Chapter 1

It is a beautiful morning. Again and again the sun rises and it is always new. It never grows old. Scientists say it is millions of years old; nonsense! Every day I see it. It is always new. Nothing is old. But scientists are grave-diggers, that’s why I say they look so grave, serious. This morning, again the miracle of existence. Each moment it is happening, but only very few, very, very few ever encounter it.

The word encounter is really beautiful. To encounter the moment as it is; to see it as it is, without adding, without deleting, without any editorial work, just to see it as it is, like a mirror…. The mirror does not edit, thank God, otherwise no face in the world would be able to fit its requirements, not even the face of Cleopatra. No face at all would be able to fit the mirror, for the simple reason that if it starts cutting you, editing you, adding to you, it will start destroying you. But no mirror is destructive. Even the ugliest mirror is so beautiful in its undestructiveness. It simply reflects.

Death for me is not just an end, a full stop. No, death for me is a celebration.

The water has no mind To receive their images.
Wild geese not intending to make their reflections, and the water not intending to receive them either, and yet the reflection is there. That is the beauty. Nobody has intended, and yet it is there – that’s what I call communion.
I have always hated communication. To me communication is ugly. You can see it happening between a wife and a husband, the boss and the servant; and so on and so forth. It never really happens. Communion is my word.

It is good that flowers are allowed to be tax-free, otherwise they would stop flowering. It is good that snow is allowed to be tax-free, otherwise it would not snow, believe me!

I don’t think any other country could compete with Russia. If you count only ten novels of the world, just out of necessity you will have to include five Russian novels, leaving only five for the whole remaining world. What happened to this great genius? It died! Because flowers cannot be ordered, there are no ten commandments for them. Flowers flower, you cannot order them to flower. Snow falls – you cannot issue a commandment, you cannot make a date with it. That is impossible. And that is so with the Buddhas. They say what they want to say, when they want to say it. They will say, even to a single person, something which the whole world would have liked to hear.

I am reminded again of the small village where I was born. Why existence should have chosen that small village in the first place is unexplainable. It is as it should be. The village was beautiful. I have traveled far and wide but I have never come across that same beauty. One never comes again to the same. Things come and go, but it is never the same.
I can see that still, small village. Just a few huts near a pond, and a few tall trees where I used to play. There was no school in the village. That is of no great importance, because I remained uneducated for almost nine years, and those are the most formative years.
So many fools do it every year that it has no significance. What is significant is that for my first years I remained without education. There was no school, no road, no railway, no post office. What a blessing! That small village was a world unto itself. Even in my times away from that village I remained in that world, uneducated.

I can see it now, and can describe its every detail… but more than the house or the village, I remember the people. I have come across millions of people, but the people of that village were more innocent than any, because they were very primitive. They knew nothing of the world. Not even a single newspaper had ever entered that village. You can now understand why there was no school, not even a primary school… what a blessing! No modern child can afford it.

I remained uneducated for those years and they were the most beautiful years.

Yes, I must confess I had a private tutor. That first tutor was himself uneducated. He was not teaching me, but trying to learn by teaching me. Perhaps he had heard the great saying, ”The best way to learn is to teach,” but he was a good man, nice, not like a nasty schoolteacher. To be a school teacher one has to be nasty. That is part of the whole business world. He was nice – just butterlike, very soft. Let me confess, I used to hit him, but he would not hit me back. He would simply laugh and say, ”You are a child, you can hit me. I am an old man, I cannot hit you back. When you are old you will understand.” That’s what he said to me, and yes, I understand.

I have not even visited it again. Once is enough. I never go to a place twice. For me number two does not exist. I have left many villages, many towns, never to return again. Once gone, gone forever, that’s my way; so I have not returned to that village. The villagers have sent messages to me to come at least once more. I told them, through a messenger, ”I have been there once already, twice is not my way.”

The Buddhas do not want to reflect the beauty of the world, nor does the world in any way intend to be reflected by the Buddhas, but it is reflected. Nobody wills, but it happens, and when it happens it is beautiful. When it is done, it is ordinary; when it is done, you are a technician. When it happens you are a Master.

Communication is a part of the world of the technician – communion is the fragrance of the world of the Master.

Chapter 2

I just had a golden experience, the feeling of a disciple so lovingly working on his Master’s body. I’m still out of breath because of it. And it also reminds me of my golden childhood.

