was approaching the questions that I had intended to ask him when he asked me some questions. I don’t remember the back and forth of it. I only remember that it was a different order of any discussion of anything psychological or indeed any other kind of discussion I had ever had. When I came out I felt as though my head had been opened up and everything inside had been operated on. It was terribly moving. I remember also that he took me (but I saw it happen many times to other people) so far into my own mind or level of understanding that well…I wept copiously. I mean, it was so deep, it touched something so deep inside me that it made me cry. I’ve seen so many people go through that when they come out of talking to Krishnaji.

Anyway, I went to all the talks of that year, and after the first talk, I really just listened. I’d caught on that you shouldn’t keep going on about what you think, but just go and listen. And, from then on, I just listened, and it sank in.

Then I was in the small group discussions. I would imagine that the interview was in ’45, but I’m not sure. Anyway, he then went off to India, as we now know, there were no more talks in Ojai for some time. He obviously spoke in India and probably Europe, but I didn’t attend any of those.. Then, there’s a big gap in all this, because I didn’t really hear him speak again until he came back in 1960, and began a series of talks in June.
Sam died at the end of 1958. I had just left him in Rome because the picture, Ben-Hur, wasn’t finished, but I needed to come back and start rebuilding our house which had burned down. Ten days after I got back to Malibu, and signed the contract, got the building started, Sam died suddenly of a massive heart attack. It was as though my life had ended too, somehow. It was very strange: I had the feeling that as I was still alive, there was something that I had to do, and in some strange way, I felt I was doing it for him and for me—as though, there was something that I had to learn, and don’t ask me how, but I could somehow do it for him too. I felt that I had to find out what all this was about - what lay beyond life and death, and what are we all doing with our lives, and why do we go so wrong? All the questions that …probably we all have about our lives when we come into contact with something that is as serious as Krishnaji’s teachings, or as serious as someone dying in your life that is really a crisis. The answer to that was that I had to go back and listen to what Krishnamurti had to say. It wasn’t running to Krishnamurti for some kind of a refuge or enlightenment or solace. It was that I had to understand what he was talking about because I felt instinctively and profoundly that what he was talking about had to do with reality and truth, and that that was the whole point of my still being alive. It was the only thing that I wanted to do, was interested in. It was the only reason for anything to me at that point.

But I also had a very strong feeling in the weeks and months that followed that I mustn’t run away from something; that I mustn’t go to anyone to solve a problem, or to somehow make me feel better in some way. I mustn’t run away from what’s happened, but rather come to terms with what happened in my own life. In other words, don’t go to anything with self-motive. I felt that intensely, strongly. So I didn’t make any attempt or even think of going to see him, and then suddenly he came back in 1960. This was about 18 months after Sam was gone. I went to the talks. I also wrote and asked for an interview. He was to give eight talks, but he only gave four. At the end of the fourth he announced that he regretted that that would be the last talk. For reasons of health, he had to stop. In the meantime, he had okayed a certain number of interviews, and mine was among them, fortunately.

So, I was called to go on a certain, again, time and date and place, but it was in Ojai this time, at the Vigeveno’s house. He again greeted me very formally. There was no reference to my ever having seen him before. We talked for a very long time, and it was all about death. And at the end of it I was able to tell him that I had seen for myself that when people are in a state of grief, it’s very often self-pity. They’re feeling, why did this happen to me? Why have I lost something? And I thought that was false and repellent, and I didn’t feel that way. I felt I had seen that very clearly, and I was able to tell him this. I remember his nodding, and I could tell, or his manner showed that he saw that I saw that, and that he didn’t have to go through that with me so he could go on from there. The sort of conclusion of this, to put it very simply, was his statement, which I understood at the time and have since; “You must die every day to everything. Only then are you really living.” I understood that it doesn’t mean that you brush your life under the rug and forget everything. It doesn’t alter what you feel, or the feeling of loss, if you’ve lost someone you loved, it doesn’t alter that, that sense of loving them, or indeed, remembering them. But it’s the factor of dependence, it’s the factor of egotism, it’s the factor of me and the whole thing. You have to die to that and only then, otherwise, well, as we now know from his teaching, that you mustn’t carry the whole shadow of the past and react to that. It was the most profound experience of listening to Krishnaji that I’ve ever had. It meant a great deal.

After that, he left Ojai. I didn’t know what was happening. But, I determined then  that I would hear him again and follow what he was saying seriously.
What I didn’t know was that he wouldn’t come back to Ojai. I assumed that he would return because he’d resumed talking in Ojai, but he didn’t. In those days I didn’t want to go back to Europe because that’s where I’d been with Sam. I just wanted to be quiet and to think about all these things.So it wasn’t until 1961 that I realized he wasn’t going to come back to speak in Ojai. So, the first time I went to where he was speaking, which was Saanen, Switzerland, was in the summer of ’64. I determined that summer that I would follow the whole tour; do this really thoroughly that next year. I would start wherever he spoke in Europe, which turned out to be London, and that I would go on to Saanen and to India—do the whole year, which is what I did. I remember landing in Geneva, renting a little tiny car, a Hertz rental car I think it was, and driving along the lake with a map, figuring how to get up to this place called Saanen. Then the talks started. I remember that he took questions at the end of each talk, and I wanted to ask a question but somehow it didn’t work out, and the talks ended.

At the end of each talk, Krishnaji used to stand over where Vanda who was driving him in those days, used to park her car under some trees, back toward where the Boy Scout place was. He would stand under the tree and talk to a few people who would come up and shake his hands, as they always did after the talks. So, I went up to him and said, “Mr. Krishnamurti, I’m Mary Zimbalist, and you won’t remember me, but I’ve talked to you before in Ojai, and I wanted to ask you about…so and so.” He replied, “Yes, yes, ask that tomorrow.” So, I thanked him and walked away. Of course, the next day, the talk went off in a totally different direction, and my question had no relevance to what he was saying! So I didn’t ask it. Again, I hoped to have an interview, but I was shy about asking and I didn’t know how to go about it there. However, there was a friend, in those days, of his and Vanda’s - Pietro Cragnolini, a funny man; very, very Italian, and he’d known Krishnaji from the Ommen days. He used to tell me tall tales of what really went on at Ommen, people going in and out of the wrong tents in the middle of the night , sleeping in the woods, all these stories. I used to walk with him, or lunch with him sometimes, and he caught on what I wanted: he asked, “Do you want an interview?” and I said, “Oh yes, but I’m hesitant to ask.” He said, “Don’t worry about it,” and the next day, this was on a Sunday or a Monday, I had an appointment on Wednesday at 3 o’clock at Chalet Tannegg. So, I went to Chalet Tannegg. And again, Krishnaji opened the door and took me into the living room where there was a black leather one, and he sat at one end and I sat at the other end, and we talked. I also remember Krishnaji’s eyes, and I thought it looked like a cataract was developing in his eyes, and I remember thinking—horrible! He’s going to lose his vision, which, of course, he never did. But his eyes were sort of cloudy.

But, my diagnosis was luckily very poor. I was telling him that I was really tormented by the disturbances in the world that were going on and to the degree that I was not a free, enlightened, psychologically clear person, I was responsible for all that human evil, really. I felt that I had to do something about it, the whole thing. I felt a terrible burden of this. He sort of brushed that aside. He didn’t feel that was really the root of it. He said, “You take all these things very seriously,” and I said, “Yes, I do.” He went on from there, but I remember that it somehow unhooked me from this thing.

What I think he was saying was that I was displacing onto the state of the world, that my responsibility was myself, and I shouldn’t feel all this other burden of everybody’s insanities. Another nice thing in those days was that Cragnolini sometimes used to walk with Krishnaji. One day, Cragnolini asked, “Would you like to come on a walk? I’m walking with Krishnaji this afternoon. You come too.” And I said, “Well, if it’s alright, yes, of course, I’d like to.” I remember that we walked towards Lauenen, on the road to Lauenen.
And I remember we walked way up. We all talked very easily, I don’t remember about what, but it wasn’t strange at all. As the talks were ending, he said to me on one of these walk, “Are you going to stay after the talks? Will you be here, or are you leaving after the talks?” I said that I had intended to leave. He replied, “Well, we’re holding a small discussion after the talks, and if you’d like to be part of it, you are welcome.” So I naturally changed my plans, and stayed on. He had about 30 people, roughly, in that meeting, and again it was at Tannegg. By this time, I’d met Vanda, and I’d also met Alain Naudé, who had just come to the talks, but he was going to go to India. He was very serious about it all, and he sort of was acting as a kind of assistant. For instance, he was the one who called me up and told me when to come to Tannegg for the meeting, and things like that. He already had started to do things to assist Vanda, for Krishnaji. Vimala Thakhar was in the discussion, and I remember she was already obnoxious. She was already saying, “Where do you live?” When I told her where I lived, she made it up in her mind that she’d come to visit me, and that I would put her up during her coming tour of the west coast. People like the Suarès were there. I think Marcelle Bondoneau was there.

After these discussions, I flew home. Then I went back to California.
So, the next bit in this story, is that Rajagopal comes into the picture now, because while these meetings were going on in Chalet Tannegg, some of the people, including myself, wanted to hear the recordings of the meetings. So, I said to Alain, “So many of us would like to hear the tapes of our discussions, or read a transcript that I would be delighted to pay some secretary to transcribe it for some of us, if that’s allowed.” Word came back from Krishnamurti via Alain that, “Mr. Krishnamurti does not have the right to give that permission, only Mr. Rajagopal does,” which rather took me aback. I called up Rajagopal and said, “Look here, I was in this discussion group, and I know you have the tape…” Oh, by the way, the tape had to be sent the same day it was made, it had to go right from the recorder into the mail to Rajagopal. So, I knew he had the tapes, and I said, “I’d like to hear them. “Well, you see everyone wants to hear them, and I can’t possibly let everybody hear them, so no, well…” he went on shilly-shallying back and forth about this. Finally, he said, “Well, if you can come up to Ojai,…did you make notes?’
“Yes, I made notes.”
“Well, you bring your notes, and you can hear one tape, and you can choose the tape, but you must bring your notes.” And it had to be a day when the Vigevenos, who lived next door, would not be in Ojai, because he didn’t want them to know that I was allowed to hear a tape. And, not only did I have to come when they were away, but I had to park my car so that it would not be visible to them next door. He had a sort of teasing, flirtatious way, not towards me, but toward another woman who was all excited by him. He sort of made himself the center of attention, not by coy behavior, but in a way that drew attention to his every reaction. So, I knew he was a bit neurotic, but this nonsense over the tape was something. Oh, I was asked for lunch too. So, we had lunch, and then I could listen to the tape. So, Rajagopal, his wife, and I sat solemnly in the living room. It was in sort of an alcove. We ate on a table in a corner of the living room, and then we moved to another area where he had a tape recorder. I had to hand over my marvelous notes. I could make notes of listening to the tape, but I had to give him copies of those notes too. So, I listened to the tape. They both sat there and listened with me. I suddenly figured out why he was letting me near the tape: he had recognized some of the voices of people he knew on the tape, but he didn’t recognize others, and he wanted me to identify them. That’s why all this performance went on.

By this time I was living in Malibu, and naturally I wanted to know when and where future talks were going to be held. So I called him up and he said casually that he didn’t know. I thought that was very odd. He said, “You must write to Mrs. Mary Cadogan in London.” So I wrote to Mrs. Mary Cadogan, and I got back a letter that said that since I was coming from so far away, that she would tell me where the talks were and when, but I must please not tell anyone else where they were, including my family, or why I was going to London. I thought this is crazy—these are public talks. But, I wasn’t going to argue as I wanted to hear them.

When the spring came, I returned to London, went back to Mrs. Martinez and went out to Wimbledon where the talks were being held. The talks were in the Boy Scouts’ Hall in Wimbledon, which was a very small hall. I’ve asked Mary about this since, and she agrees that the hall was very small. I didn’t understand why such a small hall was rented, but Rajagopal was really trying to damp down all this; printing these little booklets which were only sent out to those on the mailing list, and nobody knew anything, It was all kept as a big, dark secret. He made mysteries out of everything, and of course, he e was pulling the wires on this whole thing. Anyway, I went and afterward when Krishnaji stood outside, I went up to him this time. Alain was there and Krishnaji seemed to recognize me and he was charming. We chatted a bit.
I think Alain eventually called me up and said that they’d like me to come for lunch at the house in Wimbledon. That was one of those dreadful  rented houses in Wimbledon…
It was really awful to put Krishnaji up in those dreadful houses, but they did. So I went. I had again rented a little tiny car to get out there. So, we had lunch. I was the only guest with the two women, Alain, and Krishnaji. He was full of the questions about “What is the American mind?” as he used to say. “What’s happening in America?” Well, as it happened, I had gone on the March to Selma, from Selma to Montgomery with Martin Luther King. I thought that would interest him, because that was big news in America at that point. He was very interested, and I described the whole thing in quite some detail: how it came about, and what happened, and all of it. He listened with great interest to that. He walked me out to the car afterward with Alain, and he said, “Perhaps we could go to a cinema.”
I, of course, replied, “Yes!” Then he said, “Well, you decide.” So I went off, thinking, “What in the world! What do I take this man to? A cinema? What would he like?”

So I stared at the newspaper and pondered and finally decided that My Fair Lady was playing and that that would be a good movie and suitable. So, I called Alain and I told him my choice, and Alain said, “Oh, Krishnaji has changed his mind by now. He doesn’t want to go to the cinema. He wants to go for a drive in the country. So could you choose a place and drive us to the country.” So, I was back to my problem. I didn’t know where to go. I wasn’t that familiar—I’d spent two winters in London, but I hadn’t gone driving in the country especially with the aim of something that would please a man named Krishnamurti. So I did some research. I heard about Wisley, the royal horticultural gardens at Wisley, and I thought maybe that would be a place. So, I did a dry run. I went out and cased Wisley and decided, yes, that it was really beautiful and perhaps he’d like that. I remember that I got a better car than the one I was driving, and I went to the house in Wimbledon. Doris came out and said “Now, be sure you have him back here by 6 o’clock. He has an appointment at 6 o’clock. It is very important that he be here in time for that.”
“Yes, yes, Ms. Pratt. I will.” So, in we get, in the car. Krishnaji looked happy, pleased.
“Where are we going?”, he asks. I said, “Well, I thought perhaps a place called Wisley, the garden.” “Oh, Wisley!” said he. He knew it, but he hadn’t been there in a long time. “Oh, yes!” So, off we went to Wisley, and it was a success. We walked around, and I had the feeling that he saw every flower and every tree and every bird and every everything. It was my first experience of his extraordinary perception that he had of…of everything. When we got back in the car, he said, “Oh, let’s drive a little further.” Where to take him now?! Luckily, I had been to Box Hill. It’s the highest point of Sussex, and you look out at all of southern England. It’s beautiful! So we went up Box Hill. We got out and looked at the view and it was beautiful, very pleasing. So now it was time to get back for 6 o’clock. We got back on the A3, and it was heavy afternoon traffic. Now, I wasn’t used to driving on the left and I certainly was not used to driving the World Teacher. And the responsibility was weighing heavily on me, especially in the terrible traffic, and getting there at 6 o’clock. I drove with absolute concentration, and just I got him back at 6 o’clock.

When he got out, he thanked me. “Thank you, Madame, so much. It was so kind of you.”I replied, “It was a pleasure, Krishnaji- he asked me to call him Krishnaji in the Saanen discussions. Before that I’d called him Krishnamurti, and at some point he rather sharply had said to me, “Call me Krishnaji.” I thought I’d made a mistake to use the other word.
Anyway, it was Krishnaji. So I thanked him. And I went back to Mrs. Martinez in Eaton Place. I was due to go out to dinner with friends, and suddenly the enormity of the responsibility of having the life of this man in my hands as a chauffeur hit me. I started to shake, and I shook so much that I couldn’t go out for dinner. I had to call it off.

They didn’t have any car, and there was no way to get into town from Wimbledon, so I did a lot of taxiing them back and forth. By this time, 1965, Alain had been hired as Krishnaji’s secretary. Alain became his secretary that winter in India. He’d gone to India in the winter of ’64—’65. In January, Alain wrote me a couple of letters, and then he wrote me that Krishnaji had asked him to be like a secretary, assistant, do things for him. So, that’s what he was doing.

I remember sitting at his discussions behind Dorothy Simmons and Montague and getting quite annoyed at Dorothy. Something about…I’ve forgotten what it was…I thought she looked disagreeable. They sat right in front of me, and something about her being was rather brusque about the sea But she was there, and Iris again. I don’t think I knew any of the others. How I met Mary Cadogan is very funny. There was a woman showing people up and down in the tent in Saanen to seats, dressed in sort of chiffon, and I remember thinking, “That woman thinks she’s Ophelia!” I was looking for a Mrs. Cadogan and I decided that Madame De Vidas must be Mrs. Cadogan. She too was showing people around. So I went up to her and said, “Are you Mrs. Cadogan?” And she said, “Oh, non, non!” She didn’t speak English much. The 'Ophelia" character was Mrs. Cadogan

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 26 Aug 2017.

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Thu, 15 Jun 2017 #257
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

The Memoirs of Mary Zimbalist ( continued)

In May 1965 I took the 'boat train' to Paris , where Krishnaji was scheduled to give his talks in the Salle Adyar, a theosophical place near the Tour Eiffel, only a few blocks from where he was staying with the Suarès’ who lived on the Avenue de la Bourdonnais up on the top floor. It was like a penthouse. He spoke twice in the Salle Adyar, and then he had some days off. Apparently my driving abilities were satisfactory, because he suggested going to Versailles. So I went to Hertz and I got a Mercedes car and we went to Versailles. He wasn’t then and never has been very interested in palaces and looking at them. He was not a sight-seer. But he loved gardens, and a walk in the gardens was something he enjoyed. We walked all over: a big walk. Then another talk, and after that there was another expedition, again in the Mercedes, and this time we went to Chartres, which was wonderful. We walked all around and looked at everything very carefully. Krishnaji was taken with the stained glass windows, found that particularly beautiful, and we all agreed that this was the loveliest of all the gothic cathedrals that we had seen. And then we went to Romboulliet and had another walk in the forest. Paris was busy for him, but not so much for me. All the French friends wanted to see him. I rented a room, for the discussions, in the hotel where I was staying, and about sixty or seventy people came. Krishnaji discussed with them and answered questions. Some of them would ask questions in French, but he’d reply in English. These meetings with young people was something new and something good, and it continued from then on for as long as Alain was with us.

After the talks I left for Switzerland by train. I became a vegetarian on the first of June . Knowing I was going to be a vegetarian, I started, not in Paris because of my father, who lived in Paris in those days—his pleasure was to take me to all the best restaurants in Paris, and I didn’t have the courage to say, “Father you should know that I am now a vegetarian.” So I postponed making the change until I got on the train leaving Paris. So now I’m on the train from Paris to Geneva, and I go into the dining car for a meal, being now a vegetarian , and there’s nothing on the menu that’s vegetarian. There isn’t a vegetable in sight , except for pommes frites, which came with steak. So, I thought, well, one last time, and I ate. When I got to Geneva, I rented a little car again, and toured up to Gstaad. This time I went to the hotel Rossli. My room overlooked the main street, and one morning I heard cowbells. I looked out the window and there was a procession of cows going up to the high pastures in the mountains. They were led by the dowager cow, the queen cow . She had the biggest bell and she wore a lovely straw hat with wreaths of flowers on it. She walked with majesty. All the cows each had their bell ringing as they went past. That was nice. So a few days after I got there, the telephone rang, and it was Alain to tell me that they had arrived; they flew from Paris to Geneva. He asked, “Do you have a car?”
“Yes, I have a car.”
“Well, Krishnaji would like to drive up to Gstaad instead of coming on the train, can you come and pick us up?”
So, I drove down. I think I got a slightly bigger car. I was forever switching from the smallest, cheapest to something worthy of the event! I drove down to Geneva and met them. They had spent the night at the Hotel du Rhône. We went into the dining room. I remember scrutinizing the menu thinking, “You know, I’m a vegetarian now, what do I order?” Krishnaji, who picked up everything, looked at me and said, “What have you been eating lately?” Well, what I had been eating [more chuckling] was cheese omelet, and cheese omelet, and again cheese omelet, and I had the feeling, “Am I going to live on cheese omelet for the rest of my life?!” I explained about cheese omelet.

He said, “We will teach you how to eat.” And he said it quite…firmly. And then they ordered a lovely meal of vegetables and salads and fruits and all the things that we’ve all been living on ever since! We drove up to Chalet Tannegg. Vanda had rented, as always, one floor of Chalet Tannegg. Vanda had sent ahead a cook, a chef really, to look after Krishnaji and provide the food and all that. It was lovely in Gstaad. There was nobody there. Usually I was asked for lunch, not supper because he had that in his room, but usually for lunch. And I would, with my car, drive to wherever he wanted to walk in the afternoon, if it wasn’t up the hill and into the woods. Sometimes we went up towards Gsteig and walked. Also, we often walked down along the river, the Saanen River toward the airport, that way. So, one day I went up to Tannegg and there was this beautiful little silver jewel-like car, with Krishnaji looking so pleased. He showed me everything about it, and then he asked if I would like a drive. I said, “Yes, I’d love a ride.” So, he drove me to Chateau d’Oex. I remember it was the first time I’d driven with him driving instead of me driving. He looked so elegant with his driving gloves, and he drove beautifully. Obviously an experienced driver! We just went to Chateau d’Oex, then turned around and came back. When we got back he dusted the car—it had been out! I think the next day when I went up, I found him and Alain both washing it because it had been out. As I watched Alain working, I thought, “My god, he’s a musician, he’s going to ruin his hands. But he was doing what had to be done, and Krishnaji was also washing. After it was washed, Krishnaji opened the hood and dusted all the machinery inside. Only then was it alright.

Also, there was a lot of talk about my going to India. I was planning to make the whole tour that year, so, we talked about that. Krishnaji said that he must see that I’m properly looked after in India, and he’d arrange my housing. He said that I shouldn’t go to a hotel in Madras, but that Frances McCann and Alain and I should rent a house in Madras, because it would be healthier: we could control our food. Back to Saanen: We often went down to the Biascoechea’s for lunch. Either I would also be asked to have lunch, or I would drive them, drop them, and later take them back up the hill. That was when Enrique pulled out a photograph of Krishnaji and his brother Nitya as little boys. The Biascoecheas brought them out to show us. Krishnaji looked at that and looked at that, and he kept going back and looking at it again. He said he didn’t remember that time at all. Afterward, when I drove him up the hill, I said, “What was it that interested you so much in that photo?”
That’s when he made the statement, “If we only could figure out why that boy wasn’t conditioned and remained vacant, perhaps we could help children in the schools not to be so conditioned.”
He was trying, somehow, to get a sense of why that boy, meaning himself, remained that way. Why nothing really scarred him at all, mentally. I remember his looking at the photo for such a long time.

Vanda eventually arrived. I, in the meantime, not wanting to spend my life in the Hotel Rossli with cheese omelets, had rented a flat in an apartment house called Les Caprice.
When Vanda came there was no longer a room for Alain because she only rented one floor, and that only had two bedrooms. The proprietor lived upstairs. He was a German, and he only came for a short time in summer, but he never rented out his floor. There was a downstairs floor with a flat, because the chalet was built on a hill, but Vanda only had the middle floor. When Vanda came Alain had nowhere to go. Fortunately, the flat I had taken had two bedrooms, so I invited Alain to stay with me, which he did.
Then the talks began. Again, usually I walked in the afternoon with Krishnaji and Alain. Vanda didn’t want to walk; she was doing yoga all morning and wasn’t much for walking. So, I usually walked.
At one point, Pupul Jayakar arrived, and that was my first meeting with her. She stayed only a short while. Also, Pupul’s daughter Radhika arrived, also staying with the Biascoecheas. I remember going on a walk with everybody, Pupul, Radhika, Alain and, I forget who else; I was walking behind, and Krishnaji fell back in step with me. This is when he said to me quite shyly, “Did I ever know you in California?” Of course, he didn’t remember anything. In those days a lot of people made their own tape recording of the talks . Krishnaji gave an awful lot of talks in those days. I think there were ten or something like that. And, at the end of each talk, he would ask for questions from the floor.

After the talks were over, he held young people’s discussions again. Alain had rounded up young people. He used to go around the camping ground where a lot of the young people camped, and just collect young people like the Pied Piper. Sometimes these young people’s discussions were at Tannegg, if they could all fit in, but there was one across the river in a field. Also, David Bohm came, and they had discussions. There were six of those, and they were at Tannegg. Then there was another trip to Geneva. I don’t quite remember when. But at that point Krishnaji asked me to be on the Rishi Valley School committee! I had no qualifications, but it didn’t matter to him! I don’t remember what I replied, but fortunately nothing came of it. I was going to go to India, but before going to India I had to fly back to the U.S. I flew back to Malibu, and I went and saw my family. So,  the story picks up in September, there was a fight between India and Pakistan, which put the whole Indian winter tour in jeopardy. Alain called me to tell me that Krishnaji was going to decide whether to go to India as scheduled, or postpone it until the end of the month. He then suggested that I come to Rome, and that if we didn’t go to India, that we all spend the winter in Italy. But, as it happened, there was a cease-fire, and Alain, who had been refused a visa for India, now was able to get a visa for India. So, I flew back to meet them in Rome in October. Krishnaji and Alain were staying in a place that Vanda had rented, Villa del Casaletto, which was a house outside Rome, toward the airport, over behind the Villa Florie and all that. Borghese Gardens, next to the Excelsior. I had wanted never to go back to Rome, but I had to go back to do this. I wasn’t there very long.:

 So, two or three days after arriving, on the first of November, we flew to Delhi, and were met at the airport by Kitty Shiva Rao and Pupul. I remember the fact that when Krishnaji arrived in Delhi, the car met him at the foot of the steps down from the plane and we were ushered into the VIP lounge, while other people saw to the luggage. I didn’t have to do anything, which was wonderful. Our passports were taken away (Pama, I think, did that, as I recall). Eventually passports were returned after being processed, and we were taken into Delhi, stopping first at the Shiva Rao’s for Krishnaji. Kitty Shiva Rao had very kindly arranged for me to stay in a place called the Indian International Center, not far from her house, where I had a very nice room. She lived not far from Lodhi Park. I remember that same day, Krishnaji, and, I think, Pupul, and Alain, we drove around to show me a bit of things, and we drove into Lodhi Park, but it was dark by that time. He gave his first talk on the seventh in the garden of the Constitution Club. He was under a shamiana on a little raised platform with a bright little canvas thing shielding him from the sun. There was a wonderful red and blue carpet put out for people to sit on. I sat with Alain, right in front of the stage with the Nagra tape recorder. That was the first time I saw Krishnaji with an Indian audience, and he startled me by being really blunt with the audience, saying, as nearly as I can recall, “You people have talked about non-violence for all these years, and yet this year not one of you spoke out against the war.” They’d almost had a war with Pakistan. He really, put it as only he could, witheringly! I remember really feeling shocked, that he talked differently to Indian audiences at that time. He was tougher with them.

Then there was a side trip. Alain, I, and George Vithoulkas, with a car and a driver, drove to Rishikesh. We were told that there would be no place to stay, and that we must prepare to put up with that. We thought that we’d go anyway and, if necessary, we would sleep in sleeping bags. We went off, I remember with a big bottle of boiled water and a bag of walnuts which was sort of our rations. When we got to Rishikesh we discovered that there really weren’t any hotel rooms; but Alain, who was very good at persuading people, went into the tourist bureau, and talked them into letting us stay in what were called Dak Bungalows. These are the places for government inspectors to stay when they came around. There happened to be one right on the Ganga. You entered past a little sentry at the gate. We drove in quite a way , and found the bungalow, which was immaculately clean, and it had, I think, three bedrooms and four bathrooms, which was quite something. Frances and I shared a bathroom, and this was my first experience with Indian toilets!  But it was clean, it was nice. After settling in, we went back into town, looking for some place to eat. There was a restaurant chain called Kwality Restaurant and we very carefully ordered cooked things that we thought wouldn’t have ptomaine in them. I think we drank a lot of tea We had rather cold showers in the morning, then we went up to Shivananda Ashram in Hardvar, which was interesting because of the masses of sannyasis in yellow robes, and it was the first time I had  seen leper beggars, which were part of the Ben-Hur story. We went to the Ashram and we waited to see the head of it, but he was busy. So, we left, and we went looking for a specific yoga guru, who was reputed to be wonderful, but he was out. So we returned to Rishikesh.

Then George went looking for something, I can’t remember what, but he came back saying that next door there was an Ayurvedic doctor who told him that a great swami was about to arrive and did we want to meet the great swami? We replied that we did. So, at the appointed time, we went next door, and this weird looking man entered. He was very fattish, with a big round face. He looked at us from one to the other, seeming to question, “Who are these people and what do they do?” We sat down and he asked some questions and George got fascinated by this man. Later on, George decided that he wanted to become this man’s disciple. Alain was horrified and disgusted. The next day, Alain, Frances, and I went up to Dehradun, up, up, up, up, the Himalayas to the snow line and beyond, the most wonderful mountains. When we returned, Alain and George got into an argument, with Alain saying, “You came here to look after Krishnaji, what do you mean by going off with this guru?” So, we drove back to Delhi with a rather poor atmosphere in the car. George went to see Krishnaji that evening, and Krishnaji tried to help him see clearly what he was pursuing, but George wasn’t going to have anything to do with contradicting his intentions. Alain was furious. He thought this was outrageous, inconsiderate, irresponsible, and so forth. So, George goes off to his swami, and the rest of us went to Rajghat.

I remember in the airport in Delhi, waiting for the plane, there was a whole room of waiting passengers, but there was one who had a gray scarf around his head; he was fat and short, and he was covered with ashes on his forehead, and done up in a shawl. I said to Krishnaji in French, “Quel est son maquillage?” What is his makeup? Krishnaji made a bewildered gesture, and then Krishnaji did what he always did in airports, he walked around with great dignity, taking in everything, but never staring at anything, he would obliquely see everything. When he came back, he made a funny remark like, “Now, I’ve seen everything.”