Everybody talks of his golden childhood, but rarely, very rarely, is it true. Mostly it is a lie. But so many people are telling the same lie that nobody detects it. Even poets go on singing songs of their golden childhood – Wordsworth for example, not a worthless fellow at all – but a golden childhood is extremely rare, for the simple reason: where can you find it?

I don’t think my father ever looked at another woman with the same love he had for my mother. It is also impossible to imagine – even for me, who can imagine all kinds of things – that my mother, even in her dreams, had another man… impossible! I have known both of them; they were so close, so intimate, so fulfilled although so poor… poor yet rich. They were rich in their poverty because of their intimacy, rich because of their love for each other.

She is an enlightened woman – uneducated, simple, not even knowing what enlightenment is. That’s the beauty! One can be enlightened without knowing what enlightenment is, and vice versa: one can know everything about enlightenment and remain unenlightened.

I am a vagabond. I have never done anything for the family. They are not obliged to me at all. They have done everything for me. I had chosen this couple not without good reason… for their love, their intimacy, their almost one-ness. That is how, after seven hundred years, I entered into the body again.

My childhood was golden. Again, I am not using a cliche. Everybody says his childhood was golden, but it is not so. People only think their childhood was golden because their youth is rotten; then their old age is even more rotten. Naturally, childhood becomes ”golden.” My childhood was not golden in that sense. My youth was diamond, and if I am going to be an old man then it is going to be platinum. But my childhood was certainly golden – not a symbol, absolutely golden; not poetically, but literally, factually.

For most of my very early years I lived with my mother’s parents. Those years are unforgettable. Even if I reach to Dante’s paradise I will still remember those years. A small village, poor people, but my grandfather – I mean my mother’s father – was a generous man. He was poor, but rich in his generosity. He gave to each and everyone whatsoever he had. I learned the art of giving from him; I have to accept it. I never saw him say no to any beggar or anybody.

Chapter 3

The world must be full of fools – sorry, not fools but idiots, incurable, suffering from such retardedness. Has one to go to a temple to search for God? Is He not here and now?

The very idea of search is idiotic. One searches for that which is far away, and God is so close, closer than your own heartbeat. When I see the miracle every moment I am amazed how it is possible. Such creativity! It is possible only because there is no creator. If there were a creator you would have the same Monday every Monday, because the creator created the world in six days, then was finished with it. There is no creator, but only creative energy – energy in millions of forms, melting, meeting, appearing, disappearing, coming together and departing.

That is why I say the priest is the farthest away from the truth, and a poet, the closest. Of course the poet has not attained it either. Only the mystic attains it…. ”Attain” is not the right word: he becomes it, or rather he finds that he has always been it.

People ask me, ”Do you believe in astrology, in religion… in this, in that?” I don’t believe in anything at all, because I know.

My ”mother-in-law” was a rare woman, especially in India. She left her husband and went to Pakistan, married a Mohammedan even though she was a brahmin. She knew how to dare. I always like the quality of daring, because the more you dare, the nearer you come to home. Only the daredevils ever become buddhas, remember! The calculating ones can have a good bank balance but cannot become buddhas.

And when I met him on the road to Sarnath and told him that I had won the bet, he immediately gave me his watch and said, ”I would have given you the whole world but I don’t have anything else. In fact I should not even have this watch, but just because of you I have kept it all these years knowing that any day you are bound to come. And when I became a bhikku, Buddha was not in my mind, but you – a naked seven-year-old child declaring the future of one of the greatest astrologers in the country. How did you do it?”
I said, ”That I don’t know. I looked into your eyes and I could see that you could not be content with anything this world could give you. I saw the divine discontent. A man only becomes a sannyasin when he feels the divine discontent.”

But that moment, in the life of the village, was the greatest. They still talk about that feast. Just recently a person from that village came here, and he said, ”We still talk about the feast that your grandfather gave to the village. Never before and never after, has anything like that happened.” I enjoyed so many people enjoying.

I was a continuous nuisance. The whole day he had to listen to complaints about me, and he always rejoiced in them. That is what is wonderful and beautiful about the man. He never punished me. He never even said a single word like ”Do this,” or ”Don’t do that.” He simply allowed, absolutely allowed me to be myself. That is how, without knowing it at all, I came to have the taste of Tao.
Lao Tzu says, ”Tao is the watercourse way. The water simply flows downwards wherever the earth allows it.” That is how those early years were. I was allowed. I think every child needs those years. If we could give those years to every child in the world we could create a golden world.
Those days were full, overfull! So many events; so many incidents that I have never told to anybody….

I used to swim in the lake. Naturally my grandfather was afraid. He put a strange man to guard over me, in a boat. In that primitive village you cannot conceive what a ”boat” meant. It is called a dongi. It is nothing but the hollowed-out trunk of a tree. It is not an ordinary boat. It is round, and that is the danger: unless you are an expert you cannot row it. It can roll at any moment. Just a little imbalance and you are gone forever. It is very dangerous.
I learned balance through rowing a dongi. Nothing could be more helpful. I learned the ”middle way” because you have to be exactly in the middle: this way, and you are gone; that way, and you are gone. You cannot even breathe, and you have to remain absolutely silent; only then can you row the dongi.

What a man! But such men used to exist on earth. They are disappearing by and by, and instead of such people you find all kinds of cunning people taking their place. These people are the very salt of the earth. I call Bhoora a strange man because in a cunning world, to be simple is strange. It is to be a stranger, not of this world.

The house in which I was born, they are now asking ten lakhs rupees for it, knowing that one of my disciples may be willing to purchase it. Ten lakhs! That is one hundred thousand dollars. And do you know? – it was worth thirty rupees at the time my grandfather died. Even that was too much. We would have been surprised that anybody would be ready to give us even that.
It was a very primitive part of the country. Just because it was primitive it had something which is now missing from man everywhere else. Man also needs to be a little primitive, at least once in a while. A forest, a jungle, rather… an ocean… a sky full of stars.

My grandfather not only helped me to know what innocence is, that is what life is, but he also helped me to know what death is. He died in my lap.

Chapter 4

I told the old man, ”I just looked into your eyes and saw such purity that I could not believe that you were not yet a sannyasin. You should have been already; it was already too late.”
The word astrology is certainly not concerned with the eyes, it is concerned with the stars. But can a blind man see stars? You need eyes to see stars.
I said to that old man, ”Astrology is not the science of the stars, but the science of seeing, seeing the stars even during the day, in full daylight.”

If one misses me, perhaps he misses forever. But I won’t allow it to happen to any of my people. I know all the ways to cut through their cunningness, their hardness, their cleverness. And I am not concerned with the world at large. I am concerned only with my people, those who are really in search of themselves.

The idiots always ask the same question – it makes no difference. This is the miracle. Everything is different between India, England, Canada, America, Germany – but not the idiot. The idiot is universal, the same everywhere.

I have gone to Khajuraho so many times that I have lost all count. Whenever I had time I would rush to Khajuraho. If I could not be found anywhere else, my family would automatically say that I must have gone to Khajuraho, look for me there. And they were always right. I had to bribe the guards of those temples to tell people that I was not there when I was. It is a confession, because that is the only time I ever bribed anyone; but it was worth it, and I don’t regret it. I don’t feel sorry about it.

no wonder she was a beautiful woman, courageous and dangerous too. Beauty is always so, courageous and dangerous. She dared. My mother does not resemble her, and I am sorry about that. You cannot find any proof of my grandmother in my mother. Nani was such a courageous woman, and she helped me to dare everything – I mean everything.

My Nani was ready to go to any length just to help me experience myself. The way to know is to experience for yourself; it is not to be told. That’s where parents become nauseating; they are continuously telling you. A child is a rebirth of God. He should be respected, and he should be given every opportunity to grow, and to be – not according to you but according to his own potential.

Chapter 5

Nana used to go to the temple every morning, yet he never said, ”Come with me.” He never indoctrinated me. That is what is great… not to indoctrinate. It is so human to force a helpless child to follow your beliefs; but he remained untempted. Yes, I call it the greatest temptation. The moment you see someone dependent on you in any way, you start indoctrinating. He never even said to me, ”You are a Jaina.”

Number five is one of the most significant sentences I have ever come across in my whole life. It is strange that it was given to me by my grandmother when I was a small child. When I explain it to you, you too will see the beauty of it. Only she was capable of giving it to me. I don’t know anybody else who had the guts to really proclaim it, although all Jainas repeat it in their temples. But to repeat is one thing; to impart it to one you love is totally another.
”I touch the feet of all those who have known themselves…” without any distinction, whether they are Hindus, Jainas, Buddhists, Christians, Moslems. The mantra says, ”I touch the feet of all those who have known themselves.” This is the only mantra, as far as I know, which is absolutely non-sectarian.

She said, ”I myself don’t belong to any religion, but I love this mantra, and this is all I can give you – not because it is traditionally Jaina, but only because I have known its beauty. I have repeated it millions of times and always I have found tremendous peace… just the feeling of touching the feet of all those who have known. I can give you this mantra; more than that is not possible for me.”