When we got to Benares, Krishnaji went off with Madahvachari and some others in a kind of a bus. I’ll never forget my first glimpses of Benares, because it made me feel that I hadn’t been in India till then. All the traffic with the lorries constantly honking at each other, and all the decorations on them, and the goats and cows wandering around, and the women putting dung patties on the walls to dry them, and other women with big brass pitchers of water on their head, and the smells of things drying and the people lying on those string beds, low beds by the sides of the roads. It was India, much more so than Delhi! When we got to Rajghat there was a big turnout at the school to greet him, little children with flowers and everything. Frances and I were given rooms. We had a big room and a little room and we shared a bathroom. It was in one of those buildings looking over the river called Krishna Ashram. We went upstairs to our rooms and opened the door, and were astonished. It must have been unused for several years because, there was so much dust it was like being in the desert. When we entered, clouds of it went up. It looked like sand, but it was dust. There was nothing in the room except one bed with just the rope, no mattress, no sheets, no blankets, no mosquito netting, nothing! The small room was in a similar condition. Frances and I debated about  who got the big one and who got the small one. She won and got the small one. There were three pegs in the wall on which you could hang things, but that’s all there was, nothing else! The bathroom was not very big, and it was chiefly extraordinary because of the wash basin and then there was just a hole in the floor as a toilet.

Alain was in the same building but somewhere else,  and after seeing our place, he went right to Krishnaji and told him. Then, apparently, Madhavachari, who ran all K activities in India, was told that all was not well. He’d been an Indian railway big shot of some kind but was now retired. Very tall, big man. Very severe Brahmin type, but he had no interest in people’s comfort—at all! He came and looked at it and mumbled something like, “Oh, it, ah yes, it’s not ready. Well, I’ll ah, send someone” but nobody ever came! Apparently Krishnaji was again informed, and now Krishnaji arrived. And the to-do that followed from his coming and seeing this! This should be, you know, beneath his knowledge or notice, but he came in and started asserting his authority. In no time people came with buckets of water and brooms, etc. Eventually a mattress was found, and some sheets and a blanket and, I think, eventually mosquito nets. Some pathetic bearer, the one who staggered up the stairs with our buckets of boiling water in the morning, which he’d gotten up way before dawn to make (we could hear him cutting the firewood, making the fire, boiling the buckets of water); this poor man was set to cleaning the wash basin. He cleaned it for four hours the first day, and he was still scraping away with a razor the day we left three weeks later. Terrible! But the consternation at Krishnaji coming over and seeing what his guests were subjected to—everybody’s face was ashen.

Anyway Krishnaji gave lots of talks, and talks to the children in the school hall which was initiated by Tagore. Anyway, there were talks to teachers, and to students, together and separately. And, one lovely day in December Frances and I were invited to Krishnaji’s room where he chanted with Mr. Salman, who was the music teacher. We sat on the floor. I remember his room, it was very neat. There was a towel over this pillow. The mosquito netting was pulled back ever so neatly, and there was a metal wardrobe and something with drawers, and a chair. I can still see it vividly. There was a small rug on which we sat, and they chanted. It was wonderful. There was a big walk that goes all around the property. Also, I went quite a lot by myself across the little river, the Varuna, to the villages—I remember the earth is sort of sand-colored, and the buildings were made of that same earth and so were the same color, but with white decorations on them. They weren’t square, like ordinary houses; they were sort of rounded as if little children had made them, you know, like the houses children make on the beach. I used to walk over there quite a lot. Also, I used to walk to the agricultural school.
I also remember being asked to go with Alain into Benares to buy staves because there was a student in the agricultural college who’d been bitten by a rabid jackal, and he didn’t take the Pasteur treatment, so he died. We were asked to buy staves, big heavy things, to ward off rabid jackals. I never saw jackals, but that was the errand. I remember the extraordinary-ness of Benares, which again is like no place else in the world. Again, the taxis and trucks honking, with goats and cows wandering around. At one point, Frances and Alain and I were walking down toward the ghats and, going around a corner, I almost collided with a bicycle with a dead body on the back! Wrapped up and being taken to the burning ghats . Then walking along the river, on the ghats, and we were just walking through ashes. I remember saying to Alain, “Look if I fall in, just keep walking and forget you ever knew me, because I’ll be dead!”

I went to Sarnath either alone or with somebody, probably Alain. I walked there,  and went to the museum. I remember the walk, and going by a little, tiny—it wasn’t even a temple, but there was some guru who lived there, and people would come with offerings and things. We also went down the Ganges in a boat. I remember also that there was an old dog, I’ve forgotten his name, but, it was something like Rover. In the early morning, when I’d go for walks, I’d see the dog out in the river looking for protein! And so were the vultures.
Then I’d go to tea in the afternoon and see, dear old Rover and I don’t think the Western ladies who fussed over him knew where he’d been in the early morning!

Eventually, when we were to travel on, I remember at the airport, there was a lady, she was a Jain, and she was disturbed and believed she was married to Krishnaji, so we had to protect him from her. She would lie in wait for him because she always wanted to touch him, and he didn’t want her to, so we had to run interference like in football. We used to call her Mrs. Moonlight, because she got madder when the moon was fullest, as some people do. At one point, in the airport, she almost got to him, and I remember his saying severely to her, “Don’t touch me.” He later told a story about how once in Bombay, he was out alone, and she appeared, and he had had to say, “Go away,” and eventually, “If you don’t, I will call a policeman.” She replied, “Go ahead, I’m your wife!” Luckily, at that point, a streetcar came by, and he jumped on the streetcar and escaped. She had a daughter, and she got the poor child to write, “darling daddy” letters to Krishnaji.

Anyway, we traveled on to Madras. It had been rather cool and dry in Rajghat; in fact, it was rather cold. We flew back to Delhi, because we had to go to Delhi to get to Madras.
Again, I spent the night at the International Center, and Krishnaji stayed at the Shiva Rao’s. Then Krishnaji, Alain, and I flew to Madras. I remember stepping out of the plane in Madras, and it was suddenly the tropics. It was late afternoon, and it was totally different. There were crowds of people to greet Krishnaji, many of them with garlands, and one of them was Mrs. Jayalakshmi. She was quite tall for an Indian woman, with great presence and dignity. She dressed in a South Indian style, which was always the cotton blouse with beautiful heavy, heavy, heavy silk saris, but she wore them differently: it was wrapped around her waist in a different way. It wasn’t the over-the-shoulder way, and it had great elegance. Eventually I saw her collection of saris, which is something extraordinary. She was very silent, and rather shy; and slightly austere. When Alain greeted her, she said, “I have found you a house.” She proceeded to drive us to the house that she had rented for us. She also rented all the furniture from Spencer’s in town, and she lent us her Brahmin cook to cook one meal a day! I couldn’t believe the hospitality. She didn’t know Frances and she didn’t know me. She knew Alain, and because he’d written to her that Krishnaji wanted so and so, she’d gone to all this trouble!  Really extraordinary. So we moved in; Frances and I had rooms upstairs with a bath. Alain was downstairs, and we had a kitchen, where I was to get breakfast and supper. And I remember my first glimpse of the kitchen, a room about ten feet by twenty feet, a sizeable room, and at the narrow end were shelves with  cooking pots, which looked like silver, but they don’t have handles. At the other end of the room was a stone counter with a square hole cut out, above which was a cold water faucet. That was the sink. To the left of that was a huge kerosene burner . Well, the one servant arrived, the Brahmin cook. He was a very handsome young man, very polite and austere and dignified, but I saw him preparing lunch on the floor. Chop, chop, chop, chop, on the floor. Now, because he’s Brahmin he’s very clean, and I realized that I had to not go in there without taking off shoes and having clean feet! So, my first meal was breakfast, but before that the milk-man came with water buffalo milk. He carried it in a huge pitcher. The customers had their container, and he would pour it into your container. And I remember there was always the dirty thumb that was holding it like this and the milk cascaded down over the dirty thumb. So I would boil the milk. There was also an earthenware closed pot for boiled water which was filled by the Brahmin cook. You could trust the water. I made toast on the camp-fire thing with toast stuck on a fork and there was fruit, carefully cut so you didn’t get dysentery. That was breakfast That was interesting as a first experience. Frances didn’t do anything about breakfast in those days. I got the breakfast alone Anyway, I was invited over to Vasanta Vihar Krishnaji showed me all around and explained that when he was no longer welcome in the TS Rajagopal collected donations to buy the six acres of Vasanta Vihar. They had intended to build two small buildings, but somehow all this great big thing was built, which wasn’t what Krishnaji would have chosen, but there it was. He showed me everything, including the big hall and his rooms upstairs, etc., the whole thing.

After that we went for a walk. Mrs. Jayalakshmi drove us to the deer park, and the three of us walked around the deer park. That was nice. Then, the public talks began, at which point I got the flu. I was really sick and had to stay in bed. I remember thinking that I was going to get pneumonia because I got sicker and sicker and sicker. Finally, one night I went down to Alain’s room and said, “Look, what am I going to do?” He responded, “I promise you, as your friend, that if you really get seriously ill, I will get you to the American hospital in Paris if I have to drag you there myself.” That reassured me. I had a terrible feeling that I’d be put in an Indian hospital. I kept having visions, I suppose from movies, where there’s a caravan crossing the desert and someone falls off a camel, and the rest just continue on. And that was going to be me! Left in India! So, my spirits picked up and I guess I conquered my bug. The moment my fever dropped, Alain told Krishnaji, who said, “Bring her here.” Alain came back and told me, “Krishnaji wants to see you NOW!” So I staggered up and put clothes on. He wanted to do, what we have come to call, “healing.”  That was the first time he ever did that with me. He sat me down in a chair, put his hands on my shoulders so lightly it was like a bird’s wing touching me. He then asked me where I felt the illness, and I had, of course, terrible sinus congestion. He put his hand on, above, and beneath my eyes as though smoothing it away with the tips of his fingers. Then he put one of his hands over one eye and the other hand on one shoulder. The pain stopped instantly. He said, “Now, you come every day and I’ll do it.” I was so touched. It was terribly moving. Years later, he once helped my housekeeper, Filomina, who had terrible arthritis. She said to me afterward, “A le mani de un santo.” He has the hands of a saint. He would always go away afterwards and shake his hands like he was shaking it all away, but he seemed to me to be doing something like shaking the illness off. And then he’d go and wash his hands. The first lunch I was invited to was held in that big room where all the meetings are held. There was a table at the end of it. Madhavachari was there and Krishnaji, and I don’t remember who else.

Krishnaji drove with Pama and I forget who else. Alain, Frances, and I were in a separate car that I had hired with a driver. We all set off at four in the morning, as you will remember, the usual time to set off for Rishi Valley. Krishnaji’s car was ahead, and he had told me to look for the Southern Cross, which I’d never seen. I remember driving through that morning before sunrise and the bullock carts coming in from the country bringing vegetables to the city; those white bullocks prodding slowly along, not to be hurried, and the lorries honking—the whole thing. Going through villages where people were huddled around small, smoky fires and all wrapped up, especially their heads and necks wrapped up to keep them warm in the predawn of India. We were to all meet up and have a picnic breakfast somewhere along the road. But when we got to a certain road block, a check point as it were, it turned out that our car didn’t have the proper papers, so the car had to go back to a place called Nallore. After much gesticulating, talking, and so forth, we hired another taxi, which had the proper papers. So, we got to Rishi Valley rather late. The other car had stopped for the picnic breakfast, but we never turned up. Krishnaji was out in front of the old guest house when we arrived.

I immediately felt better in Rishi Valley, because it was a different climate: dry. It was like Arizona for me. All my troubles with that flu-like illness ended with the good climate.
Krishnaji was in that little room of his upstairs in the old guest house. I just remember the strange look of the valley, with those extraordinary rocks that have always looked to me like children’s toys that must have been put there by a giant baby and balanced just so. Nature wouldn’t have done it that way. I’ve forgotten to mention what happened in Madras before we went to RishiValley that year. George Vithoulkas suddenly turned up. He’d gotten, I guess, scared of the swami. He thought some sort of black magic was going on. Anyway, he turned up, and Alain was really angry at him for the way he’d behaved, because Alain felt responsible for having introduced him to Krishnaji. It got to be rather unpleasant between them, so George left rather rudely, as I recall. It was all quite unpleasant. Most of the Indians were very disapproving of all this, but they rather blamed Alain for it because Alain was suddenly an intruder for them. They had to go through Alain, to some degree, to see Krishnaji or arrange things for him. They felt he was an intruder, and they didn’t like him for that. I think there was great resentment. And as Alain wasn’t deferential, Madhavachari particularly disliked him.

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 26 Aug 2017.

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Fri, 16 Jun 2017 #258
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

MZ's K-story (continued)

(Winter 1966) At the Rishi Valley old guest house Krishnaji had two small rooms upstairs, and there was also a dining room and a kitchen and a big open place where meetings were held. Downstairs there were some guest rooms. Frances McCann and I had each a room downstairs and we shared a rather large bath. Alain was on the other side of the building in his quarters. We settled in, and eventually went to lunch. There was a special dining room for the visitors, and the food was less spicily prepared than for the school.

I was immediately struck with the beauty of RishiValley, which was entirely different from Madras. It was dry, and it has a wonderful feeling of being away from the whole world somehow, which I like. To the west there was the mountain which Krishnaji cared so much about called Rishi Konda. In the afternoon the students used to go to watch the sun go down behind Rishi Konda, which was a nice sight because they’d all had their bath after playing sports, and changed into little white pajama suits. All the boys with their black hair, their big eyes, and the white, clean and neat outfits, and very young. It was very, very nice to see. Krishnaji felt that there was something sacred about Rishi Konda. The legend was that once some hermit had lived up at the summit, a holy man, a Rishi. And he’d left some kind of 'something' in the air, which Krishnaji felt, I think. He didn’t say he felt it, but he cared very much about Rishi Konda.
The way of our life usually there was as follows: In the mornings sometimes Krishnaji would talk to the staff, in which case we (meaning Alain, Frances, myself and any other guests) would sit in on the discussions. On certain days there’d be a chanting in assembly when the students chanted, and Krishnaji would go. He usually sat among the students on the floor, cross-legged, and chanted with them. It was very beautiful, very moving. Some days I would go up the mountain by myself and lie in the sun and take a sunbath and feel a wonderful sense of being away from the whole rest of the world, in this ancient valley, sort of suspended in time and place. Usually, in the afternoon, I would walk, and very often I would be invited to accompany Krishnaji on his walk with maybe some other people. I met Narayan then and walked with him and with Krishnaji. Other days I’d be walking on my own and sometimes meet him coming back from his walk and walk back with him and talk.

Somewhere in those weeks we were there, I asked Krishnaji for another interview. This time I felt much more relaxed in the interview with him. I remember the question that I had on my mind which, was one of relationship. I asked him if there is indeed any reality to relationship between people if they really don’t see each other a great deal. He asked me what I had in mind. Well, what I was talking about was a niece of mine who was quite a young child then, and I was concerned about her but I hardly ever saw her. I was questioning whether there was any relationship just because you’re a member of a family. He asked me a little bit about it, the circumstances of the child’s life, where she was, etc. In effect he replied that probably there wasn’t any relationship, but there would be if there’s an exchange of some kind, either a conversation or by letter, or something. If I was to establish a contact verbally, then relationship can be real and can endure, but otherwise not.
Then he asked me what all this (by which he meant the really listening to him, the contact, etc.) was meaning to me. I repeated what I’d said to him in an earlier conversation, which is that I was leery, as it were, of trying to measure where I was all the time because of the inclination to and danger of trying to achieve some aim. I saw that that wasn’t an intelligent way to go about it. He then asked me if I was fearful of anything. I replied, “Well, actually no, not at the moment, but I distrust that. It’s like a fear of not being afraid.” He laughed a little bit, smiled at that, and said, “Don’t do that. Don’t make problems for yourself.”
I told him that once earlier I had said to him, “I’m very hesitant about asking for an interview with you because I don’t want to take up your time unnecessarily, and there are so many people who want to talk to you. So, I haven’t asked to speak to you in quite a long time. Also, it didn’t seem right, unless I have a crisis of some kind, I shouldn’t ask.
I remember his replying, “Now that we’ve talked a little bit and we know each other better, it will be easier for you to speak…” Also,  he didn’t want to have to tell me to come for my so-called treatment. You know, I had been sick in Madras, and I should just come when I thought it was necessary. I said, again, that I was hesitant to bother him with anything like that. He replied, “Well, now we know each other better, it will be easier.” So, that was the end of that.

He called me Mrs. Zimbalist for years! I’ve forgotten now when he changed, but I think that for about seven years he kept calling me Mrs. Zimbalist! He’d been my house guest for years, and he still was calling me Mrs. Zimbalist! This is jumping ahead but, he switched from Mrs. Zimbalist to Maria. Well, there are so many Marys around—Mary Lutyens, Mary Cadogan—so he called me 'Maria.' I remember that before that interview he wanted to cure me of something, and he said, “Do you want it before we talk or after?”
I said, “I think after.” You could often tell with Krishnaji if you made the right answer. You felt it. And also one always knew when an interview was over. His attention was turned off like a light. It was curious; not his total attention—he would still speak to you and all that, but that other quality went out. You just knew, that was that, you felt it was over. When I got up from the interview, he pulled out a chair for me to sit on. He washed his hands and came back and stood behind me very quietly for a while, and then, ever so lightly, he put his fingers on my eyelids. The touch of his fingers was extraordinary. It was as delicate as a leaf touching a pool of water. It was so unlike most human touch.

I remember some nuns who were always asked for lunch up in Krishnaji’s dining room. I also remember Balasundaram's wife, Vishalakshi, being a traditional Indian wife; she didn’t eat with everybody. She sat on a stool and saw that everything was properly done, but she didn’t eat. Very old-fashioned Indian style.

Pongal occurred then while we were then in Rishi Valley. All the bullocks were dressed up with flowers and ornaments on their horns. Villagers came and played on flute-like things and drums, and the children had a lovely time dancing. Krishnaji came with his big umbrella to watch. He called it not a parasol, but a sun umbrella. At some point in his early years, I don’t know when exactly, he’d had sunstroke in India, so he was sensitive to sun, which is why he used to walk always in the afternoon, when the sun wasn’t high.

It was a wonderfully peaceful time. I remember the combination of Krishnaji, his talks, the beautiful valley, the remoteness, the silence, children all around, and those funny hills. A great atmosphere there. I imagined suddenly leaving everything and becoming a kind of hermit there. Then, of course, there were the dance performances under the banyan tree. I think that the same Mrs. Moonlight lady—the demented lady—had come, too. So, again, we had to run interference for Krishnaji to keep her away from Krishnaji.
But overall, Rishi Valley was just lovely.
The next move was to Bombay but via Bangalore. Again, Alain, Frances, and I had a car, a school car this time, which took us to Bangalore. We had lunch, did a little shopping, and then we met Krishnaji at the airport and flew to Bombay. In Bombay he was staying with Pupul Jayakar in her house. Alain was staying with one of her sisters. .
Frances and I stayed at the Taj hotel, and I think Alain eventually joined us. I was invited over to Pupul’s for lunch about the second day, and Krishnaji said, “Bring me the things that you want kept safely.” In other words, money, passports, and things like that. So, I brought them, and he took me through the bathroom into his bed-room, and he took my things and put them away, saying they were perfectly safe as no one would come in his room. He then said, going out through the bathroom, “When I got here they had all sorts of pictures on the wall of Indian statuary , and they’d taken them down quickly after he’d got there. And he added, “But not before I’d had a good look!” All those erotic statuary. I remember Alain saying, “They were pornographic, weren’t they, sir?’ And Krishnaji replied, “Oh, no, they were 'religious'!” I said that I didn’t feel that they could be pornographic because they all looked so happy! Well, it turned out as the conversation went on, that I hadn’t seen the ones that were on the bathroom wall; I’d only seen ones that are reproduced books—strange positions and so forth. Anyway, I had lunch there.

Then Krishnaji began giving his talks. They were held in the usual place, in that college of art. He also held public discussions in the something like Khareghat Hall, which lots of people came to. You had to leave your sandals outside, and I remember one day I came out and all the sandals had been stolen!  Hundreds of pair of sandals where gone! Great consternation. Then there were walks around the hanging gardens in Malabar Hills with a required number of laps around. Krishnaji one day (there were people milling around), and pointed to a couple on a bench with their arms around each other, sprawling, and he said, “What is this country coming to? You never would have seen that a few years ago.” He sounded quite shocked.
There was shopping obviously; one shops in all these places.
Krishnaji talked several times about Elephanta and the great statue of the Mahesh Murti. I rather vaguely said I’d like to see that again. To which Krishnaji replied, “No, no, it’s too tiring.” I said, “Well maybe the boat ride would be tiring but, what if I hired a helicopter? Would you go by helicopter?” “Oh no, no,” he said, “don’t bother, don’t bother.” So, of course, I went hunting for a helicopter. And that wasn’t very easy, but finally I had one 
So, I went back and said, “I think I can get the helicopter. Will you go if I do?” He replied, “No, no, even that’s too tiring.” So, I went with Alain by boat. Yes, and I could see why that wouldn’t do for Krishnaji at all - we climbed up to the cave where it is, and in spite of the fact there were children running around playing music on radios, that extraordinary statue is something unforgettable. Much later, Krishnaji got a photograph of it, which I have in Ojai, and he said (and I felt the same way), “We’re not going to put it up because one mustn’t get used to looking at it, then one doesn’t see it.” To this day it sits on a shelf in the closet, and occasionally I take it out and look at it.

I was invited to several at Pupul’s discussions , and I remember in particular the first one I went to. There were about fifteen people. Krishnaji asked the question, “What can the individual do in the face of the disintegration of society?” He made it something very interesting. He said that an individual cannot be changed by another individual. He made a distinction between individual consciousness and human consciousness: the individual consciousness is one’s own, but an individual can affect the totality of human consciousness. He said that if only two or three people ever could do what he talked so often about, it would make a change in the world. He was pointing that out in this discussion. The individual who has changed has a vast resonance, like a wave going out from the individual; if there’s really change in the individual it would spread out like a wave through the totality of human beings. He didn’t use those exact words, but that was the implication of what he was saying. He said one has to see this, but people aren’t willing to. It was one of those discussions which were frustrating because he would say something like that and then inevitably, as in all discussions, there’d be someone who would say, “But we don’t see that, Krishnaji!” And then the discussion would go back as so many of his discussions did. So you’d go through a whole catalogue of what’s wrong, and it wouldn’t go forward. It was frustrating, somehow. If the discussion had flowed onward, people had gone with it, they would have seen something. Oh yes! , there was one day, another private discussion, and he was a little bit late, which he usually never was; he came in laughing, and said, “I’ve just been scolded by a guru.” Apparently some guru took him to task for saying that gurus were no good! He was laughing at that so much! I think he said that in a talk at which I felt that one occasionally gets a sort of insight, and then thought perceives that insight as a danger to itself because we perceive that as almost like death; because if we really went ahead the self would disappear, and that is perceived by the thought process as death,  and it’s so scary that you pull back, and don’t go ahead.

Anyway, he talked, and whatever I said, I said, and he said things back. But I had the feeling—many people have these feelings in talks with Krishnaji—that he was talking to me directly, not only words, but subconsciously. I could feel it coming at me, even when he was talking to somebody else or addressing some particular question. It was very strange. Afterward he came over to me for some reason and said, “You didn’t mind me pounding you in that talk, did you?” I replied, “No, of course not.” It was one of those times when there were different levels of communication going on.
I think it was in that talk that he said, “When you see that the road you’re on is the wrong road—you’re going north and someone comes and says that doesn’t lead anywhere; go south or east or west—why don’t you do it? Why don’t you see that where you’re going leads no place and stop?” I remember saying, “But I can’t stop walking. My mind won’t stop. Even though I see it’s futile. It won’t go on.”
He replied, “Why do you say that? You think you can’t, but you can.”
I remember that strongly. It was like, he didn’t say it then, but it’s like, “Stop thinking.” I had never done that. I mean, I could stop thinking about a particular thing, but the mind would run on in some other way.

I remember another discussion. This was the final discussion. It was again on the subject of thought and the difficulty of letting go of thought. I found that impossible. Krishnaji said something quite extraordinary which made the whole thing clear to me. He used the metaphor of the drum that is silent—the silence was necessary. “Thought is the un-tuning of the drum,” he said. And he also said, “What happens when you put thought aside? Turn your back on it?” I again replied that I couldn’t do it and said, “How does one turn away even when the futility of that is seen?” He said, “You mean you’re in thought and you can’t get out? Why do you insist on that?”
All I could do was just be stuck. And then he did something quite remarkable. All of sudden he said to me, “Mrs. Zimbalist, is beauty thought?” And that broke it for me. I saw that. That isn’t thought. It was like a blinding light all of a sudden.
I remember also that at the end of that discussion, he said, “If you could see the beauty of the empty drum tuned and out of that, action comes.” I said, “Yes, I see.”
And then when he said goodbye, he said, “Hold onto that drum!”

There was also a dinner party at Mrs. Mehta’s house, the mother of Nandini and Pupul. It was in their old family house, it was quite beautiful. Really marvelous food, extraordinary food, and everyone was wonderfully dressed in saris and things. There was a great sense of the affection that the family had for Krishnaji. In one of the discussions,  suddenly a door burst open and Nandini’s little grandchild, who later became a dancer - she was a little girl of about six or something then, she rushed into the room to Krishnaji, and he jumped up and kissed her on both cheeks and threw her up in the air to her delight.There was such excitement in the child’s face, and his joy in seeing this little child. It was lovely. So, then, the time for India was over. I must say everyone was absolutely charming to me, all the Indians. They were friendly, and went out of their way to help me with shopping or any of those things. I was invited to their houses. So I felt I was nicely treated as a guest, in a way.

But there was a kind of private relation that was between Krishnaji, Alain, and myself. I mean, he would talk with us about other non-Indian things—wanted to discuss for instance the house and whether he should accept the invitation to talk at Harvard and at the New School and all those things. It was as though that was his private life apart from Indian things. And I seemed to have become more and more a key person. In fact, I remember that when we were still in Rishi Valley, at the end of that discussion that I mentioned earlier, I went back to just mentioning the other interviews that he’d given me, which of course he didn’t remember, and I said, “Sir, I feel that, as I seem to be increasingly a fixture around you that you should look into what I’m like. You should ask me anything you want. You should know who the people are around you.” . I said, “I’m shy too, but I think it’s only right that if there’s anything that you want to know about me, you would ask me, please.”

On the last day in India, I went over to Krishnaji’s, to Pupul’s house to collect my passport or whatever it was that I left with him. When I came in people were seated on the floor in a little sitting room just to the left as you come in. There was a dark bearded minstrel who held a stringed instrument, one string, and a little clicking castanet sort of thing. The minute Krishnaji came into the room, he started to play and sing. It was lovely, haunting songs. Apparently Krishnaji had heard him singing in the street and had him brought in to play. We sat and listened to it. Krishnaji said that he’d heard the singing in the street and he knew that rich people who lived around there don’t hear it, only the servants would hear it. He also said that the man was from the south and spoke Telugu. When it was over, Krishnaji went and thanked him and put a gift of clothing on the floor next to him. I remember so clearly the grace with which he did something like that. It is rare for a person to be able to convey such human grace in everything he did.

So, that evening, everybody went to the airport, and there were a whole mass of devotees who came to see him off. They were seated in a big circle in a room, and Krishnaji was seated on a chair, and there was dead silence. I remember that when I came in, he got up as he would if a woman came into the room, and you could feel a shock wave go around through the whole of the Indian devotees that Krishnaji would get up for a woman.
And finally, he got up and went out in the hallway, and the Parsee lady, Mrs. Moonlight, she was after him. So, again, we had to protect him. I should clarify, we had been in a sort of a sitting room that had been put aside for him as a waiting room, and then there was the open airport outside. So, I went along too, to protect him, until Madhavachari came, and then he kept her away. Krishnaji said to me, “I can’t stand sitting there and being stared at.” So, off we went. Alain and I were in tourist class, and Krishnaji was in first class, but he kept coming back to see us, and said, “I’m visiting the poor.”
So that was the end of India that time. We landed in Rome. Krishnaji went to stay with Vanda Scaravelli, at the house she’d rented in Rome, Via Casaletto, and I stayed in Hotel Rafael, off Piazza Navona, which is a very nice little hotel, but I didn’t stay there long as I went back to the United States. This was the end of March 1966, and I didn’t see Krishnaji again until April, in London. Krishnaji stayed in Rome for a while. That may be the year where he went to Bircher Benner Clinic, in Switzerland, but I’m not sure.

I saw him again in London, in April and, again, he was in a crummy little rented house in Wimbledon; not right in Wimbledon, but near there, in Kingston something, near the Kingston Bypass. Alain telephoned me and said, “Will you meet us at Huntsman?” And of course, this entertained me vastly because it was the follow-on of the last time we were in London.  Anyway, there was much pouring over samples, and they ordered suits. Everybody was very happy. I was consulted on the choices, as my advice was really a Ph.D. advice! Or so I was considered. And there was just the whole experience of going into Huntsman. They greet you with such ceremony; bow with, “Good morning, sir,” and he was always so pleased to be there. He used to say that Huntsman was “his club,” as he put it. Mr. Lintott was just as pleased to see Mr. Krishnamurti as Mr. Krishnamurti was to be there. So, all the “patterns,” as they called samples of materials, were brought out, and there was great discussion about what was needed. Then, of course, he had the added fun of deciding what Naudé “needed,” as he said. Krishnaji called him Naudé always; never called him Alain. “Naudé should have a blue suit.”
So what kind of a blue suit, what weight of a blue suit? Where and what climates would he being wearing it, and what occasions? This was all a very serious matter. And it entertained me greatly.

By then I had ordered a car because I don’t think I had a car before that. Anyway, I’d ordered a Jaguar, not a Mercedes. Ordered it in California for delivery in London. I drove it out to the little horrid house by the Kingston Bypass. I remember Krishnaji looking out the window and rushing out to see the car. He looked it all over, but as it wasn’t a Mercedes, he didn’t say very much. I think it was that day that he gave his first talk at the Friends Hall on Euston Road, and we went to that in the Jaguar. It was a bigger and better hall than Wimbledon, but it’s still not such a great hall.
The next day,  in the car, I took them on their round of appointments, mostly shopping. I can still see driving them in and out from Kingston Bypass place, which was the point of the car. Krishnaji had a wonderful way in the car. We’d be chatting about anything, and he would suddenly say, “Do you mind if we talk seriously?” Naturally one agreed. And he would say something like, “Meditation can be extraordinary if you know how to do it.” And then he’d say, “What is humility?” And then he’d say, “It is without content, without any movement toward anything.” There were these extraordinary unrecorded little things, which luckily, I made some notes of these.
And then he would ask me, “Does it interfere with your driving if we talk seriously?” He wanted to discuss, “What is seriousness? What is it to you?” he would ask. And then I would say whatever I thought it was. He replied, “There is decision in it.”

After he had talked to David Bohm he said that David had said that he was not decisive. That word struck Krishnaji, that decision was a part of all this. At that point, Naudé quoted something Krishnaji had said some time before about seriousness, but Krishnaji brushed it aside. He didn’t want to go back to something he had said, and he was looking at it anew at that moment. At one point he asked me about someone we both knew, whether that person was serious. I apparently paused quite a while and then said, “No.”
He then asked, “What do you mean by that?” I said that to me a person isn’t serious if they’re unwilling to go wherever the inquiry takes them; and that was why I answered “No” about this person. He countered by asking, “Why do people do that?”
I felt that a serious person doesn’t chose or decide out of self-interest.
Krishnaji then asked me why they always act out of self-interest; to which I responded that I thought it is an impulse in people and they were “afraid of putting all their eggs in one basket,” as I put it. He replied “But actually people would have much more, but they don’t see it.”

Then he asked me out of the blue, “Would you be serious if you married (god forbid), and had a family?” I said it depended on the marriage and the relationship.
He said that people say they are serious about work and about the people they marry. “I am serious about the suit I’m going to fit.” I said, “Well, is that because there’s no extraneous questions about that?” He replied, “Have you self-interest in your car?” We were driving.
I said, “Yes, but were these things a measure of seriousness, or was it what the car meant to me? I am serious about the car to a point,” but I said, “not dependent on it.” That was the kind of conversation that would go on. All the time, he’s directing me through traffic. He was the greatest backseat driver that I’ve ever encountered, or heard of. He would, he would do hand signals. There’d be a red light coming up, and with his hand, while still talking, he would slow me down. Occasionally, when we weren’t talking (so-called) seriously, he would say,  “There’s a red light ahead.” Oh dear.

Then one day we got on to the subject at the table with Anneke. I was there for a meal. Anneke brought up LSD, and Krishnamurti expressed surprise that I knew anything about it. He told us again about soma in ancient India and how he had discussed this with Huxley and Huxley told him LSD wasn’t quite the real thing. Krishnaji said, “It can’t be like the real thing.” I had told him all about my being part of a scientific experiment with it. He rather dismissed it. Huxley had taken all these things at the time he knew Krishnaji.
I sat next to him at that dinner party, and during that dinner, I asked him whether Krishnaji’s knowledge of LSD and all that had come from him and whether that was why Krishnaji felt so much against it? Huxley gave an odd reply, he said, “Oh, well, it’s part of his vegetarianism.”
Anyway, on this day, he wanted to go for a ride. So in the non-Mercedes Jaguar, we were going to go to Wisley again, but as we got toward Wisley, he said he didn’t want to go there. So, we went on to the Links’s. He had told me all about how he’d known her since she was a baby, and that she and her husband Joe had  a house near Haslemere. So, we headed for Haslemere. We didn’t know where to go, but Alain inquired and we finally found the house, but there wasn’t anybody there. A farmer who was in a field said that he knew who we were talking about, and he thought that they would’ve been out for a walk. So we parked the car at the house, and we walked along the road, and met them coming back.
Krishnaji was delighted, and they were thrilled to see him, of course. I had the pleasure of meeting them for the first time.
We went in and we had tea, and immediately everybody was very congenial. Mary writes about it in her book: how she was pleased to see that Krishnaji had some fun in his life with two people who laughed and enjoyed things with him. On those drives, Krishnaji would remember places that he’d stayed in the old days. Apparently, he’d stayed all over England with various people. He would explain it by saying that he was never allowed to go out by himself when he was young. He always had to have two initiates with him at all times. The reason being that Dr. Besant thought he’d be safer, but also because he would give all his money away. If he was alone, he’d just give it to someone who needed it. So, Dr. Besant said, “For god’s sake, don’t let him go out alone!
That was a lovely day, just a lovely day. We drove back.
There was another drive, which is almost historic in a way because we decided to drive to the Cotswolds. I went with maps and an itinerary and everything, but when I got to the house, and it was decided that maybe that was too far. So we set out towards Winchester. And as I look back on it, we must’ve driven right past the road up to Brockwood, because from Kingston we went out the A3 and must’ve turned onto the A272 and drove right by. Nobody had any paranormal intimations of the future, and we got to Winchester. We looked at the Royal Hotel for lunch, but there wasn’t anything vegetarian. Alain went in and looked at the menu and found that it wouldn’t do. So we wound up at the Wessex’s.

After lunch we went to the cathedral and looked around it. Then we drove on roads, I remember the names of Grateley, the Wallops! And in the middle of Middle Wallop probably, we decided to take a nap. I had a big steamer rug in the back of the car, which we took into a field, and spread it out on the grass. Each person had a portion of the rug, and we lay down and snoozed a little. And then, refreshed, we drove on to Stonehenge, which in those days was so wonderful because it wasn’t surrounded by fence. There was nobody around. You could just go up to the stones. It was wonderful! We drove back by another route In the car, Krishnaji said that a question by some young people he’d seen the day before had come back to him in the morning. He’d thought of it, and he said that, “Time is a like a river flowing, but we divide it into the past, the present, and the future. But one must see the whole of it, and then when you see it, then time has a stop.”
Suddenly he said, “Yes, I see, but I mustn’t talk about it now.” Which meant that he’d seen something that he didn’t want to talk about because he’d talk about it in a public talk. Then quite suddenly he said, ”When my brother died, this person” meaning himself “fainted, went into a coma for several days, so Shiva Rao told me,” He didn’t remember. And when he came to they all assured him he was alright—the Masters and all that. But though he cried out and it was a great shock, he never tried to move from that fact, to question what it all meant. He just suddenly came out with this thing about his brother. And then he was very intense and very elated by the idea of time, and said, “I wish I could give a talk right now!”

That night, I had supper with them. Anneke had it ready when we got there. He kept saying at the table, “I’m ready to talk now!” We were concerned that he wouldn’t sleep—it would be hard for him to sleep in such a mood, so he wouldn’t get enough sleep the night before a talk. So, we watched television as a soporific to calm him down. Then I went back to Eaton Place.

He was talking to David Bohm during these times. They were having discussions. Sarel and David would come 'on the tube' to Sloane Square or somewhere near there, and I would pick them up there and drive them out. In one of the discussions, Krishnaji made the statement that, “there is, in effect, nothing to do but listen, listen with affection.” That’s the way he put it. He said that if a statement is made that is true, it has its own action if you listen. He illustrated this with that story of the robbers—he’s told it many times—of the band of robbers is made by their leader to close their eyes and ears as they go past a teacher who is teaching. The youngest robber steps on a thorn, and drops his hands, and hears the words, “stealing is evil,” which he truly hears, and he could no longer steal. After these discussion we would walk in Richmond Park quite a lot, David, Sarel and Krishnaji and myself.. Also, Krishnaji started asking questions about “that boy”—meaning himself—why, despite everything, he wasn’t conditioned. He was talking about that an awful lot in the car. Anyway, we again went to Mary and Joe’s in the country one day. It was pouring rain, and we took a picnic to eat on the way down, but we ate it in the car because of the rain. I remember that I made a ratatouille— Anyway, we went and had tea with Mary and Joe and had another lovely walk because the rain had gone away.

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 26 Aug 2017.

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Sat, 17 Jun 2017 #259
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

MZ's Story Time continued:

( Summer 1966) From my research in the Michelin guide, I’d found a nice place to have lunch somewhere in Le Touquet. It was very nice because it was sort of cottages around an old building. I had a big room with a fireplace. Krishnaji and Alain were somewhere else, I don’t know where they were, not in the same cottage, but we had dinner in my cottage. We ordered room service and we had a fire. It was lovely. This was May twelfth 1966.
So, we spent the night there. Everybody’d slept well, and it was a beautiful day the next day. Around noon we drove on towards Paris, and I had ordered a table at the Coq Hardi, a ravishing restaurant near Malmaison, west of Paris. In summer, you sit outside on a terrace, and behind there’s a hill, and it’s all banked in hydrangeas. And the food is superb. I obviously was taken there by my father many times.

So, I knew about it, but of course they hadn’t been there, and we had a sumptuous lunch. One beautiful dish of vegetables after another, and fruit. Krishnaji was pleased. So we went on into Paris in the afternoon. I dropped Krishnaji and Alain at the Suarèses’ at about four o’clock. On May fifteenth, Krishnaji gave his first talk in the Salle Adyar; apart from the talks, there was shopping. Then we went to the Bois de Boulogne and to the park of Bagatelle which is lovely. We walked around, and I think we had

tea or something to drink, and then I drove them back.
On the twentieth I drove Krishnaji, Alain, and Pupul Jayakar to Chartres. We went through the cathedral again, and had lunch. Then we came back to Paris, dropped Pupul at her hotel, and went back to the Bois for another walk.
There was going to be another young people’s discussion arranged by Alain, and I was able to hire a nice room for that discussion in the Hotel Pont Royale. I took them to it, and sat in on it. Afterward, I dropped them back, and I went to tea with Marianne Borel, a 'little bird' like lady with white hair, very French. She always used to put up money for the camping people in the tent to have food. Well anyway, she gave a tea, and that was for all the French people, and so I met them all. On another day, I lunched with Marcelle and Mar de Manziarly there. There were two other characters of note: General and Madame Bouvards . He was a retired general and she was a rather worldly woman. They were around in Saanen every year, and Madame Bouvards would give luncheons and things. So, we went and had a luncheon with them and somebody called Nagaswaran who played the veena in India, for Krishnaji, and also he played it at the house that Alain and Frances and I shared. He was rather nice, and he moved to France, I think, and believe he started a school.
I was invited to the Suarèses’ for meals, once or twice. He was a little gnomish-like man, and he was very busy, really absorbed, in doing some translations and writing a book about the Kabbalah. He was very involved in that. Nadine was a grey-haired, middle-aged, very French-looking lady, but in fact they were both Egyptian. They came from Egypt.

There was another young people’s discussion, and I took K there. And then coming back, this is a saga. I drove that small distance between from the Hotel Pont Royal and the Suarèses’, and as I got to the corner, where their building is, the Jaguar stopped. Luckily, there was a parking place right on the corner, and I was able to roll it in. I don’t know how, but I did. And so I said to Alain and Krishnaji, “Go away, and leave me to deal with this.”
After some protests, they did. This was on the twenty-ninth of May, and there ensued an absolutely frantic and comic day trying to get the Jaguar moving, have life again. I eventually got someone through the auto club, I don’t know what. “Ma voiture est en panne,” said I. “Oui, oui, Madame,” came the reply. He would come and deal with it. So, how he dealt with it is that he towed it away. And I couldn’t find it. I was due to drive K, in the Jaguar, to Switzerland. And it was Pentecôte, and nobody was anywhere. I finally located the man who towed it away, and I learned where it was supposed to be. He said that he would meet me there. He hadn’t been able to fix it, but we were going to try to get it out anyway. So I went in a taxi way into the eastern part of Paris, to some terrible place, where all the dead cars go when they die and mine was behind a big wall with a big gate and an enormous padlock on it. So, the man climbed the fence, and was to stand guard outside in case the police came by Anyway, he got the gate open, and he got the car out, but it would only go in very low gear in fits and starts. And driving it that way with this awful jerky motion, I thought it’s ruining the whole car so it’ll never recover from this. He got it to the Jaguar agency up near the Étoile. By this time, I was rather a nervous wreck. The next morning, I called the Jaguar people, but they were rather vague about the whole thing. So, I got Alain on the phone and I said, “You’ve got to come with me, or we’ll never get it” –we were supposed to leave that morning for Switzerland! We went over, and Alain was marvelous. He found out who was head of the whole place and where his office was, and we went upstairs to it, and he walked in with me in tow. There was the boss behind a big desk, important man in a conference with other important men.

Alain walked up and said in immaculate French, “Monsieur, I am bringing you a great problem. Madame is due to leave this morning in her car to take a very distinguished gentleman on a tour of France and to Switzerland. It is the highest importance that the car be able to run. Will you see to it?” With that, the chef de Jaguar pointed to an underling and told him to take care of this.
We went out and followed him down, and there was the poor car. So we got in and, again, a harrowing ride into the Bois with the car going in lower than low gear, I don’t know what, and jerking, jerking all the way. The technician, who was driving, forced the car to go. Apparently the car was not broken. There was something stuck, and by forcing it, and forcing it, and forcing it…suddenly it went!
When we went back to the Jaguar dealership, I said, “We can postpone our departure until after lunch, but I will need the car looked at in detail between now and 3 o’clock,” or whatever it was.
Alain and I then took a taxi, fetched Krishnaji, and went to 'Chez Conti', which is an Italian restaurant in Paris, very good. Mr. Conti, the founder and owner, was very attached to my father because, not only was my father a great customer (all restaurant owners adored my father, because he was the perfect customer), but  Mr. Conti was also a racing fan, and Father had horses, and went to the races every day.
So, Mr. Conti was all too pleased to give us a wonderful lunch. Krishnaji was delighted to have Italian food, and said, “Why haven’t we come here every day?!”

After lunch I fetched the Jaguar, got my luggage from the hotel, and I met them both at the Suarèses’ - they were getting old, and Krishnaji’s being with them was becoming more of a burden than a privilege. They made remarks about, “Oh, it’s so much trouble, so much work, when you’re here.” And Krishnaji felt uncomfortable. Now, the car was driving perfectly, so off we went to Touraine. This was when Krishnaji told both Alain and me that, at times, he faints; and that, if it happened, we weren’t to be frightened, but “don’t touch the body,” as he put it. So, we’re going out of Paris on the thirty-first of May. Heavy traffic going south on the Autoroute du Soleil. We’re driving along, and something made me glance at Krishnaji, and he s-l-o-w-l-y fainted to the left into, more or less, my lap. I put out my hand instinctively. I was afraid his head would hit the steering wheel. I couldn’t stop the car. Cars, you know pouring all around us. Alain was in the back seat. It was extraordinary the way this happened. It was like slow motion. He didn’t go 'plop'. He v-e-r-y slowly, like a flower leaning over, so I was able to continue to drive. Luckily, I was in the right-hand lane. As soon as possible, when there was an exit, we got off the auto-route. Alain was in the back seat, but he couldn’t do anything. After a few minutes, with a cry, Krishnaji came to. But it was curious - every time it ever happened in a car, 'something' made me turn and look at him just before it happened. Every time. It was very odd, because it happened a number of times later on. But that was the first time.
He made some half-joking apology for falling into my lap or something. He didn’t explain it then, but he explained it later on; that it was something about leaving the body temporarily, after it’d been through strain of some kind. The effort of the Paris talks and all that, would have made that a moment for it. He also said it will never happen in public, and it will never happen unless he’s with people he knows well, not casually.

So, we drove on. I booked rooms in a hotel in Montbazon, which we turned out to dislike very much. It was the former house of somebody like Monsieur Coty, you know, some big (politician and ) industrialist. It was turned into a hotel, and it was overly ornate and pretentious. We didn’t like it at all. But we spent the night, we had to. We decided to drive on the next day.
It was awful noisy, too, and they didn’t appreciate vegetarians.  So, the next day we drove on to Amboise. We lunched in Amboise. Krishnaji isn’t a great 'chateau visitor', as I’ve said, so we didn’t go into the Château, but we went on to Chenonceau and we walked around the gardens.

Then we went on to a place I’d found called Pougues-les-Eaux, there was a Château de Mimont, which had been turned into a hotel. It was in the country, and there were fields, and trees, and beautiful rolling country. We had nice rooms and I remember in the salle à manger that supper was very good. They rose to the vegetarian challenge very nicely, and it was good.

I remember that was one of the first times when I was aware of something strange…some 'presence' when Krishnaji was talking about his early life. I can see the dining room in my memory, and feeling 'something', that’s not identifiable. A sort of 'presence'- I’ve described it as a vibrance in the air. Something electric, some sort of 'unheard hum' or something…

He’d been to the Bircher Benner Clinic and diet is very much part of the therapy. There are books, medical books supporting this program of food. So, then we drove on to Geneva. I was supposed to be a great driver. Krishnaji approved. Anyway, we arrived in the—back to the good old Hotel du Rhône, and then of course the next day we did our Geneva errands. Patek. And also neckties at Jacquet. So, we then went to Gstaad, and Les Caprices. This year we all stayed at Caprices for a while, because Tannegg wasn’t open yet. Krishnaji had a sort of studio, next to my flat, as I recall. But we all used my sitting room. And I did the cooking, but we spent most of our time in my sitting room and had our meals there. We’d lunch at home, and, of course, we had walks.
At one point, Krishnaji got bronchitis and stayed in bed. And then Krishnaji got his Mercedes out of storage at Mr. Moser’s, and drove it back to Gstaad.
We went to Geneva again, going through France, going around the south side of the lake. And we took a picnic and had it on route. And then we went to the Hotel du Rhône . We went to a Hitchcock movie that evening, Dial M for Murder with Grace Kelly. The next day Alain and Krishnaji went to Dr. Pierre Schmidt, who was a noted homeopath. An ancient gentleman. Alain of course has always been mad about homeopathy, and he got hold of Dr. Pierre Schmidt, who was a very distinguished homeopath. I went along, I took them. They both had 'liver treatments'. God knows what that was. They became patients of Dr. Schmidt. Then K and I drove back to Gstaad, and Alain remained to meet Desikachar, who was arriving from India. But before then it had been Iyengar, and Krishnaji always told me that Iyengar had hurt his neck. When Iyengar was teaching him (some yoga exercises) , I took lessons from Iyengar too, and I must say he was almost brutal. I mean, he tried to make you do things that just pushed you to your limit.
In fact I used to deliberately get angry to get enough adrenalin to do what he was making me do. And he’d been too rough with Krishnaji. It wasn’t that he was hurt then and there, but from ( his yoga practice with ) Iyengar, he couldn’t turn his head well. It got terribly stiff, and took him a long time to get over that.

I’ve forgotten what pose it was he was making me do, but with my bad leg, it was forcing me very hard. I was shaking with the effort.

Well, here’s a typical day. June eighteenth. I marketed and made lunch while K went riding in his Mercedes.
The Biascoecheas came for lunch with us. And later, I walked in the rain with Krishnaji. Desikachar arrived, and we started yoga lessons. I have my first lesson with him. Here’s a day when Krishnaji took me for a ride in the Mercedes. On another, I drove Alain to Thun where he picked up his Volkswagen, so we’re now three cars! Mine, of course is an 'inferior' Jaguar, but anyway, I mended that later. One day we drove one day to Evian for lunch on the terrace of the Hotel Royal, which is lovely. I think it was the time when cherries, those wonderful, big, black, huge cherries.
 We ordered cherries, and Alain insisted on opening every cherry in case there was a worm in it. He had a thing about worms. I said it ruins the cherries, being full of anxiety about a worm! I said that I’ve never had a worm in a cherry. He said, “I have!”
But it was this really a lovely lunch because the terrace looks out over the whole lake. And it’s a very old-fashioned hotel. In fact, we thought of taking rooms there once, but we never did.

So, on we went to Geneva and the Hotel du Rhône Alain and Krishnaji had homeopathic treatments, which I didn’t have. They also had steam baths — it was a homeopathic thing. I don’t know where they went. The next day, we drove back to Gstaad via Evian, he would be like Toscanini or von Karaian conducting the driving with hand signals.  But, he would also like to look at the country. He enjoyed that. At other times, when I drove alone with him, he used to chant. And that was wonderful. We would drive through France on lovely little tiny roads, with the beautiful country unwinding around us, and he would chant. It was like…well, I’ve always felt most people have a hum—when they’re alone, they hum something. Krishnaji’s hum was Sanskrit chants. Those were really wonderfully magic moments, being in the middle of France, away from everything, no telephone, no people, nobody knew where we were, just rolling through lovely country, relaxed and–just loveliness. We wouldn’t talk too much. But there was a kind of something unspoken that we both were enjoying.
Fosca would have given us a whole pannier of fruit and something to drink. So, we’d stop and have a picnic breakfast, which was lovely. Krishnaji would always remember the place! He, with his 'trick memory', not remembering so many things, but he had a memory for places. Yes, and he would say, “We’re coming to it” when we’d be, say, a half a mile away. And when we’d get there, and he’d say, “Here it is, here it is.” There was a place we could park off the road just a little bit, behind some trees and bushes.

So the next day, June twenty-sixth, K started to cough, so he stayed in for a couple of days.
My activities were that I took the Jaguar down to be serviced in Lausanne, returning by train.
The next day Krishnaji was up again, and I left after cooking Alain and Krishnaji lunch. The train I took to go back to Lausanne to pick up my car went by Caprices, and Krishnaji, Alain, and Desikachar were waving to me on the balcony. And then K drove the Jaguar. He condescended to drive a Jaguar! Again we went to Evian and the Hotel du Royal, and to Geneva and the Hotel du Rhône, and again they had steam baths. After this last steam bath, Krishnaji decided that he didn’t like it, it didn’t suit him. We came back this time via Ouchy, and had lunch in Ouchy.

**I’ve remembered suddenly these things when Krishnaji talked about his life. He made a rather detailed attempt to explain to Alain and me about the theosophic order of things:  the seven Masters, and a sort of Super Master, and the Lord Maitreya, and the Buddha, and the Lord of the Universe. He explained that the Lord Maitreya is a living ancient being in Tibet who periodically leaves his own body and enters that of a person. He hasn’t gone on to be a Buddha because humanity is suffering. It is said that he took Jesus’ body.
I asked Krishnaji if he could see auras. He replied that "he used to". Then I asked him if his extraordinary perception in interviews that made such an impact was, or came from such powers. He said "probably".
He told us a story about a man who came to him, and K was able to tell him all about himself. And the man was annoyed! It’s as though this man felt Krishnaji had intruded into his life. As he was talking about these things, he always seemed to know how they occurred, but he never said how he could see auras, and how he could, for instance, know all about this man when he walked in the room. One felt that he understood what was going on. He would talk about it, but he wouldn’t vouch for it, as it were.
And, of course, I was always felt it was not right to pry. If he wanted to tell me something, wonderful. But if he didn’t want to go beyond what he told me, I never asked questions.
Or, I sometimes asked questions prefaced by the statement, “If you don’t want to tell me, please don’t, but I’ll ask it, and then forget it if you don’t want to tell me about it.” So, I never pushed. Perhaps I should have, but I felt that wasn’t right to do it that way.

And also in one of these talks, he talked about what was actually “the process,” but he didn’t call it that then. He said that he’d suddenly had fits of unconsciousness or coma that would come upon him, and he would cry out. And his brother was there, and Rosalind, and a Mr. Warrington, who was a theosophist . And he said that they never touched the body- there was an extreme vulnerability at a time like this. There mustn’t be anything to shock the body physically or it could be fatal. He said "they never touched the body". When he was telling us about this, I wondered if there was some reason that he was telling us. And, he said that his brother wrote it all down. That the boy had spoken marvelous poetry, and strange things happened. This was during “the process.” We asked "what strange things happened ?". He said rather hesitantly, “A star appeared.”
I asked where. He said above his head.
The boy had no memory of all this" then or now, he said. I asked if he was aware of what was happing then and he said, probably, he must have. But he couldn’t remember.So that was one of the times when he talked about this. It’s, in a way, the sort of things that Mary [Lutyens] felt and wrote about, and about which Krishnaji used to say, “Do you feel it?” And, I had always felt it before he said it, later.

I ought to recount one evening when he spoke of a game of noticing and naming objects from just one glance. He said he used to play this game with his brother, and a similar game, where you, say, have just a second to look at this table, and then not look at it, and remember. I asked him if his state of noticing everything is constant.
He replied, “It always has been, except when I’m empty, and I hardly look out the window of my room. I’m empty.” Then he turned to Alain and said, “That’s why, sir, sometimes when you come into the room I jump out of my skin.”

That was interesting: how he could look at everything, see everything, and then he’d go into these states of being empty, at which times anything would startle him. He also asked, in the car going to Amboise, if we’d never heard a definition of meditation, what would it mean to us? We replied, “A concern for life.”
He then asked, “How does one look at oneself, not each individual, but in a way in which all things are included?” He continued, pointing to a mountain, “It’s like being up there. When you look down from there you see everything in its proper place. So, how do you see from there?…Not how, but what is seeing from there? That is the question.”

Then he asked, “Do you remember silence?” There’d been a silence. And, “Where was it?” he asked.
Alain said, “The Château de Mimont.”
Krishnaji replied, “Yes, there was silence, and all the sounds in it.”
I said it had happened since, and he nodded, and said, “Yes, several times, in this room.”
He continued, “Where do you start to look from? Not 'up there', but 'where you are'. You must be very sensitive and do everything you can for that. Right food, enough sleep. Hip baths…

I think, Mary talks about having to have hip baths in mountain streams from melted snow when they were in the Tyrol. He used to take hip baths in the tub, ice cold water. I tried it once, ice cold water, it was unbearable! I never did it again! And it says here in my diaries, “hip baths,” and that he laughed at me as he said it because I had complained.

“Be aware of everything you do. Have you ever tried that awareness?” he asked us. Alain said that he had.
Krishnaji continued, ”You are not aware if there is a 'center' watching to correct. As long as there is this, you are not watching. There must be no 'center'. Then things are corrected of themselves. That is the lesson for this evening.”

And then he changed the subject, and said he wanted us to speak only French all through supper!
In the middle of a lunch, at some point, he said suddenly, “There is no discovery in 'thinking', only in 'observation'.” These things seem to be floating through his mind. We’d be chattering, or laughing, or something, and suddenly he’d say something like that, as though it was always humming inside him.
We were also playing records in those days in Caprices He liked Segovia’s guitar music very much.

Krishnaji also asked me what I thought neurosis was.
I said that I thought, in part, that it was a very defective perception of reality. “The persistent pursuit of impossible aims,” said I.
He asked me if I thought psychoanalysis did any good.
I replied that I did. Of course, he doesn’t remember all that I have told him about my doing psychoanalysis.
I said, “Yes, but not on the level” of which he was talking. “It seeks to adjust people to the environment.”
He then said, “But the society is neurotic. Thinking creates neurosis,” he said. And laughed at what he thought most people would think if he said that.
Then he asked, “So, how does one act without thought? You must see that thought creates conflict, which is neurosis.
He was full of energy through all this, delighted that the rain had stopped his hay fever.

We watched the turbulent gray river pouring down the mountains. I remember one trip, somehow Krishnaji and Alain were both in the back-seat, I don’t know why, and they were both perishing with hay fever, streaming noses. And I was sitting in the front, driving, just entranced with the lovely smell of new mown hay!
He used to tell us his stories, but you know his stories about the student of a guru who went off and studied for fifteen years with another guru, and then came back to the first guru and said he’d learned marvelous things, so the second guru said, “Show me a little.” The student said he could walk on the water.
So the student showed the first guru, who said, “You took fifteen years to do that? If you’d told me, I could have showed you there was a ferry!”
Then there was the Lord Vishnu one I won’t repeat all those stories because they’re well documented.
 Anyway, back to the period we’re discussing Desikachar gave yoga lessons every morning to Krishnamurti. In return for yoga lessons, Krishnaji was giving Desikachar meticulous lessons in western table manners! Alain and I learned a thing or two about western table manners as it went along!

Now here’s a question that appeared on the way to Geneva; Krishnaji asked, “What would make a man change, a man like Iyengar, who is angry and bitter at Desikachar’s giving lessons here.” “As long as he is taking a stand, there is no change.”
At this point, Alain and I ask if he hadn’t taken a stand on things like not killing or eating meat?
He replied, “It isn’t a stand. I don’t kill anyone. I’ve never eaten meat, but it’s a position. I just don’t.”
It seemed a subtle and important difference between just not doing something, and having a plan, ideal pattern of action. It was not a principle.
“As long as he takes a stand he will never change. There is no small, gradual change. That is no change at all. Only the awareness that a total revolution is necessary, in an instant, will change a man.”

Another day he asked, “What is love? Not all the exchange between most people. For love there must be meditation, there must be no memory.”
And then he said, “Love is innocence, just don’t answer it.”

At one point he asked me if I would like to be twenty-five again. Not to go back to when I was twenty-five but be that now, having had all the rest of my life.
I replied, “In that case, yes!”
“I thought so,” he said!
Later he admonished us about food and the good or bad of taking vitamins. He was in a wheel of energy and kept coming back from his room to tell us more. He told me that I must make the body very sensitive by learning what foods were best for me.**

On another drive he was talking about relationship, and he said, “I’ve always done what I wanted. One reason Rajagopal used to get upset was that, if I wanted to give something away, I gave it.”
He spoke of 'seeing things instantly'. And he asked why I hadn’t seen, in the past, both death and pleasure and stepped out of it? I said that I had.
He replied, “No, no Madame, why didn’t you see it then?”

I was beginning to gather more and more that things were not well between him and Rajagopal . He didn’t talk too much then, but he did later on, when he went to the United States, and went to Ojai. So, for the moment, we’re still in Switzerland. When people started coming for the talks and we used to go on walks, he said, “I don’t dare look to left or right” because people would be looking at him and want to catch his eye. He said, “Do you mind if we walk fast?”

I had a dream at that point. It was the most vivid dream I’ve ever had in my life, and it’s pertinent to this time in my life. I knew immediately what it meant. So, the dream was that I’m standing on the bank of a river. The river is very fast, and turbulent; a fast moving river. If I jump in, I may drown, but I feel I must jump in. In the middle of the river was a tall, majestic Sequoia; a redwood tree; a splendid towering tree. I knew that if I jumped in the river that I had to be willing to drown. Perhaps I wouldn’t, perhaps I’d be washed against the tree and that would save me. So, I jumped, and that’s what happened. The moment I woke up, I knew exactly what it was because the Saanen River is gray, and can be turbulent and though the Saanen River a little river, the river in my dream was vast. The grey river represents 'change' to me. What the dream was saying to me was: You’ve got to be willing to let go and 'die to yourself', as it were, and change. Of course, the tree is obviously Krishnaji.
I did decribe it to him sometime later. We were on a walk along the river, and he smiled and said it was a symbolic dream.
I said, “Yes, it could be interpreted in various ways, either being saved or perhaps destroyed.”
“Oh no,” he said, and asked how a psychiatrist would look at those things. I described the process. “Oh, that takes forever,” he said. Also we had a conversation about "masks"; that we all wear masks, and would it be possible to live with no masks, no defenses, directly in contact, and have no objectives?
Just before Vanda arrived, at lunch, there was a teasing battle on the subject of 'marriage' with Desikachar, as the audience. Krishnaji and Alain were attacking it and I was taking the defense.
I said that Alain put it along-side leprosy and that K’s tone when speaking of  marriage to the children at Rishi Valley was enough to put a terror into them. We finally agreed that the whole system needed revising, and I suggested that he re-invent its meaning.