My grandfather never told me to go to the temple, to follow him. I used to follow him many times, but he would say, ”Go away. If you want to go to the temple, go alone. Don’t follow me.”
He was not a hard man, but on this point he was absolutely hard. I asked him again and again, ”Can you give me something of your experience?” And he would always avoid it.

NAMO ARIHANTANAM NAMO NAMO….
I go to the feet of those who have known.
I go to the feet of those who have achieved.
I go to the feet of all who are Masters.
I go to the feet of all the teachers.
I go to the feet of all who have ever known, Unconditionally.
OM, SHANTI, SHANTI, SHANTI.

Chapter 6

But who are they to decide how an enlightened or illuminated person should speak? Have they known Bodhidharma? Have they seen his picture? They will immediately conclude that an enlightened or illuminated person cannot look like that. He looks ferocious! His eyes are those of a lion in the forest, and the way he looks at you is such that it seems he will jump from the picture and kill you instantly. That’s how he was! But forget Bodhidharma, because now fourteen centuries have passed.

I knew Bodhidharma personally. I traveled with the man for at least three months. He loved me just as I loved him. You will be curious to know why he loved me. He loved me because I never asked him any question. He said to me, ”You are the first person I have met who does not ask a question – and I only get bored with all the questions. You are the only person who does not bore me.”
I said, ”There is a reason.” He said, ”What is that?”
I said, ”I only answer. I never question. If you have any question you can ask me. If you don’t have a question then keep your mouth shut.”
We both laughed, because we both belonged to the same category of insanity. He asked me to continue the journey with him, but I said, ”Excuse me, I have to go my own way, and from this point it separates from yours.”

My grandmother said, ”Don’t you worry son; you go and do whatsoever you want to do. I am alive, and I will sell everything I have just to help you to be yourself. I will not ask where you want to go and what you want to study.”

People used to wonder where I got all the money from to purchase my books, because I had thousands of books. Even when I was just a student in high school I had thousands of books in my house. My whole house was full of books, and everybody wondered where I got all the money from. My grandmother had told me, ”Never tell anyone that you get money from me, because if your father and mother come to know they will start asking me for money, and it will be difficult for me to refuse.”

She went on giving money to me. You will be surprised to know that even the month she died she had sent the usual money to me. On the morning of the day she died she had signed the check. You will also be amazed to know, that was the last money she had in the bank. Perhaps somehow she knew that there was not going to be any tomorrow.

I am fortunate in many ways, but I was most fortunate in having my maternal grandparents… and those early golden years.

It is a scientific fact that people who eat less live longer. Devaraj will certainly agree with me. It has been proven again and again, that if you feed any species more than they need, they become fat, and comfortable of course, beautiful of course, but they soon die. If you feed them only half what they need, it is strange: they don’t look beautiful, they are not comfortable, but they live to almost double the average age. Half the food and double the age – double the food, and half the age.

Chapter 8

Every year the Jaina monk pulls out his hair, beard and mustache, and all hair on the body, just with his bare hands! They are against any technology – and they call it logic, going to the very logical end of a thing. If you use a razor, that is technology; did you know that? Have you ever considered a razor a technological thing? Even so-called ecologists go on shaving their beards without knowing that they are committing a crime against nature.
Jaina monks pull out their hair, and not privately, because they do not have any privacy. Part of their masochism is not to have any privacy, to be utterly public. They pull their hair out while standing naked in the marketplace. The crowds, of course, cheer and applaud. And Jainas, although they feel great sympathy, you can even see tears in their eyes, but unconsciously they also enjoy it, and without needing a ticket. I abhor it; I am averse to all such practices.
The idea of committing santhara, suicide, by not eating or drinking is nothing but a very long process of self torture. I cannot support it. But I am absolutely in support of the idea of the freedom to die.

Education is the greatest crime man has committed against poor children. Perhaps the last liberation in the world will be the liberation of children.

My grandmother said, ”He is not my master, so I don’t care a bit. Moreover what you think to be a born troublemaker is the seed. Nobody knows what will come out of it.”
I know now what has come out of it. Unless one is a born troublemaker one cannot become a Buddha. And I am not only a Buddha, as Gautam the Buddha; that is too traditional. I am Zorba the Buddha. I am a meeting of the East and the West. In fact, I do not divide East and West, higher and lower, man and woman, good and bad, God and the devil. No! A thousand times no! I don’t divide. I join together all that has been divided up to now. That is my work.