That afternoon Vanda arrived from Rome at Chalet Tannegg, and came down for supper with us. It was lovely to see her. She met Desikachar for the first time. Then the next day  Krishnaji and Alain both moved up to Tannegg. Krishnaji thanked me for everything and said if he and Signora, as he called her, quarreled could he come back and stay with me? I moved most of their things up to the Chalet, and as I left Vanda said, “You must come for all lunches and suppers”. Krishnaji walked me to my car, kissed my hand very lightly and thanked me again.

Vanda arrived in Gstaad from Italy, and she had the ground floor in Chalet Tannegg again. Krishnaji moved up there on July seventh. Thereafter, I was very kindly invited to many meals by Vanda, so I was frequently up and down the hill between the two places. The day after Krishnaji went up there, I lunched with all of them and also present was Radha Rajagopal Sloss with her husband and two youngish children, quite attractive children. She had a kind of 'proprietary' air toward Krishnaji as though he sort of belonged to her as a child, a sort of hangover from that. She both played up to him and treated him as though he was old and bumbling. There was much chatter at the table. The children were very nicely behaved, nice children.  Krishnaji was very sweet with her and the children. I remember that there was quite a lot of talk at the table, and he said something about, “How these Americans do get on,” which was an ironic remark considering the two Americans in question, Radha and me.

He liked to get there for the talks just in time to walk right in. He didn’t want to hang around. He would stand around afterward, and people would come up and greet him. Alain, again, arranged young people’s meetings. They were usually held at Tannegg. Filled the living room with young people, and I suppose they were taped. So, there was also yoga going on with Desikachar, for both Krishnaji and me.
And also, Krishnaji used to ask me to come driving with him in 'his' Mercedes. At about this time I remember Mrs. Lindbergh came to lunch. She was a friend of Vanda’s and had met Krishnaji before. Of course, she had written something for one of Krishnaji’s books. She admired him very much.
On the twenty-second, there was another ninety young people for a discussion. It was kind of crowded! Alain loved young people, and he would talk to them, and laugh with them, and they liked him. He was very good with young people. It was Alain’s doing that brought all the young people to Krishnaji. That was a really good thing that he did. Instead of us old ladies doddering in the front rows, tides of young people came. Of course, it was also the era when young people were wandering around Europe, with packs on their backs, and this was a place to go at that point, a 'hippie' stop.

On the thirty-first was the tenth and last Saanen talk of that year. On August third, the public discussions began. On the fourth there was the second public discussion—there was one every day at that time. But of more significance was the meeting at Tannegg with all the people who wanted to start a Krishnamurti school. The room was full. There must have been fifty people, at least, with many rather emotional ladies who were thrilled with the thought of starting a 'Krishnaji school'. Krishnaji just listened, and then asked a couple of questions.

On the next day, after the third public discussion, Krishnaji sent for me. We went outside to a private place where we could sit and talk, and he discussed his and Alain’s staying with me in New York and in Paris the following spring. He wanted to talk to me because he was worried that I might be spending too much money. He talked to me very seriously about all that, as he was a bit worried. “Are you going into capital, Madame?” he would ask, and I would assure him it was alright. He kept coming back to that subject. When we came back to Tannegg, the Bohms were there, and there followed a long talk with Krishnaji, the Bohms, Vanda, and me.
On the seventh of August, Krishnaji called a meeting at the Biascoechea’s. Krishnaji picked out about fifteen people who’d been at the first meeting about starting a school. He decided the rest were not serious. He said I was to be part of it. I don’t know why, having nothing to do with education. But, he wanted to involve me in it, apparently. Anyway, he said to everyone, “Are you all serious?” This was the time when he really inquired into it. There was the question of what country the school should be in. He wanted it to be an international school, and he wanted, at that point, the teaching to be in both English and French. The possible countries were France, Switzerland, England, and Holland. There was much talk back and forth. There were people from all those places. That was when he said, at the end of it, “Well, go and find out everything to do with what it takes to establish a school in your country, and come back here next summer, and we’ll talk about it some more.” So, he acted rather quickly on all that.

At one point Iyengar came to Gstaad to do yoga with Menuhin even though he wasn’t doing it with Krishnaji. Heretofore, Iyengar had taught Krishnaji, and he used be put up by a lady in the lower flat in Tannegg. He used to give his lessons there. The first yoga lessons I took were in that downstairs flat. So, there was rather a coolness, shall we say, between the lower floor and the middle floor. Except for Vanda, who always was very loyal to Iyengar because she really got her knowledge of yoga from Iyengar. She got on with him and liked him.
Iris took me there to call on Mrs. Menuhin, and I remember it was quite fascinating. First of all, they were all practicing for concerts in the rest of the house, so we sat in, I think, the dining room. Mrs. Menuhin carried on a flowing conversation mostly with Iris, and wrote letters at the same time! I found the logistics of it interesting, because she had very large handwriting, and she was writing on little, bright, pretty blue note paper. This enabled letters to go off to friends all over that didn’t take long to write because the writing was so big and the page was so small. I thought that was very clever of her!

So, I met him at the same time. We just shook hands.
There was again a 'frost' there. Krishnaji had made probably one of those statements that genius and talent aren’t really creative. They got it second-hand but the Menuhins all took offense. I think it was the sister Hepsibar and her husband who used to go the talks, and they must have heard him say this and reported it.. Vanda was very musical. Her father started the Maggio Musicale in Florence. She knew all the leading musicians of her time. Casals and Toscanini, and all these people. And she would have known Menuhin, so I imagine that Krishnaji met him through Vanda, but I don’t know.
So anyway, we’re on the ninth, when Krishnaji had the seventh and final public discussion.

I flew to California and my house in Malibu. While I was there, Rajagopal telephoned me and asked me if I would drive Krishnaji when he came to Ojai for the talks, because he’d heard that I had been driving him around. I said, “Well, yes, of course if you want.” I really had intended to stay out of things. I thought Krishnaji would be back in his own home territory and I would stay out of things. I would, of course, go to the talks, but I wouldn’t be involved in all the personal things as I had been in Europe. But Rajagopal wanted me to be the driver, and he said that if I would do that, would I like to stay in his old flat, which is the upstairs flat of the house next to Pine Cottage. So I said, “Well, yes, thank you very much.” So, that was arranged and they arrived in NY on Sept the twentieth. Then there was, as usual, a dentist appointment. They always were having their teeth fixed. So I arranged all that in New York. And then there was the usual round of people being asked for lunch. We also went to the movies. Krishnaji was interviewed by the New Yorker to do a profile of him, but it was never printed for some reason.

At this time Alain went up to Boston to arrange the Harvard business, and returned. Then Krishnaji began speaking at the New School.
At one of the talks we got a message that Allen Ginsberg had been there and would like to talk to him. So that was arranged, and, lo and behold, on the twenty-ninth Allen Ginsberg appeared, with Timothy Leary in tow! And also, a friend of his, and I didn’t know who his friend was. But I thought, “How could any woman allow herself to be that unattractive?” Dirty jeans and long ponytail down the back. Just plain unattractive. Eventually it dawned on me it was not a woman at all; it was a man! But anyway, the young man never spoke. Ginsberg began all the talk, and I think he was against Krishnaji saying that drugs were not a good thing. And he went on about LSD, and a religious experience or something. At one point Krishnaji said to Ginsberg, “You know what the symbol of the cross is ?” And with that he made the gesture, with his hand of like crossing yourself with vertical stroke, and then horizontal stroke. Then he said that it stood for the negation of the ego. And with that Leary sprang to his feet, silenced Ginsberg who was going to reply, threw his hands out, and said, “Yes, every night!”
It turned out that Leary was giving some sort of performances down in Greenwich Village on the stage. And he said, “I stand on the stage, and I throw out my hands, and I pluck the nails out of them and throw them onto the ground!” with a big dramatic gesture, in a loud voice, an enactment of Christ removing the nails from his hands. Krishnaji talked very quietly, and said something about Christianity, whereupon Leary sat down and agreed with Krishnaji, absolutely refuting what he’d been saying before. I mean, he just turned around and agreed with Krishnaji absolutely. There was no discussion. Really! They finally left. So, that was that.

Bud lent me his car, so we went out to the country for lunch one day. He had a very old Rolls-Royce And Radhika Herzberger came for lunch with her new-born baby. I  remember we put it down in the room I stayed in while we had lunch, and Krishnaji was struck by the fact that I paid attention to this little baby. He didn’t know that most women behave the same way , when a little baby is present. He seemed to think my attention was significant.
Krishnaji met Harvard students at Lowell House. They asked questions, but those kind of dull questions. They hadn’t done their "homework". It was alright, but nothing special. Then on October eighteenth, we flew to Malibu. It was their first time there, and I had the pleasure of driving in the gate with both of them, and cooking supper for them in my own kitchen. It was the first time he’d been back in California since 1960. And the reason he hadn’t gone back all those years was that it was so disagreeable with Rajagopal. There was awful trouble going on, and this visit in ’66 was supposed to reconcile things, or at least be peaceful. I found out that Krishnaji couldn’t give permission to listen to an audio-tape, and that only Rajagopal could do that. But I do remember that when Krishnaji arrived in New York, on the very first day, Rajagopal telephoned him. Alain and I were with Krishnaji in his bedroom when the call came, and inside of two minutes Rajagopal was yelling at him on the phone and then hung up on him.

K and Alain were in Malibu until they went back to India that winter. So then that was a real liberation because then Krishnaji didn’t have to stay at Pine Cottage under Rajagopal’s control. He only stayed there when we went up to Ojai for the talks.We arrived there on the eighteenth of October.
There were some dental matters, and on the twentieth we drove up to Ojai. Rajagopal arranged that Rosalind who was living somewheres else, come to Arya Vihara and supply meals to us. So we went up and drove right to Arya Vihara for lunch. Krishnaji had to show me where it was. He guided me there through Ojai. And then after lunch we drove around to the other entrance and into Pine Cottage, where Rajagopal was waiting. Rosalind just said “hello,” kind of thing; but it became a nightmare, so much so that I had to stop taking my meals there. I have never heard such nagging in my life. I finally just gave up. I couldn’t go to the meals because I was getting an ulcer listening to it all. Krishnaji sat at one end of the table, and she sat at the other, and Alain and I sat in between. She would say things like, “Why aren’t you finishing your food? What’s the matter? Don’t you like it? That’s good for you, you should eat that. That’s good for you. Finish that.” That’s the way she talked to him. Like to an errant child. And when she would bring the food in, or when we’d sit down she’d say, “Well I suppose you all won’t like this but here it is. One night things were so bad with Rajagopal that Krishnaji couldn’t sleep. He had about three hours’ sleep, and then he had to give a talk in the morning. When we got back after the talk for the lunch, Krishnaji mildly said that he hadn’t slept much the night before, and she said, “Oh?! Why?! Why not?!” in a tone of voice as though he was a child and had to be reproved for having done something awful.
She was unbearable! I thought, how could he put up with this dreadful woman?! That was before I knew how dreadful she’d been all through the years.

So, Rajagopal was waiting there at Pine Cottage and I remember vividly the two men. Krishnaji got out of the car and went over to him, and they both sort of embraced and put their arms around each other. Rajagopal was facing me, and I remember that he averted his face from Krishnaji as though he was both moved and repulsed. It was unfriendly, horrid. I also remember that he insisted, before he took Krishnaji and opened up Pine Cottage, that I be shown where I was to stay. So he alone took me up the steps to the little flat above, and when we got to the door there was a garter snake by the door, and he said, “I hope you don’t think I put it there on purpose.”  So, he opened it, and I went in. He showed me where things were. That was before we enlarged it. Krishnaji’s apartment was the way it is now, except that it was slightly enlarged when we redid it. The other one had a separate entrance, but shared a wall. It was what they call here semi-detached. And it effectively ruined Pine Cottage and had been done when Krishnaji was off in India, and he was never told about it until he came back. Instead of his little cottage, which he had great feeling for, there was this hideous thing with cork floors and high windows like in a prison that you couldn’t see out of. And it had a small kitchenette and a bathroom and a small bedroom and a big office when you went down a step.

It was unbelievably ugly. But After Rajagopal went away, Krishnaji then showed us around a little, showed us the pepper tree. Krishnaji came with Alain up to where I was, and I remember his coming in the door and just looking around. He said that he hadn’t been there in many years since once when he went up there, Rajagopal had chided him for having brought dirt in on his shoes. So Krishnaji never went back! Rajagopal was one of those neatness obsessives: everything had to be lined up just so. Clearly an obsessive and he had every symptom of paranoia that I’ve ever read of in any book. Anyway, Krishnaji looked around the flat. There were some paintings that Rajagopal had done on the wall, little tight sort of paintings. Krishnaji looked at them and sort of nodded and said, “He’s very deteriorated.” Not about the pictures but from having talked to him. Then he showed us more of his cottage, including…that was when he showed us the cupboard off the back porch when Krishnaji used to live in that cottage, and Rosalind and Rajagopal stayed in Arya Vihara. One night Krishnaji lost his key to his apartment, so he couldn’t get in. It was cold, I guess it was winter. California houses of that era and kind usually have the water heater outside in a kind of closet, so that if it leaks it’ll leak not into the house but where it won’t do any harm, in this case under the porch and onto the ground. So Krishnaji spent the night standing up next to the water heater, which was just a few inches, just barely room to cram in. I said but why didn’t you go and ask him for another key, and he said, “Oh, I couldn’t have done that. They would have been too angry. This was a horrendous revelation to me. It showed just how terribly wrong things were.

And the next day, Rajagopal came over and talked to Krishnaji. And in no time at all we heard Rajagopal’s voice, angry voice coming right through the wall. We couldn’t make out what he said, but we heard this angry, raging voice. Pretty soon he left. Alain had also arranged for the talks in Ojai to be filmed through KQED, the public broadcasting station in San Francisco. They’d written to ask if they could record the talks on film. Again, it was without Rajagopal’s permission, so he didn’t like that.
One day I drove Alain to the Oak Grove to look at the sound system. Rajagopal met him there and explained how it all worked. Afterward, Rajagopal wanted to talk to Alain. So they sat in my car and I went and sat in the grove. They talked for two hours. I finally got so cold that I had to go break it up. Later on, Alain told me that Rajagopal had wanted him to report to him about who Krishnaji saw, and when Krishnaji gave interviews to arrange to tape them. It would have been like bugging a confessional, because people often wanted to talk to Krishnaji about very personal things. I was appalled. So, as things got worse and worse, Alain and I came to feel that Pine Cottage was probably bugged. Whenever we talked about anything we wanted to keep private, the three of us went outside so it couldn’t be picked up.I mean it was our suspicion; we never found a bug or looked for one actually, but it was that bad. And we knew that he used to surreptitiously tape things. Then there was another meeting in the old office, where the vault now is  Krishnaji had sent Rajagoal a letter when we first got to Ojai saying that he, Krishnaji, wanted to be reinstated on the board of KWINC. He also wanted the board enlarged. He wanted me on it, and he wanted accounting of what happens to money coming in. Krishnaji had also stated that KWINC shouldn’t be run just by Rajagopal; there should be some other arrangement. So, in this meeting taking place in the old office, Krishnaji said, “You haven’t replied to my letter.”
Rajagopal replied, “No, why should I? I don’t take orders from you.”
Krishnaji then said, “You don’t understand, Rajagopal. This is a very serious matter, and if you don’t reply and we don’t come to some arrangement, I shall have to take measures.”
At this Rajagopal flew into a rage and said, “What is this? Is this a Brahmin curse? You’re cursing me. Well, I’m a Brahmin too, and I curse you more than you could ever curse me.” And then he went on and apparently said things that Krishnaji wouldn’t tell us about, but he said things against, as Krishnaji put it, “the Other.” The minute Rajagopal talked about “the Other,” Krishnaji left and went back into his own cottage. And then we went in to Krishnaji, and he told us what had happened

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 26 Aug 2017.

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Mon, 19 Jun 2017 #260
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

More 'lost & found' pages from Mary Z's memoirs of K

May 1967,
Krishnaji was busy giving the talks, naturally, and also there were reams of young people collected largely by Alain at the talks. There were also groups of students from Utrecht, and he talked with them. But on the whole it was a very, very happy sojourn in Holland. We stayed until the end of May. And I remember talks in the early morning with him. My job was to get the breakfast, and so I would get up early and go in the kitchen and start making breakfast. And he would be up early too, and he took to coming into the kitchen and talking, standing or sitting in his white bathrobe and chatting with me while I got the breakfast.
I don’t remember exactly what we talked about. He may have asked me questions about myself. I don’t remember, really. I just remember the enjoyment of it, how nice it was. And he also was trying to help my bad leg in those days. In the afternoons or early evening he would give me a so-called treatment which, as I think I’ve described, he put his hands on your shoulder and something strange happened in the sense that he was sort of brushing away ill health and any pain. And it was always something one felt very strongly afterward or during. Although when I had the infection in India, he would draw his hands across the forehead and cheekbones where the infection was.From the center of the face outwards, and then he would shake his hands.
But later on, when he was trying to help my bad leg, which was really the circulatory problem at that point, he would generally touch the shoulders, and again…shake his hands, sort of like wiping something away and he would always go and wash his hands afterwards as though there had been contamination from whatever the illness was. And he’d gotten rid of it, but he had to wash his hands.

Krishnaji became, what I then called, 'delirious'. But, he had warned us in the past, or told me, if his fever goes up high he’s apt to become unconscious. And sure enough he did. He was in bed, obviously, and I was sitting in a chair by the bed with him, and Alain had gone. He started looking around the room with sort of vacant eyes, and said to me, “Who are you?” I said my name. Then he asked, “You haven’t asked him any questions, have you?”
I said, “No.” Then he said, “He doesn’t like to be asked questions.” And after a pause or two, he said, “Even after all these years, I’m not used to him.” Through all of this he had a child voice, a little, little, little child. High voice. And again he had these large eyes that didn’t recognize me or indeed anything, and it just stayed that way. I didn’t attempt to talk to him. I think I replied to him using his name, saying, “Yes, Krishnaji” or “No, Krishnaji,” but that didn’t seem to have any effect. It was as though he had gone away, but he wanted to be sure that I hadn’t questioned him about anything. He didn’t want that
. It was the 'process' and he had said that if his fever goes up high, it’s apt to happen. And it did. Eventually, Alain returned, and his fever was still high, but he was out of that, and he fell asleep finally. And when he woke up he was himself. He was sort of quietly sleeping most of the time after that. Besides, he never called for a doctor. Alain brought back some medication, and also we had to make a kind of tea out of the stems of cherries. That was the remedy.
But he was very weak the next day.

And later on during this summer, when he was alone up there, he began to feel that thing of people focusing on him. He often used to talk about going on holiday where nobody would know where he was. Because he felt some sort of, it was like a pressure. I can’t describe it, but I think I understand it. It was like beams of people’s attention, and he wanted to get out of the focus of it. And quite a few times that summer, it was as though it pressed on him.

When he talked about going on holiday, at times, it should be where nobody would know where he was so he wouldn’t feel that, and even the last summer, when we were talking about whether to go back to Saanen just for a holiday when he was only going to talk at Brockwood. He asked, “will it be alright if nobody knew I was there?" Or 'we should go somewhere else'.

Krishnaji started giving his talks in Wimbledon.
One morning Krishnaji said that Alain and I should come into his room, and we’d all three 'meditate together'. I just sat there; it was sort of an experiment, but I don’t think anything came of it.
But we did it again: ‘On the twentieth, meditation with Krishnaji and Alain.’ It was just sitting quietly and watching, as it were.
What it was for the two of them, I do not know! We were sitting on a rug in the middle of the floor. He had a big bedroom. We did it several times, but it didn’t become a habit by any means! But I must say Krishnaji could induce a tremendous quietness . And it was, for me at least, a kind of a wonderful space with nothing going on but quiet.

Then, Krishnaji had more young people discussions, which were held in the Wimbledon Community Center. The Bohms used to come and go for walks in Richmond Park with us. Krishnaji and Dave would walk ahead talking, or Saral and I would walk ahead talking. It was just the way he and David always were: discussing something intently.
And that same week we went to Cecil Beaton’s for photographs. That’s when those pictures were taken. I had known Cecil for years because of my career as a model. He used to come to New York in the winter, and there’d be parties and all kinds of goings-on. So when we wanted to have photographs for publications and had none, I called Cecil up out of the blue. I hadn’t talked to him in years and years, and asked if he would like to photograph someone who is very interesting. And I said, “I think you’ll like him because he’s the most extraordinarily beautiful human being.” That interested Cecil very much. So we went, and he took the pictures. I’ve seen Cecil in endless photographic sessions where he’s very cheery and talkative. He has a way of making the subject relax by his chatter. He was the same way with Krishnaji, and he was very enthusiastic because he saw the remarkable face.

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 09 Sep 2017.

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Wed, 21 Jun 2017 #261
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

(continuing with selected excerpts from the MZ's memoirs of K)

July second 1969 , Krishnaji washed the car in the afternoon, and while backing into the garage, his foot slipped on the accelerator and the back of the car was slightly demolished against the garage door.’ I was upstairs doing something, and he came up looking stricken!  I thought he’d hurt himself. I blurted out, “What happened? Are you alright?”, you know. He couldn’t speak he was so shocked.

The Mercedes had been towed to Southampton, and it will take wo months to fix it!

On September sixteenth, ‘Krishnaji dictated a conversation to me. Well, he was dictating those over a period of years…they were called 'conversations', but it was just a dictation.

October twenty-seventh We bought books, went to the Jeu de Paume walked through the Tuileries to the Louvre, saw the Victory of Samothrace…’ That was lovely because, it’s up at the head of a great marble staircase.
We went in, and for me, the sight was Krishnaji, very small at the bottom of the stairs, looking up with just total enjoyment of this marvelous statue, and the whole scene was quite wonderful.
He was here on the steps, in front of the statue, and I was over to his left, but I was out of the frame, as it were. We’d come in from the left.
‘We had lunched at the hotel. And then went to the cinema, and the movie was Once Upon a Time in the West’ which he liked because it was a western.

1970 On the twenty-sixth of January, Krishnaji left Bombay and flew to Rome, and after two days he flew on to Brockwood, where he stayed until the second of February, when he flew to Los Angeles. I met him at the airport, and we drove up to Malibu. He’d been up by then for twenty-four hours, but instead of being wilted, he was full of vim and talk. It was lovely.
In those days he was writing to me, and he brought with him…he wrote small amounts every day, but he didn’t mail the letter every day, only when he had about two pages…letters numbers 25 and 26; one he wrote while at Brockwood, and one he wrote on the plane.
They were always wonderful, especially the ones he wrote on the plane. He would describe what he saw out the window and things like that. And his handwriting, it was more like his early writing, because it’s become more pinched together somehow.
He would write right to the edge of the page. And if let’s say, the last word on the line was ‘that,’ it would be th on one line, and then at- on the next line. He wrote right till you fell off the edge of the page Anyway, now he rested for a couple of days. I caught him up on all the news of what was happening with the Ojai people.

The next day, I drove him to Montezuma Hall at San Diego State campus, where he gave the first of his talks at 3 o’clock. We came back, and walked in the neighborhood. Krishnaji spoke to me about the two months he spent alone in a cabin at Sequoia national park and his shyness in avoiding people. He was always more or less shy, but particularly in the early days, and ‘he would go to the store in Sequoia, when he figured out there’d be the least people around. He had to buy his own supplies because he did his own cooking. He was shy even of the ranger who cautioned him to be careful on his long walks. He says even today he’s too shy to have ever walked alone when we were here on Sunday.’ In other words, he wouldn’t have walked in La Jolla alone; he’d have been too shy. He’s alright when it was in a wild place like Sequoia, but around people he is very shy.
La Jolla was a town, I mean, a town in California means houses with gardens and sidewalks. First of all, he would always attract attention because of his looks. And people who knew who he was would probably want to speak to him. And he was shy.

Krishnaji’s comment on seeing the photo of himself in a 1929 Star Bulletin. ‘He said, “He must’ve been a very gentle person. And it’s also in the talks. He never liked to say “I”; he’d say “the speaker.”  And yet he didn’t identify with anything else. I mean, people might easily say, “Well, he identified with a master or the Maitreya or the World Teacher or something,” but it wasn’t what we call identification; there was no self to identify. Last night, I was looking through that little book, The Young Krishna, that Mary’s just done, and reread the part where Nitya talks about when the little child was talking to him. Nitya writes how the little boy would prattle on to his mother and saying that he had some biscuits in his pocket. And quite a lot of them, he told his mother, and then he confessed that he’d been stealing them from wherever she kept them, and so he thought he ought to tell her because he thought she maybe suspected it. And Nitya makes the comment that he must’ve been a very nice child. In a funny way, that character was still there. When you say he had a childlike quality, this was that in a man in his eighties or something, and it was not in any way odd or incongruous. There was that wonder that a child has, and if he was interested in a motorcar or something, he was like a child looking at toys, with that kind of…How can you say a man of eighty-something is, in a way, a child?
And the heartbreaking thing is that toward the very end, when he knew how bad the cancer was, that it was fatal, he said, “What did I do wrong?” as though it was a punishment, or that he hadn’t been responsible enough to keep the body healthy, which was his job to do, that he had failed in that. And that just broke my heart.

He also had an aversion —I often had photographs of him on the desk or somewhere, and he would turn them face down; he’d just, as he walked past, he’d turn it over and go on doing whatever he was doing. Or, if a book had a photograph of him on the dust jacket, he’d turn it, so it didn’t show in some way. And he seldom listened to any recordings.

April twenty-fourth, 1970 I find, reading through his writings, I keep highlighting some things. It keeps jumping out at me, this necessity for everyone to be able to have this emptiness. He talks so much about emptying the mind. There’s some place where I’ve probably come upon it in notes where he says that every night, before you go to sleep, empty the mind, go through what happened, what you’ve been preoccupied with that day, and empty it. Finish it! So the mind can start anew the next day. And, of course, this is something few of us even think of trying to do, much less doing it.

He hoped we would find someone.... he felt that with David Bohm, he’d gone as far as they both could go. But he used to say, there’s more… And, I would say to him, “Krishnaji, couldn’t you just talk?” And he said, “No. It takes, a kind of a (shared) process of having not only just a listener, an audience, but there’s that communication, and he could tell what the other person was picking up. Therefore, he knew, had he explained it properly. He did this in talks. This he did tell me. He would find a face somewhere in the audience that seemed to be following, he could tell, and he would talk at that person, not necessarily just looking at him constantly and excluding the others but that was like a thermometer of the 'temperature of interest', or what he was saying was communicating to somebody; somebody was going with him. And he used to say, “Does this interest you?” or “Do you understand?” or “Are you going with me?” He wanted that reciprocal response. Not that he had to have it, but it made it easier. That’s probably why he would say to the audience it was 'dialogue', even though he was doing all the talking. But there was that 'sonar 'going out and coming back, which somehow paced his talking.

In other words, if he had to go into it again, or that curious pattern of how he would go forward and then he would loop back part of the way, and then go a little forward, like endless figure eights on the side. And therefore, he also needed the challenge. He wanted someone to challenge him, which would make him dig deeper into his perception and his language to bring it out. Because he was 'communicating' something, he had to get something back to tell whether he was communicating it adequately. But, at the same time, the challenge of questions made him look deeper. It wasn’t that he was sitting seeing, you know, a whole ocean there; he had to go deeper into his power of perception to meet the challenge of a question, and what he brought out of that made it…it sort of stimulated another step.

He never wanted people to turn it into a ( time binding) process. Even when he was saying to negatively look at what’s going on in you, don’t try to look at what’s out there. Nevertheless, people tend to say, “Oh yes, I must be aware.” Well, people have no idea what he meant by 'awareness'. I don’t know what he meant by awareness, but I know from reading and talking and so forth, that it’s infinitely deeper than just being aware of sitting in the kitchen, and flowers on the table, and I’m sitting here trying to think.
People don’t realize the extraordinary depth of what he was saying. Sometimes it sounds so simple, which is where people get "hung up' because they think it is simple. It isn’t. It’s immeasurable.

It’s just our shortsightedness that prevents us understanding all that or seeing it. But it’s important, I think, to never say, “Oh yes, this is, this is what he meant. I understand this. It’s just like the light coming in this window. You can’t say, “I’ve so much light now and I’ve got it. It’s alive; it’s there.

According to India, the eleventh was Krishnaji’s seventy-fifth birthday. And it says here, ‘as he brushes it away, no reference is made to it in the school. He dictated on the book in the morning. And he washed the Mercedes very thoroughly.’ ‘I went for a walk alone as he’d had enough after the car washing.” That was his seventy-fifth birthday.

On the sixth, ‘after lunch, Krishnaji, Dorothy, and Sebastian put two hives of bees, which arrived in cartons, into the new hives in the orchard. Krishnaji said later, “Now I feel this is a real place; it has bees.”’ “Bees are a marvelous thing,” he said. He used to take care of bees, in Ojai. On the ninth: ‘Krishnaji said there was a different 'something' in  meditation in what would have been described in old terminology as an 'initiation'.’

On the seventeenth Krishnaji felt tired on the train back and quite sick when we got home. He coughed a lot, and though he was without fever, he became somewhat delirious. And he said, “He shouldn’t have gone to town. Who’s looking after him? He’s left the body. No, no, not that.”’ When he first told me about the “going off” thing, he said, “If I have fever this may happen.”

And Krishnaji said it was like violence to the body: apparently illness or fever, particularly fever. When the body was under great stress from either operation or fever or a slight thing in his lip, Krishna would leave the body. Krishna would go away. And the 'little creature' that was left… it was a child’s voice, But he would only faint when he was with people he trusted. He wouldn’t faint in public. So, we finally got there, and I took him in a sort of back room, the main room, and showed him where it was and he was standing by the window and fainted. He fell on the floor. I wasn’t quick enough to catch him. I’d turned away or something. That time, I was not warned. Every other time something has always warned me.