The mystic attains to it, and suddenly, in his inner being there is only light, and nothing else. That is awakening. I am for the maximum. Live to the maximum in every possible way; even if you are deciding to die, die with maximum speed. Don’t die like a coward – take a jump into the unknown. I am not against the idea of ending life. If one decides to end it, then of course it is his right. But I am certainly against making it a long torture. When this Shanti Sagar died, he took one hundred and ten days of not eating. A man is capable, if he is ordinarily healthy, of easily lasting ninety days without food. If he is extraordinarily healthy then he can survive longer.

That woman could have become a tremendously powerful force. She was not meant to be just a housewife. She was not meant to live in that small village. The whole world should have known about her. Perhaps I am her vehicle; perhaps she has poured herself into me. She loved me so deeply that I have never considered my real mother to be my real mother. I always consider my Nani to be my real mother.
Whenever I had to confess anything, any wrong that I had done to somebody, I could only confess it to her, nobody else. She was my trust. I could confide anything to her because I have come to realize one thing, and that is: she was capable of understanding. I must have done every kind of thing a person is capable of doing, and I would tell it to her at night.

She said, ”No, because I have watched you from your very childhood. Even if you do something wrong, you do it so rightly, and at exactly the right moment, so that even a wrong becomes a right.” It was she who told me, for the first time, that right in the hands of a wrong man becomes wrong; and wrong in the hands of a right man becomes right.

So don’t be worried about what you are doing; remember only one thing: what you are being. This is a great question, about doing and being. All religions are concerned about doing; I am concerned with being. If your being is right, and by right I mean blissful, silent, peaceful, loving, then whatever you do is right. Then there are no other commandments for you, only one: just be. Be so totally that in the very totality no shadow is possible. Then you cannot do anything wrong. The whole world may say it is wrong, that does not matter; what matters is your own being.

I’m not worried about Christ being crucified, because I know even on the cross he was fully at ease with himself. He was so fully at ease that he could pray, ”Father” – that was his word for God. To be exact he did not even say ”father,” but ”abba,” which is far more beautiful. ”Abba, forgive these people because they know not what they are doing.” Again emphasize the word ”doing” – ”what they are DOING.” Alas, they could not see the being of the man on the cross. It is being that matters, the only thing that matters.

That moment in my life, asking the Jaina monk strange, irritating, annoying questions, I don’t consider that I did anything wrong. Perhaps I helped him. Perhaps one day he will understand. If he had had courage he would have understood even that day, but he was a coward – he escaped. And since then, this has been my experience: the so-called mahatmas and saints are all cowards. I have never come across a single mahatma, Hindu, Mohammedan, Christian, Buddhist, who can be said to be really a rebellious spirit. Unless one is rebellious one is not religious. Rebellion is the very foundation of religion.

Chapter 9

Time cannot go back, but mind can. What a wastage – to give such a mind, which cannot forget anything whatsoever, to a man who not only has become a no-mind, but also preaches to others to drop the mind. As far as my mind is concerned – remember, my mind, not me – it is as much a mechanism as the one being used here. My ”mind” simply means the machinery, but a perfect machine given to a man who will discard it! That is why I say what a wastage.
But I know the reason: unless you have a perfect mind, you cannot have the intelligence to discard it. Life is full of contradictions. Nothing is bad about it; it makes life more tasteful.

There was no reason for man and woman to be two; they could have been like the amoeba – you can ask Devaraj. The amoeba is neither male nor female, it is one. It is also like Muktananda, and all the other idiotanandas – celibate – but it has its own way of reproducing. What a trouble it causes all the doctors in the world! It simply goes on eating, becoming fatter and fatter, and at a certain point it splits in two. That is its way of reproduction. It is really brahmacharya, celibate.
Man and woman could have been one, like amoebae, but there would have been no poetry, only reproduction. Of course, no conflict either, no nagging, no fighting; but the poetry which has arisen is so valuable, that all the conflicts and all the nagging, and all the bickering, is worthwhile.

The monk asked me, ”Do you know how it came to be?”
I said, ”It has always been there; there is no need for it to come.” I can confirm that sentence after forty-five years, after enlightenment and no-enlightenment, after having read so much and having forgotten it all, after knowing that which is and – put it in capitals – IGNORING IT. I can still say the same as that young child: the universe has always been there; there is no need for it to have been created or to have come from somewhere – it simply is.

Since then, how many people have I asked the same question, and found the same ignorance facing me – great pundits, knowledgeable people, great mahatmas worshipped by thousands, and yet not able to answer a simple question put by a child.
In fact, no real question has ever been answered, and I predict that no real question will ever be answered, because when you come to a real question, the only answer is silence. Not the stupid silence of a pundit, a monk or a mahatma, but your own silence. Not the silence of the other, but the silence that grows within you. Except that, there is no answer. And that silence that grows within is an answer to you, and to those who merge with your silence with love; otherwise it is not an answer to anyone except you.

The real Master not only knows, but helps millions to know. His knowledge is not private, it is open to all those who are ready to receive. I have known the answer. The question I have carried for thousands of years, in one body, in another body, through one body to another body, but the answer has happened for the first time. It has happened only because I questioned persistently without any fear of the consequences.
I am recalling these incidents to make you aware that unless one asks, and asks everyone totally, it is difficult to ask oneself. When one is thrown out from every door, when all the doors are locked or slammed in your face, then at last one turns withinwards – and there is the answer. It is not written; you will not find a BIBLE, a TORAH, or a KORAN, a GITA, a TAO TE CHING or a DHAMMAPADA…. No, you won’t find anything written there.
What you will find is a tremendous, overwhelming silence, so dense that one feels one can touch it… like a beautiful woman. One can feel it like a beautiful woman, and it is only silence, but very tangible.

Argument has been my joy from my very childhood. I will do anything just to have a good argument; but how rare it is to find a really good milieu for argument. I entered the Sufi order – this I am confessing for the first time – and even allowed those fools to circumcise me; and they did it by such primitive methods that I had to suffer for at least six months. But I didn’t care about that; my whole concern was to know Sufism from within. Alas! I could not find a real Sufi in my life. But that is true not only about the Sufis, I have not found a real Christian either, or a real Hassid.

J. Krishnamurti invited me to meet him in Bombay. The man who brought the message was a common friend, Parmananda. I told him, ”Parmananda, go back and tell Krishnamurti that if he wants to see me, he should come – that is proper – rather than asking me to come to him.”
Parmananda said, ”But he is years older than you.”
I said, ”You go to him. Don’t answer on his behalf. If he says that he is older than me, then it is not worth going, because awakening cannot be older or younger; it is always just the same – simply fresh, eternally fresh.”
He went and never came back, because how could Krishnamurti, an old man, come to see me? Yet he wanted to see me. This is interesting, is it not? I never wanted to see him, otherwise I would have gone to him. He wanted to see me, and yet still wanted me to go to him. You must concede that is a little too much. Parmananda never returned with a reply. Next day, when he came, I asked, ”What happened?”
He said, ”Krishnamurti became very angry, so angry that I did not ask him again.”
Now, he wanted to see me; I would have loved to see him, but I had never wanted to, for the simple reason that I don’t like to go to people, even though the person was J. Krishnamurti. I love what he says, I love what he is, but I have never desired – at least have never said to anyone – that I want to see him, because then it is a simple matter: I should go to him. He desired; he wanted to see me, and yet wanted me to come to him. I don’t like that, and never will.
J. Krishnamurti is against me, but I say I am not against him. I still love him. He is one of the most beautiful men of the twentieth century. I don’t think there is anybody else alive I can compare him with – but he has a limitation, and that limitation has been his undoing. The limitation is that he tries to be utterly intellectual, and that is not possible if you want to rise high, if you want to go beyond words and numbers.
Why does he suffer from migraine? – because of too much intellectuality, and nothing else. It is not the same as poor Asheesh, my chair-maker. He too suffers from migraine, but his is physical. J. Krishnamurti’s migraine is spiritual. He is too intellectual. Just to hear him is enough to give you a migraine. If you don’t suffer from migraine after hearing a lecture by J. Krishnamurti it means that you are already enlightened – or that you don’t have a head. The second is more probable. The first is a little difficult.

My Nani was not really an Indian woman; even the West would have been a little less foreign to her. And remember, she was absolutely uneducated – perhaps that’s why she was so perceptive. Perhaps she could see something in me of which I was not aware in those days. Perhaps that’s the reason she loved me so much… I can’t say. She’s no longer alive. One thing I do know: when her husband died she never went back to the village; she remained in my father’s village. I had to leave her there, but when I returned, again and again I would ask her, ”Nani, can we go back to the village?”
She would always say, ”For what? You are here.” Those three simple words resound in me like music reverberating: ”You are here.” I also say the same to you. She loved me; and you know nobody can love you more than I love you.