The first notable thing we did was on the twenty-seventh, when ‘we drove over to Blackdown and had tea with Mary and Joe. We took a walk and had a lovely time. “Let’s enjoy ourselves,” said Krishnaji.’ ‘And we did. We had fun.’ He was so quick to enjoy things, when things were nice and enjoyable, he entered into it with such a kind of childlike
 for a man who was so far from childhood—and yet he still had that lovely quality of openness and entering so easily and quickly into anything nice that happened. It made one want him to be pleased because seeing him enjoy something was really such a selfish pleasure for me. One had that joy also because of his reactions. So, one shared that kind of wonder and enjoyment.

‘In the evening, Krishnaji suddenly said to me, “Make a note of it. I’ve been talking in India, spending more time there than anywhere else, and there is not one person who listens and has changed. It is terribly difficult for people to change. They are what they are. When I die, it will be over. People aren’t serious. Are you serious? I’ve been talking over forty years, and I’d be a damned fool if I didn’t realize people are as they are. I’m not depressed by it, I’ll go on talking.” It was a kind of…I don’t like the word frustration about Krishnaji, but he felt that people were all busy there, but it wasn’t…the teachings were somehow, I don’t know what, taken for granted, as it were. 

Krishnaji asked what will happen to me when he dies. He said that it depends on what I do and am now, i.e., the changes in me. He asked me if I felt any presence of Sam after he died. I said yes. We discussed what is evidence and what is imagination. I said I felt it strongly but neither saw objectively nor heard anything. It was a strong sense of presence and communication, real to me, but I cannot offer it as objective evidence to another. Krishnaji said to me, “You can tell the difference between imagination and a 'something'.” He wished he could remember how it was when his brother died. I asked how one can assess such things. I don’t assert anything because I cannot see how it can be proven. But I pay attention and do not deny any part of it. I spoke of the conversation with Vanda last week: her saying that neither she nor I have theosophical conditioning and therefore her experience of being spoken to when Krishnaji was unconscious and the words spoken to me when Krishnaji was sick on June seventeenth…”—that was when he said he shouldn’t have gone to town, who was looking after him—“…were not out of our projection.”’ That’s what Vanda felt.

Krishnaji then spoke of change and listening, i.e., ‘“if you really listen and see, that erases the habit, the previous imprint. The new then functions in the mind and whenever an action of the old pattern arises the mind alerts the consciousness, the conscious attention.” He spoke of my bad habit of frowning, and the need for “a quiet face”’—he always used to say to me, “Have a quiet face”—‘remains because I haven’t seen the importance of changing them. If I had, the old pattern would be erased, he said. He said, “The body sometimes takes time to relearn, but the mind can be instantly alert, therefore, to listen, to see, to change, to wipe out the old pattern. Lack of change is inattention,” he said. “What is listening? Make a note. I will talk about that.”’

Krishnaji and I went to the Biascoechea’s for lunch. Krishnaji asked Enrique to tell me about the dreams he had before Krishnaji was found as a boy. In Enrique’s dream, Mrs. Besant appeared with a young Indian and said, “This is the world teacher-to-be.” The dream was so strong that Enrique, who was speaking at a Theosophical meeting, announced that a boy had been found before he knew it officially.’

‘“What was he like when you saw him?” Krishnaji kept asking. But Enrique was only able to discuss what he himself felt and not what the boy was like, except that he was very warm and friendly. “Write it down, sir,” said Krishnaji. I asked later, would it be interesting for Mary’s biography?

‘Krishnaji and I went for a walk in the rain down behind Gstaad. He had me make mental notes that “Creation is never conflict,” and later that “You all don’t make use of me enough.” I asked if he meant we didn’t ask the right questions. He said, “Partly. It’s all so vast. You are not serious enough.”’

‘Krishnaji asked me what I would do if he died. I asked what he would want me to do, but he wouldn’t say. Later, he came back to it again, saying how he lives between life and death—it has always been a very thin line for him. Sometimes he feels like disappearing. I asked if he meant dying. He said, “No, no,” just going off where nobody knows him. He said he had often told me that talking is necessary in what he is supposed to do. Could living quietly, remotely and just writing be sufficient? And he said, “No.”’

‘On our walk back toward the car, we passed U.G. Krishnamurti, who gave the Indian salute unsmilingly with a sort of hunched turning away. Krishnaji said after we passed, “I felt something unclean.’”

On the fourth, ‘Krishnaji held the third public discussion in the tent. A Saint Bernard tethered to the fence near the car jumped at him aggressively but didn’t hurt him. After the discussion, Krishnaji saw the Biascoecheas upstairs at Tannegg, while I had a meeting downstairs with Joan Gordon and the Lilliefelts about New York next April. Then Madame Duchet and Marcelle Bondoneau came to lunch. Krishnaji asked questions on what he was like when he was about twenty-two and Marcelle first met him. Marcelle imitated the way Indians talk, animated.’

Krishnaji is tired but full of energy. These concentrations of meetings seem to bring him the necessary, almost limitless vitality, but they all are now over, and he will give no more interviews, etcetera. He was restless at night, cried out, “Mama! They don’t know how vast it is.” He said he might start writing.’

On the twelfth, Krishnaji said he read in his Maigret , which he reads to practice French, the phrase, “his thought was faster than his words.”’
‘And he realized that when he is giving a talk, he does not think at all!’

‘Along the way, Krishnaji said, “Shall we talk seriously? That no one has made the change. Is there something he should do before he dies about this? I don’t feel I’m to blame.”

August twenty, 1970, ‘It was a cool grey day, and Krishnaji and I drove in the Mercedes toward Geneva at 11:30 a.m. ‘Krishnaji and I took the 3:15 p.m. British Airways flight to London. Dorothy met us, but on exiting the terminal, found that her car had been impounded for illegal parking! So there was a delay while she got it back. We then drove to Brockwood. Krishnaji was very silent and remote. He has been “far off,” he says, since the train ride on Tuesday. He said that Rajagopal and Rosalind must have asked him for things when he was in such states, and he would say, “anything you say,” the way he used to say to Leadbeater.

On Sunday, the twentieth, ‘Krishnaji sat with Pupul and me in the West Wing dining room, and got onto the subject of kundalini. He questioned Pupul on whether her observation of what happened in Madras and at Ooty in 1948 could have been kundalini. Her version, which she wrote in detail, was taken by Rajagopal, who forbad her to make a copy. She described it to Krishnaji and me. She and Nandini were staying in Vasanta Vihar. They heard Krishnaji groaning in his room and went in, fearing he was sick. He looked at her and said, “Are you Rosalind?”
She said, “No.”
He told them to stay in the room and not leave him alone. He said, “Krishna has gone away,” and then he put his hand over his mouth and said, “I mustn’t say his name. He doesn’t like me to say his name.” He was in apparent pain, sweating and faint.
This happened again the same year when he was staying with Frydman It would start around 6 p.m. and lasted until 1 a.m. He told Pupul and Nandini to stay in the room’—this is the Ooty occurrence—‘but wouldn’t have Frydman there. He would faint and an extraordinary beauty would come into his face. Pupul described what was happening to him as seeing a total cleansing of his mind.

In reply to Krishnaji’s questioning, she said that she wouldn’t describe it as kundalini, which is a result of conscious deliberate meditation on chakra centers in the lotus pose, and the result of great effort and a release of great energy, bringing various powers, etcetera. But Krishnaji’s various related experiences were different. Leadbeater, who knew at least something about kundalini, couldn’t explain Krishnaji’s experience. In kundalini, there is a breaking of the energy in the mind, like an explosion. Krishnaji never seems to have been caught in conditioning. He was very interested, and questioned her at length. After these episodes, he has no memory of them at all. In Madras, and maybe it was at Ooty, he spoke of “the shining ones, the great ones are here.”

On Thursday, we boarded a Pan Am 747 plane at 8:30 p.m., but were almost two hours on the ground before taking off. We landed at Honolulu around midnight. The tropical soft air was lovely and we walked for exercise and circulation briskly up and down the airport waiting room for forty-five minutes. We changed to a 707 and flew on across the vast ocean.’Friday, November the thirteenth, ‘crossing the international dateline, we lost this day. ‘We crossed the equator somewhere west of Fiji—a first for me—and landed in Sydney around 10:00 a.m. The press and television people interviewed Krishnaji. We then were met by Mr. and Mrs. Reg Bennett, Barbara and Spencer English, Donald Ingram-Smith, and a Mrs. Marsha Murray. We were taken to Manly, a suburb of Sydney, to a very nice apartment on the eleventh floor of a new building above the harbor with a magnificent view of the bay. The Bennetts and Englishes have thought of everything. Mavis B. and Barbara E. are to do the marketing and lunches, and I will do the rest here. They would come each morning. Krishnaji and I took naps all afternoon.’ It was very nice. They had arranged everything very well.

On the seventeenth, ‘Krishnaji had a public discussion in the Mona Vale Memorial Hall at 10:30 a.m. He said later it was like, “pushing a weight.”’ We had naps in the afternoon, and Krishnaji and I went for a late walk. At supper, we saw the television interview that Krishnaji made yesterday, and out of all that they shot, they only used one minute of what he said. They spent the rest of the time on the story of his arrival here in 1925, when the Australians thought he would arrive walking on the water.’

On Saturday, November twenty-first, ‘we had a quiet morning. I made a light lunch for us, then we went with the Bennetts to the Sydney Town Hall, where at 2:30 p.m. Krishnaji gave his first talk. There was a crowd of around fifteen hundred. It was Election Day, and some rather rowdy young people, who had been passing out communist papers at the polling places next door, came in and called out rough questions. One came down to the edge of the stage and challenged Krishnaji on a question of social change. Krishnaji’s answer quieted him to silence.’

Next day, Sunday, ‘Krishnaji and I drove with the Englishes to Sydney for Krishnaji’s second talk, a most intense one. In the middle of it, a young man climbed up on the stage and sat himself self-consciously at Krishnaji’s feet. Krishnaji was taken aback for only an instant and asked him to move further away. He then took up his talk where he had been interrupted. When it was over, Krishnaji had that half-faint, far-off look.

The twenty-fourth. ‘Krishnaji has been questioning the Bennetts on what it was like here in the Leadbeater days; why people accepted Leadbeater, etcetera. They suggested asking Harold Morton, who was once one of “Leadbeater’s boys” and still lives here with his wife, whose brother, a Leadbeater favorite, now a psychologist in London. So, Morton came for lunch. He was a white-haired, pink-faced, aged, adolescent-looking man. He spoke with some detachment and a tinge of humor about it all. Krishnaji questioned him, and most of his answers as to why people believed so in Leadbeater were that they wanted to believe in all of it, in the supernatural, his supposed clairvoyance; and so, no one really dared question him. Krishnaji asked him if Leadbeater was homosexual, and Morton replied that he was; he knew it definitely in two instances, one from the boy himself, and in the other from the father of the boy. Krishnaji was appalled that a man would so use his position of trust. The clairvoyance was discussed, its apparent genuineness, first of all in the recognition of Krishnaji, and in foreseeing a ship sinking which turned out to be the Titanic. Also, its nonexistence, as when he cabled for news of one of his boys, Tom somebody, who had already died.’ Krishnaji and I walked in the rain in the late afternoon. In the morning, we had watched the departure of the aircraft carrier S.S. America. Krishnaji said it would be fun to be its captain. He would like that.’ I have photographs of that; we were standing on the balcony. This splendid great carrier was going out through what they call “the heads,” which are the two cliffs on either side of the entrance to the harbor. It was a very splendid sight. We could see right across. We were high up on a hill and also on the eleventh floor, so we had a great view of this, steaming out through the heads.

On the twenty-sixth, ‘Donald Ingram-Smith and Marsha Murray came to take Krishnaji and me to the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, where at 1:45 p.m., Krishnaji was interviewed on television for half an hour by a Ross Saunders. It looked excellent on the monitor. Krishnaji paid little attention while Saunders read passages on belief from Penguin Krishnamurti Reader, which is published here, too. Then Krishnaji demolished belief, religion, etcetera, and went on with such a fresh clarity until the end of the half hour, covering a great deal with simplicity and eloquence. We took naps when we got back and then walked in the rain.’

On Friday, the twenty-seventh. ‘After lunch, the Englishes took me to see The Manor, where Mary Lutyens and Ruth Tettemer, as well as the others, lived with Leadbeater. It is now a Theosophical home for retired people. We drove past, then went to a Swiss health food shop where I arranged for some good lecithin granules to be packed so that Krishnaji can take them to India. Then we went into Sydney and got Krishnaji a beige sleeveless pullover, which he likes so much that I will try to get a cardigan to match.

Monday, the thirtieth. ‘Krishnaji held the second private discussion in the apartment. He was delighted with the cardigan to match the beige pullover I bought on Friday. If I see something I think he would like, in the way of some good detective novels, I am to buy them for his arrival in Malibu. “I like new things,” he said, with his face alight.’
His Qantas flight to Delhi went via Hong Kong, ten hours, and then another six-and-a-half hours to Delhi. He had said goodbye to me in the apartment; from then on, he was far off.

( back in Malibu) I asked him whether he wanted to go to a movie, Wellington’ ‘“What! Go to see my favorite hero defeated?”’ - he was a great fan of Napoleon! Which I found absolutely incomprehensible! He was a man who defeated all of Europe, who did nothing but wage war and Krishnaji admired him. As part of our ongoing feud about who was doing the dishes, Krishnaji said, “I’m carrying out the dishes, and if I can’t do that, I’m going back to Madanapalle!” I said, “Do you want to be the Rishi of Rishi Valley?” Krishnaji said, “Yes.”’

After supper, Krishnaji spoke of chastity. It must have an absence of ego, will. It is missing in most people. Saturday, which is the seventeenth, ‘Krishnaji felt sick to his stomach at lunchtime and ate almost nothing. He slept till 4:00 p.m., then had a cup of rosehip tea. At 5:15 p.m., in Bud’s station wagon with a driver, we went to the Town Hall on 43rd Street. A huge queue outside. We caught Narasimhan outside of it and took him in. The house was totally filled, and some had to be turned away. Krishnaji showed no sign of weakness, but spoke in that deep other voice, almost from the beginning of the talk. There were difficulties with the sound, and an officious woman was clearing the aisles. The talk was videotaped. The audience seemed young in a larger proportion than usual. Afterward, Krishnaji was dizzy, far-off, and seemed almost faint, but wanted to sit at the card table where we eat, and even turned up the television. “It helps me unwind,” he said. He ate very little, and went right to bed.’
‘In the talk, he had said, “The worst crime is to be in conflict.” And later he told me to remember to tell him, “Knowledge is the basis of the mind being hurt.” During the talk, a man brought a brilliant red rose and put it at his feet on the platform. Later, when he seemed to cough, another one brought him a paper cup of water. Krishnaji put it on the floor and seeing the flower, tried to put the stem into the paper cup. He said later, “That man on the platform must know a great deal.” And we talked of pain, as opposed to suffering. Pain can be felt organically, or through sensitivity, but suffering is when the mind holds onto it.’
On the twentieth, ‘Mr. Clayton Carlson, the new religious book department head of Harper and Row, brought Mrs. Claire Rosen of TIME Magazine to interview Krishnaji. A nice, bright woman. In the p.m., we went to look for other fabric samples for Malibu sofas, and decided the first one was best.’
The next day. ‘TIME Magazine sent a photographer, who took about a hundred pictures of Krishnaji. He sat quietly as though it were part of the job.

The next day, ‘While Krishnaji called on Mrs. Pinter, I shopped at Bergdorf, and then we walked back to the Ritz Tower. Then we walked to see a movie called The Andromeda Strain, science fiction, and Krishnaji found it exciting.

This post was last updated by John Raica Sun, 03 Sep 2017.

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Tue, 27 Jun 2017 #262
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

August first, 1971 Krishnaji in Saanen and ‘he gave his seventh Saanen talk, which was on intelligence—intelligence that comes when thought realizes it cannot go beyond itself, and is still. It was a very hot day, and Krishnaji said that he felt ill that day. He said he was as tired as though he’d been ill. And he said that he felt like 'disappearing' after the talk. Marcelle Bondoneau came to lunch, and we discussed doing an interview for French television.’ as a result of all of this, Krishnaji did a television interview in French for a André Voisin, who was an interviewer on French television.

On the fifth of August, ‘Krishnaji gave his second Saanen discussion, a marvelous one, one on the old brain and the new brain.’ ‘Thought is the old brain, and cannot find that which is beyond itself, which is the new.’ “The perception of this is intelligence,” he said. In this perception, the old is quiet and in abeyance, but it’s there; it just doesn’t interfere. Then the new one can be, and this is intelligence. Intelligence can perceive the unknown, the new, and this can use the old when it is necessary.’ ‘it was a talk that left me drained with its intensity.

When I had the skin graft on my leg he said to me, “You know that I can’t come and see you in the hospital,” and I said, “Of course I know, I wouldn’t hear of you coming to see me in the hospital! He knew I was in the hospital, but it wasn’t so much me in the hospital, but it’s all the terrible things that are happening to people all around. It was the hospital, not me.

I keep coming back in my mind— we talked about two angels who were looking after me. And he asked me the next day, “Do remember what we talked about?” and I said, “Yes, about the two angels.” And then I said, “What did you mean by that?” And he said, “You should have asked the man then.” And when I said something, he said, “Probably.” I mean that was a bystander’s comment. And there’s that strange repeated statement reported by Nitya in “the process” times of “the man who came to watch.” there were different entities during “the process”; there was Krishna, who went away; there was the little child who was left; and there were entities or “somethings” who were doing operations. And then the 'man who came to watch'.

While driving, Krishnaji said he had a meditation,’ it says here. ‘“Be empty and aware from within.”in

Krishnaji gave a wonderful talk to the students on the vividness of awareness and a quiet mind. He showed them pranayama. We went to Winchester after lunch for the Normandy Ferry tickets, intending to go on to South Hampton to scout out where we would dock, but Krishnaji was tired after trotting around Winchester, so we came back. It was a marvelous, clear, sparkling autumn day: very exhilarating. We went for a walk and Krishnaji said, ‘This is better. Now I feel better.’ Later he told me he had dreamt he met Winston Churchill talking to a girl. Churchill said to Krishnaji, “Oh, it doesn’t matter if you marry a girl or not.” Krishnaji said to Churchill’ "If you’ll forgive my saying so, Churchill, you are naughty!”’ ‘To which Churchill replied to Krishnaji, “I love you, I love you.”’ End of dream! ‘Krishnaji said to me, “I’ve met very many distinguished people on the astral plane.”’

At 4 p.m., Nadia Kossiakof came to talk to me, and then Mr. Voisin and an aide came to discuss doing a filmed interview for O.R.T.F. Krishnaji said yes. He and I then went for a walk and had supper in the rooms.’
On the eighteenth, Monsieur Voisin and his crew set up for a TV interview in the sitting room. Krishnaji came there at noon, and the interview was filmed.
On the next day, ‘Krishnaji did a further interview in French for O.R.T.F. He has done a total of four hours, including yesterday.’ They recorded four hours of interview. And he was talking French through all that,

“There was a right action when the Order of the Star was dissolved. There was a right action when the castle and land were returned. There was right action when he broke with Rajagopal, and there is right action now. We are dealing with a crook, unscrupulous, utterly unreliable, and deeply antagonistic, with a considerable hate. Action, any action where he is concerned will have in it the elements of distortion. We are not concerned with him. He’s unbalanced and self-centered. It is not the money we want, nor the property, nor the manuscript, etcetera. I feel that money was given with great devotion, sacrifice, love. To those people who gave it, we are responsible. And what is our responsibility? People, including Signora,”’—he always called Vanda, “Signora”—“‘have said to me, ‘Is it not violence to embark on the path of lawyers?’ Signora was wild about it. Personally, money, etcetera is nothing. But to leave it all in Rajagopal’s hands seems and feels totally wrong and not right.” And then, “Right action under any circumstances is always true, and from that everything flows easily. It is like a flowing river. The flow of the river is not inaction. Its action is of itself from the beginning to the end. There is a right action in this.”’
‘And later, he said, “One must be a complete outsider, and so the most true revolutionary, and then action will be incorruptible.

December eleventh, He said he awakened in the night with a sense of joy and felt the room was filled with people. Quote: “Eminent, holy beings who seem there when something happens in his brain. My head felt enormous.”

We ignored Christmas totally. As we did birthdays, too.

On December thirtieth, We discussed in the car, “what is it to be bourgeois?” It is self-centered, desiring ego. Material things, concepts, but more than that, an inelasticity. I asked if I were that. Krishnaji thought I am not attached to money or things

The fifth of January, ‘Sidney Field telephoned that his brother John had died suddenly the day before. Krishnaji spoke to him and asked him to come to lunch the next day. And it also says that ‘Krishnaji shouted a bit and didn’t sleep well at night.’ He used to call it “shouting,” I heard this cry and it sounded like distress. I didn’t know what to do, so I went to Alain Naudé, and said something’s wrong with Krishnaji, and I described it. He said, “Oh, no, no. Pay no attention, it happens all the time; Krishnaji doesn’t like to talk about it, and it doesn’t mean a thing.” This was the first inkling I had of, really, part of the process, in a way. Krishnaji called it “shouting,” and often he woke himself up by doing it.

On the nineteenth, ‘Sidney Field again came for lunch with Krishnaji, and talked to him about reincarnation.’
but it wasn’t recorded. At lunch, we taped a discussion on reincarnation derived partly from Krishnaji’s conversation to Sidney Field last week. ‘Krishnaji and Alain did another taped dialogue, starting with the Upanishads, and going on to emptying the mind of 'everything but fact', as the ending of thought. A mind that is not empty can never find truth.

January thirtieth ‘was a windy, clear day, and Krishnaji spoke again of an "extraordinary light burning in the mind.’ - he was awake three hours with it in the night.

‘Krishnaji says he hasn’t felt so rested since the ’40s. Having been there that whole winter was wonderful.
‘Krishnaji told of waking last night and seeing for a brief moment that it was as if something were being done in his brain, his inner brain,’ it says. ‘It ''disappeared' and he felt he mustn’t pursue it. It is part of what has been going on lately,’ it says.

On the tenth of February, In the evening, Krishnaji was given a shock when I spoke to him while he was “far away” while watching television. It caused him to shake and he felt it all night, so sensitive has his body become.’ We were sitting watching television, and after supper, I remember it clearly, I casually spoke to him. I didn’t realize he was off and he came to with this jar. It was like waking him up, which he said, never wake him up, or if you have to, when I did, I would make small noises, so that it would gradually enter his consciousness.

The first of March, we lunched with Erna, Theo, Ruth, Albion Patterson. Afterwards, Krishnaji answered questions, mostly from Patterson, on the relation of his personal early history to the teachings for people without that background. Krishnaji said it had no relevance. “What happened to him interests people who are not really interested in themselves. ‘“There is no path, no system. There is a quality of mind you cannot put into words that can go into the question of truth. There is a mystery which one must approach with extraordinary delicacy. The conscious mind cannot do this. The word is not the thing. If one comes to the thing, one never puts it into words, but can say it is there. I know it is there.”

In the morning, Krishnaji came to me with almost tears and said, “Come, let me show you this place.” We looked down the valley and at the hills. He loves this place so much. The air was filled with the smell of orange blossoms, and he had me listen to a hum, which was the bees in the grove. I asked him if he would like to get a place here, that I would sell Malibu if he wished it. He wouldn’t hear of that, but came back later to thank me.’ On our return, Krishnaji had me write down that he had, in the early morning, a feeling of meditation that he had never had before. “From my center, from my heart that filled the whole valley. It went on for a considerable time. From that, it went to my head, and was a most extraordinary thing. It has been pursuing me on all the walk and when I was talking to the lawyer Gold—it was just a voice talking. There was no reaction. It was just happening.

Tuesday, twenty-seventh March, 1972, Malibu to Ojai. Lovely, bright morning. At supper, Krishnaji talked of Rajagopal, his refusal of Krishnaji’s healing, his self-pity. Krishnaji quoted Rajagopal as saying, “People will always look after you. But me, who will care about me?” Krishnaji wondered how, with this extraordinary protection that has characterized his life, that those two’—Rajagopal and Rosalind—‘were allowed to come into it as they did.’

Monday, the tenth of April. ‘Krishnaji found Candles in the Sun  in the bookcase and he read in it. He read me the part in which Lady Emily and others resigned from the TS and Dr. Besant offered to as well when Krishnaji broke with it. “And yet Rajagopal didn’t,” said Krishnaji. “How could he remain in it? This is worse than his stealing money.” He told me, and probably Erna, that if he’d known that Rajagopal continued to be a Theosophist all those years, he never would have let him edit the talks. At lunch, after reading Candles in the Sun, he spoke of “protecting the body”, how it is necessary. Crossing the beach road together, Krishnaji paused and a car came along fast with the sun in its eyes. I called to Krishnaji, who was just out of my reach, and he said, “I see it, I see it,” but he didn’t move. He has an odd tendency never to act quickly when there is danger from traffic. He says he sees it as though that was enough.’ I remember the first time crossing Piccadilly road with him: he was about to step into traffic and I, without thinking, grabbed him. And he said very casually, “You just saved my life.” And I was horrified, and he said, “Well, it wouldn’t happen if I were alone. Then I pay attention.”

I asked Krishnaji what was the so-called 'betrayal'; and Krishnaji said that it was an episode in Athens when they were both staying in a hotel and somebody had asked Rajagopal for an interview with Krishnaji, and Rajagopal turned the person down. Later, Krishnaji was in the lobby, or somewhere, and the person came up to him and begged him for an interview, and he agreed. Rajagopal was in a rage, and said this was a 'betrayal'. This is what he dictated so he could use this as something about Rosalind

The sixteenth, ‘Krishnaji told me I must have a secretary for all the letters, etcetera. He said I spend all my time working when I should be quiet. "Think. Read. Write. And keep around him a serene atmosphere". If I get tired, it tires him. I must do everything to be well and stay well. He expects to live many more years and I must be well to help him. If anything happens to me, if I were in a hospital, he could not be with me, etcetera. He joked about, “the Master only speaks once.” An old Theosophical saying, so I must pay heed. During the evening, he said something was happening as if someone were in the room watching. Something is happening to him, an energy. He said he understood something about a very, very long prolonged life. He chided me a little about not having noticed anything in the room. I had not been quiet.’

April seventeenth. Krishnaji and I walked on the beach road, and then he spoke of Kundalini, something that cannot be sought and is not a reward. He asked me if I am writing these things down. It’s my job.’

May sixth. ‘Krishnaji gave his third talk in Carnegie Hall. The Carnegie Hall manager, Mr. Warkow, said when we arrived that Mr. Stokowski was in the audience and would like to greet Krishnaji afterward.’
‘It was a very good talk, beginning with the need for order; a new dimension must be first in the individual. Unfortunately, we usually try to bring order about from the outside. Order is not to be cultivated, it is not competition, not conformity. Order comes from observation and choice-less awareness. Only the man who perceives without distortion, who will have the energy to change, will then, with others, make a change in the world. Order comes without effort, sweetly. A mind that is completely in order is good. In this order lies our whole problem of living. We must stop the disorder which society accepts. The pattern of society is corrupt. Can you put that aside and bring about order in yourself? Knowing yourself is the ending of sorrow. There is sorrow in each individual and there is a collective sorrow. Fulfillment, changing according to a pattern, is a dissipation of energy because it is an avoidance of what is, and you need complete energy to change what is. Order can come about without any effort. Effort implies division and conflict; order is only possible when we observe what is and go beyond it. So there is an ending of sorrow when there is order, and this comes about when one understands oneself. How do you look without division? No observer, but only observation. The observer is only a fragment, it is the ego, the me, the past, the thinker, and the creator of division and conflict. The understanding of disorder is order. For us, love is a series of disorders. How is it possible to have love without a breath of disorder? Love is never to be in conflict in relationship—relationship means responsibility. Love in which there is total responsibility. Death is part of living. We have to understand that extraordinary thing called death, which means: Can I be free of the fear to look at it? The chaste mind has no image. You must find it. There is something permanent, not at the behest of time. That goes beyond death. Something not the product of time, physically or psychologically, not shaped by the mind, the environment, or experience, and therefore not touched by death.’
‘Time, a psychological process we call progress. We need tomorrow because we are lazy. We need to live a complete life without fear or death and with no tomorrow, dying every minute, dying to everything you hold dear, which is memory and to the past, which is the me, the me that says I must be. To die to the past is to die to oneself.’
‘Is there such a thing as immortality? Not me becoming immortal, which is such a small thing, which cannot love. There is only love when the me is not. So, is there eternity? That is what concerns man. If there is something beyond death, which is neither the continuity of what has been, nor seeking a heaven; to come upon that, which is not time or put together by thought as true.’
‘Immortality is where time doesn’t exist, and for this, the mind must be still. You cannot come upon this stillness without order. The really religious life is the life of non-self.

‘After the talk, Krishnaji waited back stage until Stokowski came. They bowed and shook hands with great dignity. They mentioned how long since they had met. Krishnaji says it was first in Ommen, then in Ojai when he brought Garbo with him. Each seemed to give an appraising glance at the other as if noting how the years had touched each one. Stokowski is ninety now, still conducting. He has a concert in Carnegie Hall tomorrow night and Mr. Warkow said he had made a box available to Krishnaji and his friends.

On the fifteenth, ‘Krishnaji and I went to the Plaza Athénée, Maurice, the maître d’hotel, was helpful with our vegetables, and a salad aux champignon, and a cheese flan with a light dusting of truffles. Krishnaji liked it, and his eyes darted about, taking in everything, including the fat priest in a monk’s habit who ate and drank interminably. Krishnaji was fascinated. How, first of all, how anybody could eat that much, and secondly, a man of the cloth…Krishnaji kept eyeing him, very discreetly. But this restaurant soon fell out of favor partly because they didn’t serve salad. Krishnaji couldn’t believe that a restaurant, especially in France, a good restaurant, you couldn’t have salad. He was quite shocked. Today, Au Pactole did not find favor with Krishnaji as they had no green salad.’ ‘He was aghast. “How can these people live?” he said, looking around at very copiously fed clientele.’

Krishnaji said to me, “Are you my brother? For a moment, I felt you were.”’ I’d forgotten when that was. ‘“That’s reincarnation,” he said. I pointed out I couldn’t be, because I was born before Nitya died.’

‘Krishnaji said strange things are going on in his head. “Head is burning,” he said. He slept in the morning and afternoon, but we walked.’

On the ninth of June we went to London, and we lost my briefcase in the cab.’ What happened was Krishnaji was always concerned by what I carried. And when I carried both a handbag and, in this case, a briefcase, he wanted to carry the non-handbag. I always resisted, but I gave in on this occasion. He left it in the backseat of the cab.
We didn’t know it until we got to Huntsman. Oh, yes, he was very disturbed by that. ‘So, I reported it to the police. The taxi driver had taken it to the police, who could see from papers inside that it had to do with Michael, so they called his office, and Michael’s clerk collected it. So, it wasn’t a crisis, but it could’ve been. Krishnaji said the shock of the briefcase loss “put him away for the rest of the day.”’ His dismay was touching.

On June eleventh, ‘Krishnaji talked to the school. “Is there  communication that is neither verbal nor by gesture? When total attention exists at the same moment at the same level, there is communication.”

During the day driving through the Savoie, there were signs “Jesus sauve” . Krishnaji pointed to the first and said, “Oh, Jesus!” Then we came to one that read “Jésus est là” said Krishnaji, “Bons, j’y suis.”’

After supper, Krishnaji, Vanda, and I talked till quite late about the early days. Mrs. Besant, Leadbeater’s discovery of the boy, and the so-called instructions from Masters reported by Leadbeater on how the boy was to be cared for. Krishnaji was in high form, laughing, told most of it. “Listen to this, signora; when he traveled, there was to be always two initiates, one to have a compartment on one side of him, and one on the other, so if there were an accident, they would be killed first’

This post was last updated by John Raica Fri, 08 Sep 2017.

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Fri, 30 Jun 2017 #263
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

July 1972 (in Saanen) The tent looked dignified, well ordered, and was nearly full.

After the walk, we had tea, and Krishnaji sat and talked until 7 o’clock, somewhat on supernatural thing  his sense of unease when doctors come and when he is outside at night. Once in Ashdown Forest, he was walking alone and it became dark, and he felt he was being followed, and he reached the house exhausted and had to be put to bed “for several days.” Last year in Madras, he came to a temple as the light was fading and felt the threat. He stood and watched, and “said something.”’
‘Then I asked, “a particular thing?”’
‘Krishnaji replied, “Yes, a particular thing. And gradually, it oozed away.” I didn’t ask him then what it was he said, but he spoke earlier of the Christians making the sign of the cross, the Hindus uttering the word “om” to ward off evil’—he had spoken earlier about those two things
. He told too of being asked, when young, to heal a “possessed” woman. He went to see her, and she looked up at him and became quiet and normal. He told of Jayalakshmi going one night alone to a temple felt to be very holy, and feeling great danger there, so that she fled to her car and went home. Krishnaji said it is not supposed to be good to talk of “dark powers,” as it somehow gives them energy. He says these things as an “on dit” —gossip, but he says too one mustn’t tamper with such things, and he does have his unease about being out at night, and an extra precaution being necessary for those around him, as if we were his protection, in part, and therefore liable to attack by whatever is evil.

Krishnaji told us of Rajagopal having written to Vanda who was, at the time, in Gstaad not to communicate with Krishnaji.’ He left him there alone. When Rajagopal left, after several days there, on one of which he was drunk in the dining room and called Krishnaji names in a loud voice, he told Krishnaji,’ ‘“You say you are never lonely, well, now you’re going to find out what it’s like, what the rest of us feel.”’ ‘“But I was never lonely,” said Krishnaji.’ ‘“I could have just stayed there.” He went for walks all day in the hills, never spoke to anyone, even when the hotel manager wanted to introduce him to some guests. He left when it was time to go somewhere he was due. He went by train, changing twice, to Chamonix, where de Vidas met him. Rajagopal’s attempt to hurt him didn’t work. “But why did I put up with him?” he asked. “I just accepted it. I suppose because there was no one else to turn to.”’

‘We lunched alone, and later walked up the Turbach Road. Krishnaji said again, “you must take care of yourself, as you must outlive me. I will live at least another ten years, till I’m ninety, probably. You must live beyond that. You do not belong to yourself anymore.”’
‘At lunch they touched on Buddhism, the hierarchy of masters in Theosophy, over them the Maha Chohan, the Maitreya, then the Buddha. He explained where some of it came from, mostly Tibet. We talked of Jesus. Wasn’t what he is said to have said to us either true or not? It wasn’t very original, said Krishnaji, just to love one another. I asked, wasn’t it a way of saying, no self, which seems at the core of all religions in varying words. Krishnaji said yes and that Akhenaten had said it too. He has been reading a book on Egyptian history. I said that the religion that people grasp, like Jesus, gives people symbols to hold onto, whereas he takes them away.’

August seventeenth. Krishnaji had not slept well, and said meditation is so strong that the back of his head felt on fire, not pain, but a flame so strong he had to read to stop it before he could sleep again. It has been the first day of sun after cold, grey ones. The fresh snow against the clear sky makes the world look reborn. We walked all the way on the Turbach Road. In a pause in all my telephoning, Krishnaji came in and said, when I told him what was happening, “Are you worried?” he asked. I said, worry is when there is something that can be done to change things; this, it appears, cannot be altered. Krishnaji: “Do you feel something in this room, the atmosphere, and I don’t want this to impinge on you.” We went to his room, and he said, “Do you feel a difference?” And then he said, “Perhaps it is because you have been filled with this in here. We are all going.” Then I asked, “Tell me when does one stop 'coming' and start 'going'? Krishnaji said, “Oh, I guess, at birth. No, probably at ten to twenty years old. I have never seen someone die. I wasn’t there when my brother died. It would have been terrible. In a way, I am 'gone' when I walk, or sometimes when I am reading, I am so far away. Not when I talk. Then, I am all there. But otherwise, I am getting farther away. That is why you mustn’t let them give me a general anesthetic; put me out. That would be the end. ‘“What if you are in pain, hurt?” I asked.’ ‘He replied, “I don’t think that will happen like that. But then sedation, but not 'out' —meaning unconscious. You must outlive me. I will live another fifteen years, or twenty, I don’t know. And when he goes, you must not 'commit suicide', as you did, in a way, when your husband died.

On the drive this morning, Krishnaji spoke of death. “I don’t like to speak of your father,” he said, “but what happens to a man like Rajagopal?” He said the following, which I wrote down verbatim. “Take a man like X who is suspicious, jealous, secretive, concerned with his physical security. He is, after all, a product of his environment, his culture, his pattern of behavior. He may have peculiarities, his temperament, his so-called character. His mind is conditioned by the (social) class he was born in, and so on. And when he dies what happens to him? He has not come out of his (old mental) ‘environment.’ He has not made anything of life. He is merely reacting within his conditioning, which may be very clever, artistic, but he has not come out of it. He is part of the whole "quivering mass" . He has not come out of it, so he is absorbed (back) into his basic (cultural) conditioning. This sounds cruel, but as you observe, he is part of this (consciousness stream of) humanity. As he was in his life, so he is in death. To live with death every day is to deny totally this conditioning. So to die to conditioning every day is to live a life of a different dimension.”’

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 09 Sep 2017.

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Sat, 01 Jul 2017 #264
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

Continuing MZ's K Memoirs in a very selective way


On the thirtieth of September 1972 Krishnaji has a dialogue with David Bohm. They discussed what intelligence is, it is not thought, which is in time, etcetera. At one point, far into the discussion, Krishnaji put the question: “What is its source?” David was silent, and Krishnaji later asked me if I had noticed the change of atmosphere in the room when he asked that question. Then, at the end, he suddenly began to speak of another way to communicate something, to speak not to the conscious mind, but to the unconscious. “That is affection,” he said, “that is love.” To me, later, he said, “I’m going to speak to you that way about your habits of tension. He’s scolding me, and telling me he’s going to speak to my unconscious. ‘“Do you know what it is to be quiet?”’ ‘He said that he has noticed that I have neglected my body, that for reasons he doesn’t want to inquire into it, I am highly nervous physically. It shows in an unquiet face, fiddling with fingers, etcetera. I have tried to correct it from the outside, through will, through the conscious mind, and when he has pointed out these mannerisms, I have responded with effort, will, irritation, or depression— ‘all of which are superficial responses. He said, “I am now talking to a deeper level, out of affection. It is from this level, from the inside, you must listen and change. If you do, in a few days, you will be different. There will be an awareness of your body.” He said that after my husband died, for eight years, I abandoned my body, neglected it. Today, I have greatly changed and am aware in many ways, but still not in the well-being of the body. He will speak at this level to me, to my unconscious during the coming days.’

Nadia Kossiakof telephoned that the first of Krishnaji’s two television interviews in French done last year will be shown on the seventeenth, so we can see it as we will be in Paris then.

On October ninth. ‘Last night Krishnaji again said, “I’m speaking to your unconscious mind. I feel it doesn’t feel it is important or you would’ve changed these habits during these five years. Do you know what it is to be quiet?” As he was saying this, I saw that the habits are offshoots of tension; I don’t feel tense or nervous, but somehow, to get things done, I build up this steam of energy, which has a quality of tension. It feels like being in high gear. This probably wastes the very energy I need. I see that, from the inside, a quietness is necessary, and that the core of these things cannot be done from without. It is a false tension. Quietness inside, I understand that. Later this morning, while doing dishes in the kitchen, Krishnaji said he felt a difference in me. Then late in the evening, he said, “You have taken the 'first initiation'. Do you know why you have taken so long? When you do, it will be the second initiation.

In Paris Krishnaji went to sleep but I sat up to see the broadcast of the half-hour André Voisin TV interview of Krishnaji conducted by a year ago, recorded here in the Plaza Athénée. It was all in French. It was superb. Krishnaji spoke clearly, eloquently, and his accent was good. Voisin did an excellent job really listening, subtly smoothing words when Krishnaji didn’t get the ones he wanted and lightly leading Krishnaji to essential questions in his teachings. It was marvelous to watch Krishnaji in conversation. His face tells so much, so eloquently. I was moved and thrilled. The second part, another half hour, is to be shown on the twenty-fourth ‘There were enthusiastic telephone calls about the television from Bondoneau, Kossiakof, and Mar de Manziarly, the latter taking credit for her family giving Krishnaji his good French accent years ago’

October twenty-fifth. ‘Vanda drove Krishnaji and me to the Teatro dell’Arte, where Krishnaji gave his first talk in Rome, a very fine one. The place was overflowing. Barabino came to lunch and discussed Krishnaji’s future talks in Rome. Krishnaji may cut India to two months or less another year. Walked with him in the Villa Glori later. Krishnaji and I walked in Villa Glori. He said, “Pay attention to your unconscious. It may want to tell you something now. Do not take too long to change. You are quiet inside now. Do not take so long to change. It will tell you something and you must be alert and quick to respond, otherwise it is harmful.” He has touched something that is now different, an interior movement.
The next day, ‘Krishnaji said he had awakened at 4 a.m., and wished to tell me things. There was a discussion of about fifty people at Vanda’s.

1973 Krishnaji left Bombay and flew to Rome on January thirty-first.’ On February fifth, he took a TWA flight from London, and I met him at Los Angeles Airport at 4:30 p.m., looking very well in spite of his long flight and all his work this winter. We came back to Malibu, unpacked, and had supper by the fire. Krishnaji was not sleepy and so he talked a lot.’

Now the next day, which was a Sunday, ‘Krishnaji held the second Malibu discussion with the same group as yesterday. It was on education, and he spoke of a school here in California being necessary because we are in a time of violence, a “Dark Age.” He also said, there is a residue of both good and evil that exists in itself. Then he said, “I am not speculating. I know this.” We must bring up children in goodness, an umbrella of it sheltering them. How are we to have it? We already are in this goodness or we would not be here. Extraordinary turn to this discussion.

April twenty-eight, a quote from Krishnaji: ‘“I had an odd dream last night. There was a certificate that the mother, probably our mother, was dead. And I sat down on the bed and put my hands on her, and gradually I felt the warmth return to her and she sat up. Then I woke up. Probably it is symbolic.” Then, Krishnaji talked to the school in the dining room. He questioned why the students are so silent in meetings with him, and don’t discuss, also why there isn’t a fire and energy in them. Are they bored, listless? Some said because there is no pressure, i.e., grades, and other demands of study, there isn’t a prod to do things. One must supply one’s own interests, energy. There was then a discussion of authority: “If X doesn’t come to the morning meetings, how does a staff member deal with him?”’ That’s the sample problem. “‘I would describe to him the reasons for the morning meetings, the coming together quietly in the sense of unity. And if he refuses, what do I do? I tell him twenty times; but he still doesn’t come. I leave him alone on this subject but talk to him at meals here and there. I give him the sense that I care about him. I point things out. Then I go back and ask him to come to the morning meetings again. I have talked this way for fifty years. Do you know why? Because I love you. You are my son or my daughter.”’

On June fourth, ‘Mar showed Krishnaji and me letters written by Nitya to her in the early ’20s. Very moving. They seem so alive, and there was such humor and irony, and somehow sad, as though much of that world they occupied was tiresome to him. “Theosophy is the most boring thing of all.”’ That’s what Nitya wrote. ‘Krishnaji was moved by the letters, and said, “I saw what it was like, but he was much more mature than I was.”’

Krishnaji talked to the school about what is distraction. He then said how he would teach mathematics. “I will show you.” Begin by asking the students if they have habits, any habits. So you see that if you have a habit, you are unaware of it, and that will lead to habits of mind? Discuss that. Then with that mind discuss mathematics, he said.’

Well, the next day ‘I dreamt vividly of Nitya. He had been allowed to come back once, and I held onto him lest he vanish for Krishnaji to see him.’

‘The sixth Saanen discussion was the next day, and it was on death. “If you really know life, you will understand death, and love. They are one; not separate.” It had a profound effect.

The next day was the sixteenth of August. ‘Krishnaji, about his head pains, and that faraway feeling, said, “These people usually remain in one place surrounded by their disciples. The Buddha walked eighty miles, but that wasn’t very far. This body was made sensitive and it rebels at being pushed around in strange places.”’
‘I said, “Shouldn’t it stay in one place?”’
‘Krishnaji said, “If you mean Brockwood, no. It may come to that, but not now.”’

August thirty-first. He woke in the night feeling as if a ball of light were being placed in his head. He stayed awake observing it for about an hour.

On the twenty-fifth, ‘I worked all day on typing Krishnaji’s notebook. He does two-and-a-half pages a day.

Krishnaji held another discussion with the school at 3:30 p.m. He said, “To say, ‘I do not know,’ and really mean it, is to be out of thought.”’

1974 The sixth of February. Krishnaji left Heathrow at 1 p.m. London time on TWA, a twelve-hour flight to Los Angeles. I finished putting the house in order, fetched fresh fruit and vegetables at the Brentwood Market, had the car washed, and went to the airport. A thankful, smiling feeling as the white aircraft wheeled up. I saw Krishnaji’s head as he was second out and down the steps to the customs entrance. There was quite a wait, and then he stepped out, carrying his Vuitton bag, elegant, tired but wonderful. “Travel is hell,”’ ‘he said.’

And then Krishnaji asked, “How will you judge a student? Will it be because of your prejudices, likes, dislikes? Will you be aware of these; of choosing with your own ego? It is a sin to turn down a child who comes to you, who may be the right one. It is a tremendous responsibility. If you feel that responsibility deeply, you will act rightly.”

Sunday, the seventeenth. We had supper entrées by the television. A program came on, Religion in America, showing Baba Ram Dass (Richard Alpert and Timothy Leary’s old 'partner in LSD' at Harvard University) at the Baba Ram Dass ashram; scenes of pompous, beaded turban types doing what was billed as kundalini yoga’ ‘“God bless, America,” said Krishnaji, “They embrace anything.”
Krishnaji told me Anderson is not challenging enough and said, “I will have to do it myself.” But he had a word with Anderson and today’s dialogue numbers 3 and 4 were more intense and went well.

On the twentieth, ‘Krishnaji slept less well and efforts to try other background colors delayed the start of the recording for an hour, which tired and upset him, but once launched into the dialogue, he didn’t want to stop after one hour, and they did full two hours. They discussed freedom and responsibility, what is order and freedom. On the way in, in the car, Krishnaji said to me, “Energy is not thought. Remember to remind me.”’

The next day, ‘On way to San Diego State, Krishnaji said, “I think I will take charge of the discussion.” Both dialogues 11 and 12 went very well. It began with religion. Krishnaji was very tired after all this. He slept and we walked a few blocks, and for the first time he said his head hurt as we came back in the car.

The next day, ‘Krishnaji did dialogues 17 and 18 mostly on meditation and decided not to do anymore. So we went back to the house, had lunch, loaded the car and left at 2:45 p.m. to drive all the way back to Malibu, part of the way in a light rain. We arrived at 6 p.m. Both Krishnaji and I are tired, but especially Krishnaji. The dialogues are more tiring than talks.’

‘Erna and Theo brought Krishnaji his manuscript written in 1961, brought by Vanda to Rajagopal and given to our lawyer Cohen. Krishnaji asked me to read it. It is in pencil in Krishnaji’s hand, a daily journal of process within him, pains, pressing, and strange action of whatever it is.Immensely beautiful and moving.

On March tenth, Krishnaji said he had a sudden feeling that he would live another ten to fifteen years. “The body must last,” he said, “and I must outlive him.”’ 

‘Swami Venkatesananda and five followers came to see Krishnaji at 4 p.m.’. That always produced a sort of battle of Indian manners because the Swami would hurl himself at Krishnaji’s feet, and Krishnaji would try to prevent it. And it always happened in doorways and awkward places It caused quite a sort of confusion.

We had supper as usual on trays and watched “Washington Week in Review.” Then Krishnaji watched Ben-Hur on television. I came in several times to remind him it was getting late, and when I came in at 9:45 p.m., he was sitting with the sound turned off and a far-off look. He said, “Sit down quietly.” He looked as though something were happening—intent, listening, aware of something. I was unable to feel it, distracted by deskwork I had been doing away in my room, in avoidance of Ben-Hur.’ I didn’t want to see it. ‘Soon he left the living room and told me it had been extremely intense, a “precipitation,” something so strong in the room he had been prepared for it to become “manifest” in some further way visible I’ve never felt it like this. Something is happening.” He said later that it continued when he was in bed so that he stayed wide awake and had to sit up. His head was bad.’

Krishnaji talked to me about, “The necessity of living without shock and strain.” Erna told him about the bomb threat, but he brushed it aside and said “I must live at least another ten years.”
When Krishnaji woke up the next morning he said, ‘“marvelous meditation last night.”
I asked if it were the “new process” he was so full of in Malibu before we left. Yes, it was different. “I must find out what to do to live ten to fifteen years, there is so much to do.” 

This post was last updated by John Raica Fri, 08 Sep 2017.

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Sun, 02 Jul 2017 #265
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

May tenth, 1974, Krishnaji and I are in Malibu.

‘Krishnaji came into my room while I was at the desk, and as we talked, there was that remote look on his face, and very suddenly I felt that curious sense of 'something else'. It was as though there were an inaudible sound that one was listening to or for. His face had that look of listening inwardly, infinitely austere and away. He said, “It is strange. Do you feel it?” And then he said, “Do you write down when these things happen? You should.” (For me, it has always been like a kind of very high-pitched, too high to hear, trembling in the ear, a kind of intensity, a kind of…like an electrical something…that you just sense).

‘On the drive back to Malibu, Krishnaji spoke of the insults he had received constantly from both the R's. Her first calling him “a swine” in Sequoia…his shock. He told Rajagopal, who shrugged. Their forcing him to go to drive-in movies and eat in tacky restaurants, which he hated. And again, the story in India of Rosalind going at him with an empty bottle, trying to hit his head. Sunanda was a partial witness to this. Krishnaji said he put up with all of this because there was nothing he could do. There was no one he could go to. He spoke of a sense of helplessness, and said he wondered if, when I go out, if something happened to me, what would he do?

The eighteenth of June, ‘Krishnaji and I went to London, met Mary L. for lunch at Fortnum’s. I gave her pages, so far checked, of the manuscript and returned to her an album of photographs of Adyar published in 1911. They are photos by Alcyone . The text is by Leadbeater. Krishnaji said Leadbeater must have done something bad that made the young Krishnaji dislike him. He can’t remember what it was. He was a rather brutal man, apparently. Krishnaji doubts it was anything homosexual. He would’ve been afraid to make any advance towards Krishnaji, but something must have caused the aversion. Krishnaji said that when he was quite young he used to stare out the window with his mouth open. And it irritated Leadbeater, who kept telling him not to do it, but Krishnaji did it in a sort of a dreamy way. At one point, Leadbeater came up behind him and banged his mouth closed. And as Krishnaji said to me, that was the end of Leadbeater as far as he was concerned.

The nineteenth of June. ‘Krishnaji said, “I will live at least another ten years. After that, the 'door' will close.” I wondered what 'door'. Is it a door for us to another dimension, which he opens for us?’

‘A few days ago he said he had had a good meditation in the night. I asked him about the distinction he appears to make in the book between meditation and “that otherness,” that immensity. Krishnaji asked, “What does it say?” I said that it seemed to me as if there were something in him, a state of perception of which he was capable, whereas “the otherness” appeared to come to him and enter into his consciousness. He replied, “That sounds right, but they are not entirely separate.” When I spoke of the ( Notebook) manuscript he wrote, he said, “It’s not 'my' book. I didn’t write it.”’

Krishnaji then said, “It is strange. Four days ago when I was going down to lunch, the thought came. I said, ‘Nitya, do something about Arya Vihara. They are such silly people. See that something happens about this.”’

June twenty-sixth: ‘A while back, in a conversation with Krishnaji about interviews, he said, “When they are open, they want you to 'read their letter'. Other times, they have a mask on, and I am deceived.”’ He always said that he never looked into people if they didn’t ask him to. “You come to see me, and you are serious. You ask me to look. I never offer my opinion. Then it is simple and clear. I can go ahead. Others say, ‘Look, but not too deeply.’ I go as deeply as they want me to. If they want me to go a mile, I go a mile. “If you are able to perceive me, you must be in a meditative mind.”

This morning he said, “There is something even in this room, a marvelous meditation, 'that thing' is going on. It started here last night. It was good to get away from Brockwood. The atmosphere was too infantile.”
Krishnaji remained in bed till 4 p.m. when the Sufi leader Pir Vilayat Khan, who has asked to see him, was due. He didn’t turn up till 5. “Typical of these people.”’ That’s a quote from Krishnaji. ‘He came with a young woman who remained outside, and Krishnaji and he talked alone for one-and-a-half hours. Tea was then given. The Sufi left. Long black robe, gray beard, speaks excellent French, lectures in it, and German. He told Vanda and me that he was for subduing the self, control, etcetera. Krishnaji said, “How rigid these fellows are.”’

The next day, he had been thinking of a center in Ojai and everywhere else. “Must produce people so intelligent they will be basically religious (holistic ?) , and with that intelligence will function in every field, politics, art, business, and every form of social relationship.”’
KThe center is to have a meeting room to hold 200 people, kitchen and dining room for 100, and housing for thirty to forty people there on invitation to discuss, etcetera. He wants to keep the Oak Grove for talks, including half the land to the west of it. “In case we want to build something there,” and sell the rest.’ I pointed out we had no funds yet to even pay Mark Lee’s salary. “You’re always talking about money,” he said impatiently.

Krishnaji said suddenly, “I woke up early and something extraordinary happened. It was as though this”’ [wide gesture] “‘were enormous, spreading out to take the universe.” I asked, “This being consciousness?” Krishnaji replied, “More than consciousness. It went on for more than an hour.” I asked, “Did it fade then?” Krishnaji answered, “No, you know how this is. It is there somewhere.”

We wore them on a walk to the river. On the way, I speculated what would happen if people really said no fighting, no wars. The aggressor nations would take over. Krishnaji said you couldn’t let them do that. You would speak up, get people to not cooperate. Do no work. Russians or anyone else couldn’t control the world if everyone refused to work. “You’d have to talk, organize it ahead of time. At the last minute, it’s too late.” I said, “Isn’t it already too late?” and he said, “Maybe. Now I must get woolly. I have to talk tomorrow.”’ ‘I said no more, but walked ahead so he could be alone. In the woods, he called to me,  “Maria, remind me of these words: idea creates conflicting energy.”

July sixteenth, 1974, in Gstaad. . We spoke a little about the talk, and Krishnaji’s reply to questions he had been asked about “how are you going to change people who are only interested in getting enough to eat?” etcetera. Krishnaji had said "he was talking, to you ( those present) here in this tent. If you change, it will change other ways, old ways; of war, reform, systems, etcetera, which have resulted in the present chaos. Only change in the psyche can alter the world.”’

‘“But I’m thinking about Thursday’s talk,” he said. “When there is a cause, the energy created by that cause is the energy of thought as matter. Meditation is without cause, without past, time, or form. Why is thought divisive? Because it is the past. It must be fragmented. Cause, as long as there is a cause, there is the past. If there is no cause, there is no past, no time. The Greeks were concerned with form and the manipulations of matter. They made a prototype of beauty, etcetera. They never went into the question of form being matter. In the West, matter is the most important and then there is God, which is considered to be non-material, but it is an idea and hence matter.”’

‘Then he said, “You cannot organize the world unless there is the ‘Other.’ There must be the whole. There must be energy, which is of intelligence, which is not of matter. For it,   you must 'negate'.

Is there anything beyond matter? “One sees this as on this side of the river, which is suffering and misery, and what is one to do? The ordinary man living in this world, oppressed and suffering, wants to break ( free from) it. But he doesn’t see the whole thing is wrong. When I see it, passion makes the break.”’
‘“Life and death are always close together. Don’t put it all over there.”’

August eleventh. ‘Krishnaji slept well. After breakfast he wanted the Leonore Overture and the Fifth Symphony on the new Uher cassette player. Then he said, “There are two things you must do. First, you must talk to Dorothy and make her realize she mustn’t let Brockwood just go on as it has. There must be the “Other.” She must give herself time and attention to be open to that; otherwise, I won’t go on talking to these people. They must be ready for it. If not, I will withdraw; not suddenly. But instead of three months, I will stay there two months, then one. You follow? Second, you must look after the whole, then everything will come right. He spoke of precision, watching how one lives, watching one’s memory, writing down, avoiding carelessness, letting faculties slip. One must train the mind now. Mrs. Besant didn’t. She wore out her mind. She used to breakfast on coffee and bits of orange. He doesn’t think I would be ill, but he watches over me when we are apart. “I see to it, but you must be very attentive.”’

After he got back, Krishnaji’s head began to hurt. “This has been going on since 1922.”’ He meant the events in Ojai.
Krishnaji and I walked in spite of the heat. “I feel far away, as if I didn’t want to speak or touch anything.

Friday, August sixteenth. I was reading Castaneda’s Journey to Ixtlan’ ‘and Krishnaji asked me about it. I told him the part about “entities” in the wilderness and at night, which are dangerous in the book. Krishnaji nodded. He told of the sense of antagonism in the park in Madras when he went there at twilight, and at Ashdown Forest years ago, and Jayalakshmi’s going to an ancient temple at night and the sense of evil there. I asked if darkness opens the mind to such perceptions because the limited senses make one feel more vulnerable and also because of the recognition of known things fills the perception and one doesn’t see other things. Partly, he said, but there is more than that. He said he wouldn’t walk on the path we take every afternoon if it was night. Many forests have a menace at night. I asked about Sequoia, where he lived alone in a cabin. He said he never felt it there. It was a friendly place. “But I never went out at night. I was always back by six,”

‘Krishnaji and I walked to the river. I asked him if he had seen psychological changes in me? Did he think I was caught in conditioning? “No,” he said, “you’re not attached, not to me, not to your house, or any ideas. You were attached to your husband, but not now.
‘Further on the walk, he said, “If one is not attached, one cannot be hurt.” I pressed him for some psychological noticings about me. He said sometimes my mind is slow to see things,’ and to think about that. Then he said that when he dies there must be someone to see that all this continues, not the organizational part, but the spirit.

The twenty-sixth of August. ‘Krishnaji said there had been “a marvelous meditation.” He looked happy and well.
On the twenty-eighth of August, ‘Mary Links came down by train and I met her at Petersfield at noon. She had questions on his occult powers not dealt with in the biography. Krishnaji described it as a faculty he could have but doesn’t choose to use. “Like reading other people’s private letters.”

Two conversations between Krishnaji and me.

Krishnaji: “I’m interested to see what the brother was like because the last few days it’s been haunting me. The last few nights I dreamt of him, a peculiar dream. He and I were talking. Rajagopal came in, and we pushed him. A deep rooted distress, or pain, or suffering…or a sense of fun?
Mary: “Were the dreams painful?”
Krishnaji: “Sometimes he’s on a train, and I try to catch it and can’t. Or, he’s falling into a river, and I try to catch him and can’t.”
Mary: “What about fun?”
Krishnaji: “Sometimes we’re laughing.”
Mary: “When did this physical sensitivity come about?”
Krishnaji: “Before Gstaad.”
Mary: “All of a sudden?”
Krishnaji: “Slowly. It began with the head, of course. When we came back to Brockwood, sometimes the sensitivity precedes the head pain; sometimes they go together.”
Mary: “Did you have it today in London?”
Krishnaji: “I was lost.”
Mary: “And at lunch?”
Krishnaji: “A little bit.”
Mary: “Did the haircut bother you?”
Krishnaji: “A little bit. I told the barber to go slow.”

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 19 Aug 2017.

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Tue, 04 Jul 2017 #266
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

(Continuing with selected excerpts from Mary Zimbalist's Memoirs )

September 1974. Krishnaji had a subtitle for the ( first volume of Mary Lutyens ) biography: Krishnamurti: The Years of Awakening.’ It came into his mind in the night. He is pleased. So is Mary, and luckily, so is John Murray the publisher. Krishnaji also said he had awakened at 4 a.m., “As though I was completely purged of everything. The mind was washed out clean and healthy. Much more than that, a tremendous sense of joy, ecstasy it was.”’

Krishnaji said today, “I don’t know why I’ve been dreaming for the last two days. Long ago and far away.”’
There was the first formal meeting between the scientists and Krishnaji, with David Bohm as chairman..’ ‘at the meeting, Krishnaji asked Dr. Pribram if the brain is ever still. Pribram said no, even in deep sleep, the neurons are in motion, but quieted. Pribram said hypnosis is the opposite of meditation. The brain is very active. A discussion of meditation followed. Scientists asking Krishnaji questions.’

On October sixth, ‘Krishnaji had a very serious talk with me. I go to Ojai as his representative. I must keep this in mind without any personal opinions. I must be in relation to Krishnaji a thousand miles away. A feeling for it. There are decisions to be made. Be very 'non-personal'. I must have an alert, very quiet body, capable of reception. Krishnaji cannot decide from India. I must decide about what is right, then telegraph him. The whole body must be quiet and take time to know what is right. If I represent Krishnaji, I cannot allow other elements to enter my consciousness. I must telegraph him of my New York and Malibu arrivals. Krishnaji is watching over everything. I must train the body to be still. Sit for one half-hour without moving, for a feeling of quiet. This is very serious.’

The next day, He left for India and at the last moment, Maharishi Mahesh bordered the flight smiling coyly over a bouquet.’
What happened was that we saw Krishnaji off. He walked across the tarmac all by himself carrying a little bag of personal things, and climbed up the steps. It was a big plane, a 747 Then, suddenly, down the middle of the airport came a procession. First of all there was a 'carabiniere' with those hats and a staff with a gold top. And he walked like a majordomo down the center, followed by this tiny, coy figure carrying a rose, which is the Maharishi. And after him came very devout disciples, and he was sort of smiling as though to the public. So what did happen, Krishnaji had, as usual, the most forward seat, and the Mahesh yogi was several rows back sitting by the window on a lion skin or a tiger skin or something like that, with a demurely devout disciple beside him. Soon after takeoff, a stewardess appeared holding the rose, and said to Krishnaji, “The gentleman in row so-and-so wishes you to have this.” So, Krishnaji took it, and then he gave it right back to her So, somehow he knew what it was all about, but he didn’t do anything, but eventually he had to go to the toilet, which meant walking down the aisle past the Maharishi. He got past apparently, but on his way back, a disciple had been primed to leap up and said, “Please, have my seat,” and Krishnaji found himself sitting next to a man on the lion skin and who engaged him in conversation saying that he had changed the consciousness of Europe, and he was now going to change the consciousness of India. He went on to say that Krishnaji should come with him and they’d do it together. Krishnaji replied that no, he was sorry, that he had appointments that he had to keep, and he had other things to do; talks to give and so forth. Maharishi dismissed that as unimportant because “together we will change the consciousness of…” Somehow, Krishnaji wangled his way out of that, and got back to his seat, where he stayed until the plane made one of those landings to refuel. Krishnaji, as usual, got up and walked, you know, exercising vigorously in the airport, which he reported astonished the Maharishi people. Then, of course, they landed in Delhi, and there  Krishnaji was met with the usual car at the foot of the steps down from the plane, and wafted away.


On February second, ‘Krishnaji left Bombay after midnight and arrived in Rome. He says he is over the flu and bronchitis. His voice sounded himself.’
On the fourth, ‘Krishnaji flew from Rome to Brockwood to pick up his clothes, and arrived at Los Angeles at 3:20 p.m.

February ninth. After lunch he gave an account of the events in India. He has not felt well all the time there. He said he felt “sick” most of the time. He found much deterioration in India. Rajghat (K school) is full of conflict and indifference between the students and teachers. The students walked out in the middle of one of his talks as a demonstration, not against him, but against the teachers. Krishnaji met both sides later and both said they were antagonistic. Rishi Valley has a strong sense of deterioration. Balasundarum is running it as an autocracy, and also spending too much time on other matters. Krishnaji talked to him, and Balasundarum was silent, afraid of him. Krishnaji insisted the school be run by a group of teachers working together. The principal and Foundation secretary shouldn’t be the same person. He told Balasundarum to take six months to "go into himself".

‘He said Pupul has deteriorated too, intellectually, etcetera. She is to leave government work and will do more work for the Foundation. Socially, politically, India is in a greater mess. He spent two hours talking to Mrs. Gandhi , and felt sorry for her, the enormity of her problems. He has told Pupul, Sunanda, Achyut, and Balasundarum that unless there is change in the K schools, they will “not see my face.” This had a bomb-like effect.’

Tuesday, the eleventh of February we drove to Arya Vihara. For the first time since 1966, Krishnaji entered the house. Krishnaji went through the house. On the ground floor west bedroom, Krishnaji said, “My brother must’ve died here,” and, “Dr. Besant used this room.” In the hall, he said to me, “What quarrels there were here.” We walked through the orange trees to Pine Cottage, and Krishnaji went through it and through the office rapidly as though wanting to get away from something repellant. “I couldn’t spend a night here.” Too small, too closed in. “I have been spoiled by Brockwood and your house. I need space.”

On the fifteenth. Krishnaji said he felt like saying something and he didn’t know how to tell me, it was about a feeling he has had the last few weeks, which he once had years ago before his brother had died. At Adyar, standing outside of the building in which they lived, looking up at their chambers, a feeling of emptiness, of no association at all.’
We unpacked two suitcases found at Arya Vihara; one a magnificent crocodile, one with his initials. We found some kurtas and lots of socks. Some socks had JK woven in them, and one pair had JKN. It was as if they had been left there years ago by his brother when they shared their clothing. The cupboard was cedar and all the things now smell cedary. Krishnaji was interested in the clothes but wants to give most of it away.

After supper, Krishnaji seemed disoriented, and had that “listening to something” look. It had begun in the car, though he was driving, but by bedtime he looked as if he didn’t know where he was, which is always strange, and he wanted me at hand. I slept on the couch I bought and put in his sitting room so that it could be used to sleep on,’ because he had his room, naturally, but there was nowhere for me.

On the twelfth of March. ‘In the morning, he said “But it is much more, something tremendous, and it has to do with 'that'.”Krishnaji dictated an earlier memo on “protection, security, affection in buildings and space, freedom.” The quality of a monastery he has seen outside Florence. You do not see it till you come close, it is so much a part of the land. Quiet, dignity, a sacred place.

The thirteenth of March. ‘Krishnaji didn’t sleep too well. So, he spent the day in bed. ‘Krishnaji’s face changed. His eyes were heavy-lidded. He was far off. I felt the change, motioned to turn off the TV, but he shook his head. He asked, “Do you feel it?” There was a 'something' electric close at hand. He didn’t want to speak of it.’

The fourteenth of March. ‘Krishnaji has slept well. “Something had continued.” At lunch he had asked me if I was keeping a record of these things. “You should keep a complete diary.” I asked what relation there was between what happened last night and the noisy film on television. He said that the movie rests and relaxes the mind, then the 'other' comes. He used to go to the movies for rest. Later, he washed both cars. In the evening, he said, “It is still going on. I wonder why. Maybe because of the talks. I don’t know, and I don’t ask.”’

At supper there was a curious Otherness in the room, or something I felt, like clear invisible water running in the air.
 March twenty-first. ‘“Knowledge is always the outer,” Krishnaji said. We lunched with Mrs. Mathias. The conversation went eventually to the Rajagopal case. She said that many were hurt by Krishnaji. Krishnaji asked who. She said, “Well, I was.” Krishnaji explained that what he considered in this, as when he dissolved the Order of the Star , was what is the right thing to do. Mrs. Besant had been hurt when he dissolved the Order, though she came to say, “If the World Teacher is doing this, it is right.” Krishnaji said he had tried for years to get Rajagopal to inform him, consult him, etcetera and got either nothing or abuse.

At lunch, Krishnaji said suddenly, “I realize how they deliberately forced me to go to cheap places to try to break my dignity. I had to go to 'drive-in's; ride on buses, I didn’t care. But that is what they tried.” Coming home, when we turned up the coast, the mountains were clear against the blue sky and he said, “Look at those mountains. That is god!”’

Krishnaji and I got home after 7 p.m. Krishnaji in the car said, “Why was ‘the boy’ sensitive to (good ?) taste? Brahmins aren’t. Why did he know about such things?” I said he had obviously had it from the beginning, as in other things, he was not the product of something as others are. He was born with certain faculties, had the greatest taste in everything, save one. “You mean those two?” he asked. I said, “How you would put up with them is beyond comprehension.”’

April first. ‘Today Krishnaji began to write again. The first one is in pencil, and he wasn’t comfortable at the desk. I have arranged a folding table for him in front of the window. He gave it to me to read and wants me to “correct” it without consulting him. There are only bits of syntax that go wrong because he probably doesn’t read what has gone before when he pauses. I doubt he rereads any of it as he goes along or when he is through. It is again in the form of a nature description and then what he has to say about something. Today on "space and division".’
He was so turned toward the present that he didn’t reread something he’d written. And he didn’t like to hear about it afterward. Often, after he’d written something or dictated, I would have to ask him something, and he never wanted to hear it. He’d say, “Oh, do whatever you want,” or “fix it” or something, but I’d persevere because I wanted it to be just what he intended, and if I did that, he would want to change it completely. He would say, “There’s no sense reading it to me because I’ll change it.” It’s silly to compare, but if I write a letter and have to rewrite it for some reason, I have to begin all over again. I just don’t want to amend what I wrote".** And of course, The Notebook and all that, as Mary said, it’s without erasures. It’s just written.

The third of April. ‘Krishnaji said, “Something has been happening since that day in San Francisco. The head is almost to the point of bursting. It’s full. There is tremendous attention inside the head, a physical feeling. It’s going on now.” He had a far-off look on his face. Then he said, “All energy is concentrated there inside, in the eyes and head.”

Sunday, the thirteenth of April. Krishnaji gave a magnificent and powerful talk in the Oak Grove. I sat closer, away from children and dogs, and listened only. Krishnaji came back to the car, saying, “That talk exhausted me,” Later, joking, he said that in the old days they would’ve said, “The Lord spoke today.

The fourteenth of April. I read him part of an article by E. A. Wodehouse withering Arundale for carrying on ceremonies in Benares in 1928 when Mrs. Besant asked Krishnaji to preside at a TS congress in her absence, and out of politeness to Krishnaji and his views decreed there should be no ceremonies. Krishnaji remembered it vaguely and smiled. He said E. A. Wodehouse wrote very well, but gradually died of laziness.’ ‘He looked at the magazines. “We were all very young then.” He said some of all this should be put together in a book. There is a chapter on the Hindu version of the Lord Maitreya in their sacred books. I read it to Krishnaji. Maitreya foretold by Gautama, it said, did not become a Buddha himself, but refused it until humanity is rescued, hence he returns to human life.’ That’s why the Maitreya returns.
‘I asked Krishnaji, “Will you become a Buddha?”’
‘“You mustn’t ask that,” he said. “It doesn’t work that way. These people made it all into a hierarchical affair.

At supper, Krishnaji looked back at the years here. He said he could’ve been killed or injured on his long climbs in the mountains, and they didn’t think of it or care. He said he used to like to drive around Santa Paula, Ventura, and back, fifty miles. He said he used to go alone to places like Cleveland, Toledo, and Seattle to talk. Somebody must’ve bought the ticket, but then he went on his own. He said maybe Jadu was there.’ Krishnaji told of staying with the Theosophists in New Zealand, who washed all the dishes in the pan and didn’t rinse them. This so appalled Krishnaji, he told them he was good at washing up and asked if he could do it?’ ‘“If you want,” they said.  “So I got two pans. They were nice people and caught on.”’

He took the wheel on the coast road to Malibu. Driving, he asked me if I was too tired for a question. ‘He then asked me if anything had happened to me in these two weeks, was I changed in some way? I asked what he meant. What was he asking about? He said, “I could see something must have happened when you came out of Rajagopal’s, but you hadn’t reacted.” “Now we won’t talk about it for the moment, but we must make a change, have more leisure, take a picnic and go off, have leisure and quiet. ’

April twenty-second. ‘Krishnaji rested. He was reading the book on whales and their enormous brains’ ‘and the fact that until man, they were menaced by nothing, which Krishnaji said made him “see something.” He called me in and asked me to remember to have him tell them that the (K) School must provide complete security to the students, a vast protection in depth.” Then he added, “That is what they did with me until those( R&R) monsters came along.

The next day, Mary Lutyens gave Krishnaji the first and only copy so far of the biography Krishnamurti: The Years of Awakening. On the dust jacket there is part of one of the photos of Krishnaji taken in 1926 in Indian clothing standing in front of the Gobelin tapestries at Castle Eerde. I read the biography all afternoon while Krishnaji slept. Then, he and I went for a walk and talked about the book. He asked if it would really interest people, what they could make of it.’ ‘I said that the first part, which is all that I have so far read, may bring up the inevitable questions about Theosophy, masters, etcetera—if the Masters exist, why all those 'communications' reported with them then and nothing since?’
‘Krishnaji said, “It is simple. The Lord is here.
“You mean those communications were necessary to prepare for that?”’Krishnaji replied, “Obviously.”

The tenth of May. ‘I put the biography on Krishnaji’s bed, beside the breakfast tray. He said he wasn’t going to read it’ ‘but I thought he might read parts, and so he did, starting with the discovery of the boy. He asked how far I had read in the night, which was up to page 120, and what it seemed to me.’
‘I said, so far, the mystery of his becoming what he is, is deepened by the book. Working from Krishnaji’s letters to Mary Lutyens’ mother and the latter’s diary gives a picture of an entirely immature, partly Victorian child, surrounded by jealous and competing friends, much talk of love that is childish and unreal.’
‘Krishnaji said the boy was not conditioned, that he was fed all the TS stories, but that it was superficial, and it went into his head and out. If he were conditioned, he said, he would’ve gone on in the TS way. I pointed out that many people have changed belief or views, but he said this was different. He was simply empty, moronic, dull. What made him awake? He thinks that slowly, drop by drop, he was awakening, changing. There was no real conditioning there. He was untouched and the very slow maturing was important. “Care of the body was and is important. I have right food and all that. I may live to be 100. We’ll celebrate that instead of eighty.”

On May eleventh, ‘Krishnaji spoke to the school in the Assembly Room and he was critical later of their lack of response. On the walk, he said to Dorothy, “They are 'dead'…It’s no use to ask what Brockwood can give to them or they to Brockwood.” And in the evening, to me he said, “What is the use of all this? In five years, there is not one student who has understood something.”

The fourteenth of May. Doris Pratt , having read the biography, heatedly asked Krishnaji why he had to suffer so. Do we all have to go through that? Krishnaji replied that to come upon something new, to discover, one person had to go through it in order to be able to point it out to others.

The twenty-fifth of May.. When I brought Krishnaji his supper, he said he had a message from “the Great White Brotherhood thanking me for looking after him, but I mustn’t spoil him.”’

‘We walked to Fortnum’s and lunched with Mary Lutyens and Joe. Joe asked Krishnaji’ about the philosophical belief in the Masters, and he wanted to know about that Scottish one.’ He meant the Maha Chohan!’ A Scottish name, clearly! ‘It is difficult listening to Krishnaji not to think he puts credence in their existence, though he doesn’t say so.

June thirteenth, Krishnaji said, “I was playing the Beethoven Ninth Symphony, that loud part, that demonic energy part, and not reading, lying here like this and I felt this odd feeling as if death came. Everything was going through a 'little hole', and I realized it mustn’t happen, and so it came back. I have felt a little of it for a couple of days, as if death were like that.”’

**‘Me: “So near?”’

‘Krishnaji: “Like that, through this little hole.”’

‘Me: “Was it different from when certain things happen in your head?”’

‘Krishnaji: “Maybe.”’

‘Me: “What was it made you realize it shouldn’t happen?”’

‘Krishnaji: “Oh, you know, I have to try on that suit.“I remember Sacha had a fitting, and he died without getting it finished, and that mustn’t happen.** You must go now to Winchester, and drive carefully because I have to live.” After breakfast, Krishnaji said, “I am tired. I must be getting old. Of course, I am old. But I feel tired.”

June twenty-seventh, Krishnaji did another dialogue with David Bohm, more on truth. David has just read the biography, and questioned Krishnaji about whether there had been a particular moment of change for him. Krishnaji said "no". The physical suffering of the process made him more sensitive, and so did the psychological suffering of his brother’s death. But meeting both fully left no marks.’

In the afternoon, Krishnaji and David Bohm did a dialogue. Krishnaji again talked about the early days, the 'mystery'. He said he feels he could know what was happening, but doesn’t wish to.’ He questioned Radha on the reactions to the biography, and particularly to what reasons “he” had remained untouched by conditioning etcetera. Krishnaji put forth various alternatives: Maitreya keeping “the boy” uncontaminated, vague, backward until later. Simonetta said that she believed in reincarnation. Radha asked, “If so, what reincarnates?” Krishnaji took it up, and wove as follows: Self is thought, memory, conditioning, etcetera. When the body dies, a strong ego is part of the stream of selfishness, a manifestation of that. That manifestation may occur again “but why call it Krishnaji?” i.e., a particular individual. It is that stream manifesting. Also, genetics, social conditioning, all sorts of other factors can be in it. When CWL found Krishnaji, he saw no selfishness. How was that? If 'selfishness' can manifest, so can 'unselfishness', but then what kept him that way, untouched? A protection? He also said that within the “selfishness” stream or manifestation, an awareness of that state can occur, and there is no longer the selfishness. This can happen at any time, to anyone, he said, if they truly look.’****

Krishnaji had me tell them that he doesn’t intend to talk twice a week to students who don’t understand and don’t care. He will talk to the staff and to serious students who will treat it as a privilege.’ “Why should I go there and talk to these empty-headed students? What is the point of it? It’s going to become a second-rate, a third-rate school. “What am I doing there? Not one student after three years.” I said that I had never been optimistic about schools. He says schools were right. Then said, “What will I do? I may never go to India again. I like Brockwood. It’s a nice place. But I’m not going to talk to uncaring students who don’t know what it’s about.
Krishnaji talked briefly on the Stream of selfishness. When you see that you are that Stream the impact does something to the brain cells, and one is out of the stream.” At lunch, I asked him about the stream of selfishness; when the person dies, he says, the stream goes on. I asked if that meant that the stream was outside and independent of the human mind, it having been created by thought. He seemed to be saying yes, but I wasn’t putting the question properly. He’ll go into it with Bohm. He said you can talk to a consciousness, and then unexpectedly, he said, “I talked to the tiger.”’ ‘There is a large color photo of a tiger that I pinned up on his wall in his second room in Ojai.’ That’s the room where he does yoga. ‘“I think you can talk to consciousness. I talk to tiger consciousnes

‘He said about events in the book, he literally has no memory. Much of the time his brain is empty. The recording of thought is not there, or is only superficial. He said “the boy’s” recording system was deficient, and he questioned whether there had been an imprint in his brain cells. There were peculiar phenomena, and one must go back and question, not so much what “the boy” experienced, but why “that boy” was not conditioned. He said that today something similar is happening with regard to his going to India this year. He is not going to make a choice. That would be wrong. “What will happen will be right.” The starting point of examination is that “the boy” was untouched as an actual fact, then we can start examining. About the initiation description, he can’t see how “the boy” could stay in the room three days. He wasn’t drugged. Peculiar things were going on. The whole starts from a mind that was not conditioned, not “diseased.” He said that the rest is all minor, like going to a cinema and repeating what he saw or dreamed. But though it must have been extraordinary, it left no mark.’
‘I said it must have left a faint mark deep in his mind.’
‘“I doubt it,” said Krishnaji. “I’ve tried. I can’t get it.”’

‘I said that the important things he seems to have forgotten, and yet trivial things remain. He recognizes people in photos of that era.’ I asked if there’s an inhibitory action, not suppression, but because, unlike other people, he looks without memory acting?’
Krishnaji said again, that from the beginning, “the boy” was never conditioned. It was a whole phenomenon from birth.
And he asked why hadn’t he wanted power and money when he was surrounded by it? None of it, apparently, touched him, right from the beginning. He said, unless you answer that, the rest is meaningless. He spoke of his brother’s death. He cannot remember it. Why was he not conditioned when everything around him worked to condition him, the Order of the Star, adoration, candles, etcetera. “That is what I would like to investigate.” No imprint on “the boy,” ill, malaria, up to age thirteen, all the happenings—the “peculiar head all the time.” Later on the walk we spoke a little more.’
‘I said his lack of interest in power, money, etcetera, is not so mysterious. It could be not his nature, as it isn’t in many people, though they are exposed to it. But no conditioning at all is more mysterious. It is as if his mind never took the stain that experience leaves on other minds. He agreed with this simile.’

Mary told, jokingly, of a sentence she had censored in Krishnaji’s letters to her mother. He had written from Ojai, “I am going to Santa Barbara, where I will 'cook' a millionaire'. ‘To our amazement and hilarity, Krishnaji said, “Yes, and she only gave a hundred dollars!”’ ‘It was a Mrs. Bliss.
I asked Krishnaji about his remark against giving a part of the body to someone else, i.e., a kidney or an eye after death. Krishnaji is very much against it for himself, or “anyone around me.” It was hard to get his reasons. It seemed to be that giving part of one’s body, especially if one had been concerned with sacred things, would give some sort of power to the donee, to affect a residue in consciousness. Equally, accepting something, such as a blood transfusion, is to be avoided. One would have to know a lot about the donor. Krishnaji would not take a transfusion. He spoke of the responsibility for the body, and especially the brain. He feels remiss if he cuts himself, for instance. And, the time in September in London when he hit his head in the taxi, he checked himself carefully. “Have I hurt it?”

On November eleventh, ‘Mrs. Gita Sarabhai and a daughter, Palevi, and a friend came to tea.’ She wrote that small book she knew Krishnaji way, way, way back, the Sarabhai family.

The next day. Krishnaji told me that I am sometimes too slow to drop conclusions. He also said he would like with David Bohm to go totally into one subject and not “jump from thing to thing.”’
‘At lunch, he said, after listening to a bit of a tape with Bohm on October fourth, “I wondered if, when I talk, I think? I don’t.” No memory. Language is memory. You have to use it. You see the tree; you describe it. You use the word, but perception has no thought. There is no thought operating except that of language.” We spoke about imagination and he said, “When there is total detachment, that is not imagination. It is a picture without any content, any distortion.”’ He said he had woken up this morning at 2 a.m. and couldn’t sleep, then meditation began. “Feeling of exultation, elation, exultation.”

We talked about American people being “taught to be selfish and to need pleasure” by the movies. We had seen old movies on TV last night, MGM musicals. Out of this, Krishnaji mentioned our schools, then said that it is like 'oil in the earth'; it is there, waiting to be reached. The children we teach cannot be taught to reach it, but there are young people capable of this. He implied we must find them, or the ones we can teach may have such children. They may be turned in that direction. He seemed to agree, or at least not disagree, with my saying that even if a person were able to shed all the “mistakes,” the errors, it would not bring about the “Other.”’
‘He spoke of an extraordinary meditation last night. I asked if he could describe it a little, and he said it is not describable. I asked him if there is a 'quality of light' in it, that so many people of religious experience speak of light…“enlightenment.” He said it does not seem 'light', but the closest description would be 'emptiness'. As he said that, it seemed to me that the light—which I have experienced somewhat—is still in the realm of experience.

December twenty-first, has been a weekend of many Krishnaji things. We drove up to Ojai after lunch on Friday.’ ‘On the road’—driving to Ojai on the nineteenth—‘Krishnaji said to me, “Watch and have the mind empty,”. At the cottage, Mark, in the school room, ran a newly made copy of a film made in 1925, which we found in the cottage basement, It was several short reels taken in Ommen in 1925 by a Swedish man. Krishnaji, Mrs. Besant, Rajagopal, Jadu, Lady Emily, and many familiar people that Krishnaji recognized. The film is amateurish and shot in such brief length, it was hard to see well. The young Krishnaji was very much a boy, though he was all of thirty years old. Krishnaji said later, “He must have been developing slowly. The mind wasn’t mature yet.” Mostly, rather childish. The Liberal Catholic Church processions looked rather shocking in a Krishnaji film. Mrs. Besant seemed old, feeble, and not at ease. Krishnaji seemed more curious about our impressions than having any of his own.’

On our return, Mark showed a second batch of the old films, these done in 1925 at Adyar. Leadbeater, Arundale, Wedgwood, Jinarajadasa in miters and robes.’ ‘Krishnaji was beautiful in Indian clothes. Then, a short film in 1924 with Nitya, briefly. Watching all these, there were “oh’s” of surprise and recognition from Krishnaji and “slowly, slowly” when the film was too quick and abrupt. He sat and talked afterward to Erna and Theo, Mark, and me. He hadn’t wanted to watch the film with anyone else present.
At lunch, he said to Erna, “You asked about the "process". It began here. Pains, fainting. It’s probably Kundalini. I am very skeptical about those things. I doubt most who say they have had it.”’

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

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Fri, 07 Jul 2017 #267
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

More selected fragments from MZ' K memos

January first, 1976. Krishnaji was in Malibu, not having gone to India that year.
At supper, Krishnaji said I was slipping into habits. I don’t control my body. Why? Am I worried about my cousin?’‘Or about my own operation? No. Only fatigue at times. I feel well, have plenty of energy mostly, but it runs out sooner. Krishnaji said I was much more energetic at Brockwood. He said that with him, I should have the most energy. “What will you do if I die?” he asked. Then, he said, “Do you feel something in the room?” I had and did. And strangely, the tiredness I had felt disappeared as if a transfusion of strength had been given.’

On January tenth. ‘At breakfast Krishnaji said, “I once saw ‘a face.’ I’ve been feeling ‘that face’ all night. Something happens to me here.” I asked what it was. “I feel that 'other' thing.”
In the car coming home, I asked about “the face.” He has seen it often, “out there like that bush there.” A face only, not a body.’
‘I asked, “Does it move or speak?”’
‘“No. I have been seeing it since that night”’ That was Friday; two days ago…‘“not outside, but inside. It usually means it is moving into this body.”’

Today, we reminisced about Aldous Huxley. He remembered his saying to Krishnaji, “It is nice to hear English spoken again after all these years in California.”’ ‘He remembered visiting Aldous and Maria’ once in Rome when Aldous came to a World Health Organization meeting. “We used to walk in the Borghese Gardens in the morning. Then, Aldous had to go to the WHO. I think it bored him.” Krishnaji was very sprawling, elegant, and turning on the chair he sat on, and laughing at the remembrance.’In evening, Krishnaji did my leg. He told me later that he felt a 'presence' as he did it, and it remained in my room instead of following him “as it usually does.”

the twenty-seventh. Krishnaji came in and talked seriously. He said, “My life is uncertain and because it is uncertain, it is enduring.”’
‘“You must carry on.”’ ‘He said, “There is something more in my life than K, and if 'That' operates, it will do what it wants. No one can prevent it.”
And he said, “My love for you is without attachment, and therefore it will endure.”’

He spoke of the possibility of his “going off.” He said, once at Brockwood, only Whisper’s presence prevented it. I asked did it mean he would die? Maybe, he said, but it seems to be as if he dismissed that as minor—the “going off” seems to point to a different sort of disappearance.’ He used to talk about 'disappearing' a lot.

January twenty-eighth ‘Krishnaji at lunch said, “I’ve had two things going through my mind all morning. One, a Buddhist temple at Adyar with a pond where he”’—Krishnaji as a boy—“‘used to go there, when he first lived there, in the early mornings and stand there, vacant, lost . He picked up the biography in my room, opened it, and stood smiling faintly at a very early picture of him and his two brothers.

On the twenty-second, ‘Krishnaji walked in his sleep last night. I must’ve heard him bump into something in his room, for I woke up suddenly and totally and alarmingly.’ ‘He came into the sitting room, where I was sleeping on the sofa. I spoke to him, and he said, “Maria?”’ That’s the name he called me. ‘I put on the tiny Dutch flashlight and saw Krishnaji was standing against the wall facing it.’ That means he would’ve had his back to me. ‘He woke up with the light and went back to the bathroom and bed, falling immediately deeply asleep. I could hear his breathing was that of sleep. I stayed awake a long time. In the morning he said, “I must’ve walked in my sleep. I have never done that.”

February twenty-third. ‘Krishnaji at breakfast said, “My head, here”—he indicated the back part—“feels as if it were expanding—great stillness, air, and light.” He gestured and laughed. Last night he seemed to have walked in his sleep again. I was instantly awake around 1 a.m. when I heard him walking in his room. I spoke and he responded, and came in. “I wonder why I do this.” He went back and slept immediately

February twenty-seventh. “A strange thing happened this morning. I was sitting quietly, a sort of meditation, and suddenly, there was absolute silence, a withdrawal of everything, and it was like death; there was this body sitting quietly and this truth of not existing anywhere; complete death. And if I hadn’t felt, 'by Jove, this is getting too far', I don’t know what would’ve happened. It was absolute nothingness. It felt as though, if that state continued, the body would die. There would be an end of everything.”’

‘Then, I asked, “Was it similar to the times on a walk alone when you felt like going away?”’

‘Krishnaji replied, “It was much more intense this morning.”’

‘I asked, “When did it happen?”’

‘He replied, “Oh, long before breakfast. There was a period when the back of the brain was tremendously ventilated, as though taking deep breaths and being filled with air. It went on for some time.”’

‘“How long?” I asked.’

‘Krishnaji said, “May have been two or three minutes or more. I don’t know.”’

‘I asked, “When you felt it was getting too much, was it then instantly out?”’

‘Krishnaji replied, “Oh, instantly out.”’

‘“What do you think it is?” I asked.’ 'I think it has to do with what happened in the brain, the expanding, getting ventilated, really air going into it: a slight strain, as though a new fresh brain had been put into it. A totally uncontaminated…”’

February twenty-eighth, ‘At 3 p.m., Krishnaji held a private discussion in the cottage on thought, realities, that of nature, of objects created by thought (machines, etcetera) and that of thought itself (ideas, imagination). Understanding the illusion of thought is truth.

Krishnaji came in before going to bed and told me to write down, “When there is understanding of reality, there is infinite order, and love and justice are inherent in reality.”’

On the second of March, Krishnaji rested and was waiting in the driveway as I arrived home at 4 p.m. After a while, he said, “The curious thing is happening. A 'new' thing is being added to it. This morning it was so easy—it has become quite ordinary—it is there, "nothingness", a vast space of nothingness. The 'new' thing I felt a few days—something sacred; something totally holy—I don’t know what it is.”

‘At 4 p.m. he saw Mark, David Moody, about how to handle a child who doesn’t respond to two approaches they use, creating an atmosphere and by dialogue. The child is self-centered, gets attention by behaving badly. Krishnaji said, “Can you move his attention from himself by creating another attention which he will want, instead of giving him the personal attention which he wants, you move his attention away from him with the same intensity, divert his energy.”’
‘“I will talk to 8,000 people in Bombay about things that are the opposite of what they want. This is my problem, how to reach them. I point out something that is true, get them to look at it, not as opposed to something else. I appeal to their 'unconscious'.
There may be an unconscious movement for change. And this may affect parents to send the child to the school. The same quality may affect the child.
There may be an unconscious demand, urge, that we cannot go on living as we have in violence. So, there are two things, to direct his attention and talking to his unconscious. You mustn’t put him in the position of resisting. He may be here because something else sent him, not his parents. Therefore, my responsibility is much greater.

I came home late. I found Krishnaji waiting in the dark at the turn in the driveway in his white bathrobe…’ And I felt strongly that my role was a protective one to smooth his life as much as I could, to protect him, to serve him in whatever he needed, see that he had the right food, and he was in the right place so that it would be comfortable and clean and all the things that you do for a person; and that he wouldn’t have had unless it was done. And I happened to be the one there to do it. And he did seem to need…he was very sensitive of the presence of different people. And certain people, it was very bad; he didn’t want…that. And other people, he was sensitive to the good of whatever that was.

On the nineteenth. ‘The first day of the scientists’ conference began at 10:30 a.m. David Bohm was the chairman and asked Krishnaji to speak, to begin with. The theme of the discussion is: In a disintegrating society, what is right action for survival. Krishnaji said the essence of religion is to discover what is truth and reality. When that doesn’t exist, there is degeneration. The transformation of the individual is the transformation of the world, using the word “individual” in the sense of whole, indivisible. During the discussion, Sudarshan asked: Is there such a thing as another 'state'? Krishnaji replied, “I would say there is but not to be experienced.” Krishnaji said that all thinking leads to suffering; all religion is based on thinking; does death lead to immortality; can a human being learn what death is; a state of timelessness? He said, “A man who suffers lives in darkness.” He said there is a quality of mind which is free from thought; everything based on thought is time-binding; time is the essence of suffering. If thought spills over into timelessness, then it is illusion. So, thought must see its limitations and stop there, without any effort, compulsion. If I see the limitation (of my self-centred thought) , then begins real meditation; then, I can explore what suffering is.” If I see the whole, it is not suffering.” Concerning thought leading to suffering,

‘In the afternoon, Krishnaji spoke of the part of the mind that is mechanical, because that which has cause is always mechanical. Is there a part of that mind that is not mechanical? He said: Understanding pleasure, and ending fear and sorrow is necessary to go beyond thought. He asked if living without ego is possible. Can we act without conclusions, images; can we prevent image-making, and wipe away ones already there? Thought is always limited, and because of that, creates images. He said: If I were whole, I would be the whole of mankind, the global sense of a human being. “It is insanity that creates images,” (in the sense of whole equals sane, healthy, holy).
Krishnaji asked if we are conditioned to the process of gradual seeing, and if we gave conflict attention, but we don’t. “We are not willing to give our lives for this.” We are concerned with our own clarity, not clarity itself. If you listen with no resistance, if there is no barriers, you will have it, you’ve seen it. “In total listening, the problem is finished.”
‘We rationalize first, and then try to perceive. 'Perceive' is direct insight. “Let the question answer you, not you the question.” Perception is timeless, correct action is always timeless.’

March twenty-fifth, Krishnaji described the Theosophical hierarchy, etcetera. In explaining it, he realized he was describing a version of his own. “Mustn’t mix it,” he said. There was a certain atmosphere as he spoke. At 3 p.m., we drove to Malibu. He said “That” is inexhaustible. The body is tired, but never “that.” “Silence is original, untouched by the human mind.”’

April twenty-seventh, 1976, and we’re in New York. Bud asked Krishnaji about the 'communications' reported between Theosophy and the Masters. Krishnaji explained the beliefs that were held by the Theosophists, and way back, before that, by the Hindus and Buddhists. He said he has no memory of those days. Bud noted that Krishnaji had always spoken and written of what is amiss in human thinking, but not directly about the Other. The book gave Bud some glimpse into that. I mentioned the about-to-be-published Krishnamurti’s Notebook. Bud asked if Jesus figured in the Theosophical hierarchy. Krishnaji said Jesus was considered to be “a disciple,” not an 'original'

Tuesday, the eighteenth. “I had the most extraordinary meditation while sitting at breakfast. I went off. I must be very careful. You know, death is very close. You mustn’t look like that when I mention 'death'. It isn’t that; it is complete emptiness, nothingness.*
Then, Krishnaji told me in the morning of a “strange happening,” and dictated the following:
“Before beginning asanas, he generally sits quietly, thinking of nothing. But this morning, a strange happening took place, most unexpected and in no way invited. And besides, you can’t invite these things. Suddenly, it appeared as though in the center of the brain, the head, right inside, there was a vast space in which was an unimaginable energy. It is there that nothing whatever is registered, for that which is registered is a wastage of energy. If one can call it, it was pure energy in a limitless space, a space that had 'no-thing' but this sense of immensity. One doesn’t know how long it lasted, but all during this morning, it was there. And as this is being written, it is as though it was taking root and becoming firm. These words are not really the thing itself.”’****

July seventh. ‘Krishnaji also received a separate letter from Pupul saying she and Nandini had been writing all they could remember about the incidents at Ootacamund in May and June of 1948. This is an attempt to fill in the missing parts of the record written by Pupul at the time, given then to Rajagopal, but missing from the photocopies he provided KFA in the spring 1975. Pupul states that she wrote down every night what had taken place during the evenings that she and Nandini were living at a hotel nearby, and Krishnaji was staying with Ms. Hilla Petit and Maurice Frydman. She describes Krishnaji’s pain in spine, nape of neck, and tooth. Krishnaji had asked Pupul and Nandini to sit quietly, not interfere and not be afraid, not to touch him except to close his mouth if he fainted, and on no account to leave the body alone. He would toss on the bed, have fits of shivering and would call out for Krishna, and then put his hand to his mouth and say, “I must not call him.” The body appeared to be only a shell. In this state, the voice was frail, childlike. “Then, suddenly, the body appeared to fill with a vast 'presence', Krishnaji would sit up, cross-legged, his eyes closed, the fragile body would appear to grow and fill the room, and there was a palpable, throbbing silence that poured into the room and enveloped us. In this state, the voice had great volume and depth.” They remembered one incident vividly: Krishnaji in great pain, stomach swollen, tears streaming down his face, suddenly fainting, and the body becoming intensely still. “The traces of pain and fatigue were wiped away. The face was greatly beautiful. There was a radiance, a light that illumined it and a stillness, and a sense of vastness that we had never witnessed. A quality of sacredness filled the room.”…“For moments, he lay unmoving. Then, his eyes opened. He saw us, and after sometime said, ‘Did you see that face? The Buddha was here.’ And then after sometime, ‘You are blessed.’…

“Most of the time in the room, we had no part to play in what was happening, and yet, we had a role we could not understand. We questioned him during the day, but he became vague and would not explain…On most occasions, while the pain rocked him, he spoke of trees and wind, rain, nature, its storms, and vast silence. There was nothing personal in him during the incidents, no emotion, no relationship to us. The ordeal appeared physical, and yet the next day it left no traces on his face or body. Not a word that was said by him had psychological overtones. What he spoke was totally impersonal. The sense of the sacred permeated the room and the atmosphere on every occasion.”

The question the students asked in the meeting was on meditation. He spoke on thought, the chattering mind, the quiet mind, and mentioned "seeing with all the senses", which gave me a chance to ask what is meant by that. Krishnaji replied that looking with all the senses implies looking without a 'center', a 'self' that looks and reacts.’


Krishnaji and I went for a walk twice around Villa Glori.’ That was a lovely park that was really just across the street from where Vanda lived. ‘On the walk I spoke to him about it seeming as if there is insight, revolution, breaking away from concepts, and freedom; then this stiffens into a new pattern, which becomes dogma and so power.’ What I was thinking of was: say a teacher, Krishnaji or Buddha, or whoever, comes and something new is seen. And then, by the followers, what happens afterward, it becomes dogma.
He picked it up immediately. “Freedom is movement,” he said. “When I am gone, it must go further, deepen.”’

October twenty-fifth I sat with Krishnaji while he ate his breakfast. He said our talk yesterday in Villa Glori was very much in his mind. He said, “First there is freedom, then insight, revolutionary action. If they stiffen into a pattern, then follows dogma and power. Freedom is movement. When or if insight becomes knowledge, then dogma follows. Freedom from 'self' brings insight. When there is insight, there is radical transformation, which is freedom. When fundamental change does not take place, then there is pattern, dogma, and power. It is the function of the Foundations to see this doesn’t happen.”

The first of February. Krishnaji spent the day in bed sleeping, reading. He said, “I don’t dream anymore. Somewhere in Madras or RishiValley, I forget which, I dreamt Rajagopal was chasing me and then I woke up. I said this is silly to keep thinking of that man. That is enough. And so I went into it, and I haven’t dreamt since.”’

Along the beach road, he said, “During the last three or four months, something has been happening during sleep. It is a sense of ecstasy, as though the brain were trying to assimilate a depth that is not the opposite of shallowness.
‘I asked, “How do you perceive it?”’
‘Krishnaji replied, “When I wake up, there is a strange feeling that I haven’t had before.
‘Me: “Is it that the brain is touching something it hadn’t touched before?”’
‘Krishnaji: “Yes. That’s it. It is something the brain hasn’t touched before. It isn’t an 'experience'. In that sleep, there is a greater penetration into something that no thought can never touch.”’
‘Me: “What happens to most people is that you see something and then you try to understand what it is, but this is different? How is it different? Is it outside the realm of what the brain can investigate? Is that right?”’
‘Krishnaji: “The brain is trying to understand it, trying to find out what it is.”’
‘Me: “When you say ‘the brain,’ do you mean thought, or the brain without thought?”’
‘Krishnaji: “No, not thought.”
I asked if the “otherness” of The Notebook and this thing he is speaking of today, is of the same, and he said, “Yes, yes”…“But I don’t remember ‘the other.’ It is gone.”

In the evening, I read a review of a book on fairies, and asked Krishnaji when was it that he used to see them. “In England,” he said, when they lived in Ashdown Forest, he saw them all the time. Sometimes he was afraid to walk in the night. He couldn’t describe them to me. He’s forgotten.’ ‘I asked if Nitya could see them. He couldn’t remember. Did he see them in India? Probably. Could he see them today if he tried? Maybe, probably I could see them in the grove at Brockwood. Why then, and why not later? “It was jus after coming from India. Later, probably I got more sophisticated and didn’t see them,” he said.’
February twenty-fifth,
‘Krishnaji slept badly. He said he had a nightmare. “Evil ones were trying to push me, fight me, and I was trying to make a circle around myself, but it didn’t work and I finally woke up.”…“I was trying to make a circle around the house. I knew you were in there, and I was trying to make a circle.”’
‘When I questioned him about why the circle didn’t work, he said. “Well, it did because I woke up.”’ Then we started to talk about 'making the circle', and he said it was something he didn’t want to talk about.’ ‘I asked, “Was it magic?”’
‘And he said, “Yes, sort of.”
‘I asked, “Did you learn it? Were you taught it?” He replied no, but he knows things like that. I asked why shouldn’t it be told to other people? “I’m not asking you about the magic itself, but why shouldn’t it be told?” And he said, “I have an instinct about it. I’ve never talked about it.” Then he said, “Do you remember when we first came to this house?”’—I wanted to run from it, it was bad, it was all wrong. And then we came and stayed, and it became alright, and it got better and better. Do you remember that?” I remembered. And out of this, he told me he does this thing whenever he comes to a house, Brockwood, Malibu, here, or I presume Tannegg too, or a hotel room. He does what he calls “drawing a circle around a place” and he said that that is one reason that when he is not with me, it is difficult for him to do it—when I’m traveling or away, and yet even when I go to town in the car alone, he does it to some degree to protect me. And in this, there is what I gather is the crux. One does not protect Maria or oneself. One is with non-resistance, non-opposition, non-setting-oneself—there is no self in this because there is no opposition—the intrinsic part is the non-self and non-opposition.
He spoke of 'angels', not angels as sentimental beings but the invitation to the Good, the Beauty.’**

This post was last updated by John Raica Fri, 08 Sep 2017.

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Mon, 10 Jul 2017 #268
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 posts in this forum Offline

K Story Time (continued)

March fifth, 1977

Krishnaji switched on the TV. There was President Carter with Walter Cronkite, two hours of answering telephone calls from the public. Krishnaji kept saying, “This man will change a lot in this country.” He said he would have liked to telephone in a question through me. The question would be: “This country and people are lacking in respect, integrity, and morality. What can be done about it?”’ That’s his question. ‘Krishnaji said no one had asked a moral question.’

The next day, he began by asking what will prevent someone, when we are all gone, from 'taking over' everything? How do we insure that this doesn’t happen? What will keep everything moving, flowering? He said, “What am I to do?
‘He then went into the analogy of a baby:“This is my baby,” he said. And it became clear that the rest of us feel it is 'his' baby, not 'ours'. No one had an answer to what the Foundations can, or should be able to do with “his” baby. He spoke of the disintegration into ritual, etcetera, after the deaths of the Buddha, other teachers. How can it be kept alive? He said, “Because it has never been done, it is possible. That is the challenge.”

At 11 a.m., Krishnaji held the fifth meeting with the trustees. He said his and the Foundation’s responsibility is to the 'light of the teachings'. The Foundation is to understand the tremendous depth of it. He said, I feel responsible till this thing is conveyed fully, to see that the Foundations and schools understand it fully, not partially. It is their responsibility to understand it. If you feel total responsibility, you will have the capacity. Then, it happens. Capacity comes as one gets into it. So, my responsibility is to see that each member of the Foundations understands. If some are not so involved, what shall we do together? What is preventing it? Not flowering—is that a tremendous issue to you? It may be there all the time—this crisis. Crisis has no motive. To ask how to bring about a crisis is too silly. Either it is a crisis, or it is not at all. If it is a crisis, it will happen. Crisis is tremendous to understand. I would be at it, watching, questioning, seeing if my mind is conditioned, ambitious; I’d work at it, investigate it, feel I’ve got to find out. A crisis. If flowering is not happening, it would be a crisis, challenge. If the Foundation members realize it is not a crisis to them, then it will not take place. My responsibility is to feel the tremendous crisis. I’ve been wondering the last few days what it was. I see it now: If that is my responsibility, what will I do if you don’t?’ (realize the crisis). ‘Walk out? Or work at it? Give it a time limit? What is my responsibility—to go to a new group and go through all that again? My tremendous responsibility is to see that you flower, and yours is to see that it becomes a crisis in your life.

March fourteenth, ‘Krishnaji held the sixth meeting with trustees. Krishnaji asked why would people come to the centers. He said that if he had come to the Buddha it would’ve been to find out how he thought, how his mind worked, why he said certain things, to understand his mind, to be in the atmosphere, see the quality of the Buddha. When Krishnaji is gone, will people come saying, “You have spent time, gone into it with him, so being there, I would capture something of that.”’ This is fundamental. Then, you can discuss fear, etcetera.” **Krishnaji said the books ( and videos) are alright, but greater depth is not reached that way. Some other quality is necessary. That other quality cannot be reached through this (effort on this level) though one must be without fear, sorrow, etcetera.
‘He said to us, “You haven’t asked for this. When you want it, you get it.” And “Don’t spend a whole life laying the foundation. Have it done . Then, something much more must take place.”

March sixteenth, ‘Krishnaji’s seventh meeting with the trustees. I asked about the “open window” through which the wind may come.’
‘Krishnaji said that “laying the foundation (understanding, fears, etc., etc.,) demands the other.”…“If one understands a part, one understands the whole.” Laying the foundation brings about a movement—“the volume of the water brings the movement.” Movement brings energy. In laying the foundation “not taking too long—compress it,” then there is momentum, energy, movement. Then, discussion would take place at a different level, verbally or nonverbally.
Later, he said, “Can we act now as if K were no longer here?”…“What would you do?” and “if you have imbibed the teachings, you are the teacher.” “You’ve got a deep well, don’t go to it with a little bucket. For god’s sake, use K, learn. You’ve got a short time. It is the responsibility of the Foundation to suck that dry.”’
‘As it continued, it was clear that one goes to the well with no bucket. Consciousness, empty of knowledge, is no bucket.’
‘In the afternoon, Krishnaji had a long talk with Radha about her position in KFI and TS. She apparently had never considered that there might be a contradiction. Krishnaji told Dorothy and me afterward that he had not advised her how to act, but to look at the whole.

March eighteenth, ‘Krishnaji’s meeting with the trustees number eight. It began with David Bohm suggesting we start where the K-Bohm-Shainberg videos ended, the subject of something “sacred.” There was considerable exploring of guilt and responsibility. Krishnaji rather denigrated 'responsibility' in favor of a much larger, encompassing 'compassion'. “Compassion can never be wrong.” He said, “Compassion can never be inadequate in any circumstance.” If action comes first it leads to guilt. Let compassion act. If you "are" the world, which I feel most profoundly, compassion arises.”…“Sacred is the sense of wholeness. To live at the point of wholeness is a tremendous thing.”…“The teaching is concerned with all of life, and out of that, comes compassion.”…“K feels you should enter into this sense of compassion, and so he is working at it. You are asking what do we do about this and that, the school, and the administration, etcetera. And K says, ‘Stop all that, and come into this, and you will answer rightly. I want you to do it, but it would be a horror if I felt guilty or disappointed. So it is my job to see that you come in.”…“Isn’t it your job to see that others come in? But, first, come here.”…“Do we feel guilty because we can’t do it? Churches have said that you must renounce, and there began the guilt.”’

“Are you listening 'consciously' or 'unconsciously'? Conscious is reaction. Deep listening is without response. That may be the answer. At that deep level, there is no 'you' and 'me'- there is something extraordinary in this. You are listening to K on the surface, and you are making an effort to go 'down there' and listen. That doesn’t work that way. Can you listen without the waves? Listening with background and knowledge is one thing; such listening is movement. Can you listen without movement ? That may convey what K wants to say more profoundly than listening with waves.”’ “If you listen at a deeper level without words something entirely different takes place about the schools, the centers, etcetera, then 'you' are the teachers because you have moved from the periphery to the very center of it.”…“If you really listen in silence, because there is no me, you 'are' the world.”’

next meeting with the trustees Krishnaji said “I do not think we are demanding of ourselves the highest. We are still saying we can’t do it. It’s yours. If it is 'yours' it will not be polluted. He spoke of a mine of gold; are we going to stop at the edge of the cave? What are we going to do about the mine of gold?”…“I’m going to pursue this for the rest of my life with the Foundations. It happened we are together. My job is very clear for the next ten years. Whenever we meet, I’m going to push this thing. What is your dharma? Dharma means 'sustain the Original'— it is not understood in the West.”…“So, what am I to do when K is gone? K says this 'mine' is a sacred treasure. I leave it to you. What will you do with it?”…“My dharma has become very clear in these meetings, apart from the public meetings, to push and pull you into the 'cave'. I feel this tremendously. I accept that. What happens at the end of fifteen years? What will you do?”

The art of watching cleans the 'window'. Krishnaji said, he has never done this, i.e., it was never necessary. David Bohm asked, "how do you know anyone else can?" Krishnaji replied, “Because you see it instantly. You see all this. Must you go through all this, or do it instantly? In seeing that the observer is the observed, seeing the working of it, one sees the totality.”…“I think that is the only way.”’

‘It was asked, 'Is it open to a human being to see it all at a glance, total perception?’
‘Krishnaji said, “No human being has refused to go through all this and said I won’t operate in my conditioned response.”…“If he did, something other may take place.”…“Something other does take place when you look at the whole thing.”…“Yet, that man, K, never said that, he just did it.”…“Demand for the essence of excellence washes everything else way. It is possible.”…“One must have passion for excellence.”… “Total insight is the flame that burns away all confusion.”…“Don’t you then act as a magnet when you are passionate to bring about transformation? Passion may be what is missing. If it is missing, ask for it!”’

‘Krishnaji: “There are other forces. You may use the word evil. There are people in the world who are evil.”’
‘David: “Would you say that force penetrated beyond the ordinary communication?”’
‘Krishnaji: “They penetrate only when that interest is not in charge.”’
‘Bohm: “What is not clear to me is, suppose there is an evil person, making evil through his words and actions. But suppose I don’t see him. He is somewhere, far away.”’
‘Krishnaji: “But there is a very well-known phenomenon. I can 'think about you happily'', with affection, care, or I can 'hate' you.”’
‘Bohm: “Does that hate affect you when you are far away?”’
‘Krishnaji: “Yes, that’s what I mean.”’
‘David: “Then, there is transmission of thought?”’
‘Krishnaji: “Oh, obviously, obviously.”’
‘David: “Yes. Well, it is important to get it clear, because it contradicts what people usually accept, but you are quite clear on that? Quite sure of it?”’
‘Krishnaji: “I’m quite sure. Personally, when I go to a place which I’m not familiar with, where I haven’t lived, say when I first came here after ten years, I came through that door. I felt appalling, I said to her. I ran out.”’
‘David: “But, how is it now?”’
‘Krishnaji: “Nothing. It’s all gone.”’
‘David: “But what happened?”’
‘Krishnaji: “Because the 'other' thing is stronger, it cannot be touched. That’s why whenever a doctor said to me, ‘Do you want it?’”’—meaning a general anesthesia—‘“by injection, a total anesthesia…
‘David: “It occurred to me, you say these people are caught in confused thought; nevertheless, there is a transformation possible whereby they get out of it. Would you say, suppose you took an anesthetic and were caught with an evil thought, could an evil thought take hold of you?”’
‘Krishnaji: ‘Oh, but I don’t want to go through all that. Of course.”’
‘Mary: “Is it relevant to ask what is the difference between the unconsciousness of anesthesiology and sleep?”’
‘Krishnaji: “Oh, that’s entirely different. There, it is natural. This is unnatural.”
‘Mary: “Because it is imposed?”’
‘Krishnaji: “You are forced, you’re driven out.”’
‘David: “Now, with sleep, would you say there is still a kind of attention?”’
‘Krishnaji: “Oh, yes. That intelligence is watching.”’

In the evening, he told me with great seriousness that I must be watchful of him after the operation, that the line between life and death is very thin with him, and that I must remind him to be watchful.’, Krishnaji spoke to me about not letting him slip away in the hospital. I must talk to him, remind him, be watchful after the operation. He said that the body for the last three days has been resisting the operation, and that the danger is that he, Krishnaji, might suddenly say, “That is enough,” and slip out. The line between life and death is always there; it has happened to him in the past; it happened here in Ojai when he was walking in the mountains; it has happened in India when he “goes off” and “wanders away,” as he put it, and that could happen. He said I must be watchful. I asked what I could do, and he said to talk, to talk to him. It wouldn’t happen with strangers about, but after he comes back to his room after the operation, I must talk to him. I must remind him, too, in the morning before he goes down to surgery. I must also remind him before he gives blood. I must be watchful.

April twelfth. Abdullah El Hussain and Ms. Habib asked Krishnaji about thought being matter, etcetera. Thought as matter dies with the body, which is matter, but Krishnaji implies that 'thought' in some form enters a Stream of consciousness and continues. ‘Abdullah asked about reincarnation, and Krishnaji said the body and mind die, but thought is like an energy put out by the mind, and it is matter and continues as evil exists, as good exists, the good put out by man, etcetera..

April fourteenth ‘Krishnaji held the fourth public discussions in the Grove on thought, intelligence
etcetera. He was marvelously clear. The audience contributed nothing.
April sixteenth. ‘Krishnaji gave the fifth talk in the Oak Grove, a profoundly moving one on the meaning of death. There was a huge crowd. Ravi Shankar was there and greeted Krishnaji.
And the seventeenth. ‘Krishnaji gave the sixth talk in Oak Grove, completing the season’s series. Again, there was a huge crowd, including Rajagopal who stared intently and malevolently at Krishnaji, especially as the crowds swarmed around him after the talk. ’

Krishnaji had said this morning, “the body resists this,” meaning the operation. And I asked how it showed this, and he laughed and said, “I don’t want to go.”’ ‘But at hospital in the evening, he said, “It is alright. Can you feel the atmosphere?” I could. Something is strongly around him. I spoke with him, as he had told me weeks ago to be attentive. He said it was not necessary. He had 'talked to the body'. I am only to remind him tomorrow morning to “Be careful while I am in their hands.”

The ninth, got up at 5 a.m. Krishnaji did his breathing exercises and some asanas. I spoke to him, “Be attentive. Remember. Be careful.” He said he knew the body was ready and all was alright. He had shaved but not had time for a shower. A boy attendant came with the gurney, and Krishnaji climbed onto it on his own, smiled at me, and I said, “Stia attenta, non dimenticare”’—be attentive, don’t forget. ‘He replied, “Non abbia paura”’—don’t be afraid. ‘I said, “Sto con lei”’—I am with you—‘as he was wheeled off down the hall. I followed to the door of the surgery, saw him raise his head to look at what was ahead as the door closed.’

Dr. Hausman appeared and told Erna, Theo, and me that if he himself were having this operation, he could not want it to go better.’ The operation actually took fifty-five minutes. The time in recovery was not long. He told me that after quieting the body, he was 'without thought' until he was back in his room. For tomorrow he wanted spinach and cheesecake.

When the nurse was out of the room, he told me, “I felt the body floating and there was a dialogue between 'Death' and the 'body' and ‘the Other,’ and death was winning.” And he said there was nothing I could do, not to interfere. I pointed out that the nurse’s presence had brought him round. But he said, “It will come again tonight until it is settled.” Soon, he lapsed again into the “off” state and said that since five this morning, so many people have touched the body, and he began to count them, and said, “About ten have touched me.” There was a sense of irritation in all that had been done to him and soon he began to look about as though seeing things, making random gestures, raising his right arm. Then, “Where am I?” Pause. “I have been wounded,” looking about. Then, “Where’s my brother Nitya?” The voice was light, higher, almost that of a boy. Then “I want to join you, Nitya.” And then, “I’m going away.

After a few seconds, he made a deep-sounding cough, his normal cough, and his voice dropped to its normal level, and he said, “That’s better.” And then, “I’m not going. I’ll join you later, Nitya, much later, another ten years.” Later, he said, “One mustn’t be burdened with the past.” And later, he said, “You and I mustn’t be in an automobile accident, so drive carefully.” And later, “I’m not a philosopher.”’

Krishnaji dictated to me a dialogue with death as follows:

‘“It was a minor operation and not worth talking about, though there was considerable pain. While the pain continued, I saw or discovered that the body was almost floating in the air. It may have been an illusion, some kind of hallucination, but a few minutes later, there was the personification—not a person—but the personification of death. Watching this peculiar phenomenon between the body and death, there seemed to be a sort of dialogue between them. Death seemed to be talking to the body with great insistence, and the body reluctantly, not admitting what death wanted.
Though there were people in the room, this phenomenon went on, death inviting, the body refusing. It was not a fear of death why the body was denying the demands of death, but it realized it was not responsible for itself, there was another entity that was dominating, much stronger, more vital than death itself.
Death was more and more demanding and insisting and so ‘the Other’ interfered. Then there was a conversation or a dialogue between not only the body, but ‘the Other’ and death. So, there were three entities in conversation. He had warned before he went to the hospital that there might be a disassociation with the body and so death might interfere. Though the person was sitting there, and a nurse, it was not a self-deception or kind of hallucination. Lying in the bed he saw the clouds full of rain and the town below stretching for miles. There was spattering of rain on the window pane and he saw clearly the saline solution dripping drop by drop into the organism. One felt very distinctly and clearly that if ‘the Other’ had not interfered, death would have won. This dialogue was expressed in words with thought operating very clearly. There was thunder and lightning and the conversation went on.
Since there was no fear at all, neither on the part of the body or ‘the Other’—absolutely no fear—one could converse freely and profoundly. It is always difficult to put a conversation of that kind into words. Strangely, as there was no fear, death was not enchaining the mind to things of the past. What came out of the conversation was very clear. The body in considerable pain and was not apprehensive or anxious and ‘the Other’ was discernibly beyond both. It was as though ‘the Other’ were acting as an umpire, a dangerous game of which the body was not at all aware. Even if it was, there would be no withdrawal from the scene.”’
‘“Death seemed to be always present, like one’s shadow. Being concerned with the whole movement of life, death cannot be invited. That would be suicide, which is utterly foolish. But, death and life, or rather the living, in this peculiar phenomenon that was going on, the three, would never be separate. During this 'conversation' there was no sense of time. Probably the whole dialogue lasted about an hour but the time by the watch did not exist. There were no words used but an 'immediate insight' into what each was saying. Of course, if one is attached to anything—ideas, beliefs, property or person, death would not come to have a conversation with you. Death in the sense of ''ending' is absolute freedom.”’
‘“The quality of conversation was 'urbane'. There was nothing whatsoever of sentiment, emotional extravagance to distort the absolute fact of time coming to an end and the vastness without any border when death is taking part in your daily life. There was the feeling that the body would go on for many years but death and ‘the Other’ would always be together till the organism could no longer be active. There was a great sense of humour among the three of them and one could almost hear the laughter. And the beauty of it was with the clouds and the rain.”

May thirty-first. In the morning, Krishnaji finished dictating the “dialogue with death” which he began the morning after the operation.** He did not reread what he has said three weeks ago. He remembered where he had stopped and he said “I would only rewrite it.”’ I could only ask, “Did you mean this word was that word?”—that’s all I could ask. I couldn’t read him the text. Talk about somebody 'living in the moment'…the moment five minutes ago is long-gone. So, anyway, he dictated:

**‘“Of course, it wasn’t 'death', 'K', and the 'body', three separate activities on their own, but it was a 'humorous whole', moving together without distinction from each other.”

When in the evening, he did have me reread the whole piece, I pointed that he’d been speaking of death, “the Other,” and the body, and now he referred to death, K, and the body—so he changed that sentence, putting “the Other” in place of “K.” **“You know what I mean by ‘the Other,’” he said, “The Mind that is inhabited by K.”

‘Then he continued the dictation. “Words cannot describe this strange movement that is essentially timeless. Putting this down on paper is the expression of thought, is the expression through words and so the movement of thought and time. But the 'movement of death' is not of time, so the description is not the described. However cunning thought may try to capture it, death is beyond measure. It was a conversation without word, without thought, and so not of time. The 'sound' of this conversation was expanding endlessly, and the sound was the same at the beginning and was without end. It was a song without a beginning or an end. Death and life are very close together, like love and death. As love is not remembrance, death has no past. Fear never entered this conversation, for fear is darkness and death is light. “This dialogue was not illusory or fanciful. It was like a whisper in the wind, but the whisper was very clear and if you listened you could hear it; you would then be part of it. Then we would share it together. But you won’t listen to it as you are too identified with your own body, your own thoughts, your own direction. One must abandon all this to enter the 'light and love' of death.”’

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

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Wed, 12 Jul 2017 #269
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 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.

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Fri, 14 Jul 2017 #270
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 662 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.

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