In India I began searching for various religious leaders, gurus, yogis and so-called enlightened ones. I visited Tibetan monks in Sikkin, Hindu teachers and yogis in Calcutta, Benares, Delhi, Rishikesh, Madras and Bombay, and Buddhist monks in Bodtagaya. I saw and spoke to teachers in many parts of India, discussed with them their various systems of mind and body control and entered into an assortment of strange practices, some of which I will describe, but none of which I found produced anything more than a temporary, trance-like state through repetition of words, chanting or concentration upon neutral objects.Many of the experiments brought on in me a certain calm but I was still totally unable to transcend the activities of a mischievous and probing mind. I felt I knew the reason for my failure, as I have explained before, but how could I search for light without dedicating my mental faculties wholly to the search? How could I perceive the truth without consciously and devotedly looking for it? It was like playing hide and seek with my own shadow.

While waiting for my plane to take off at Benares for New Delhi I noticed an Indian taking his leave of a group of friends. He was a striking figure, getting on in years-perhaps in his late sixties-tall, with a full head of graying hair. He was dressed in the familiar simple lightweight suit of white linen. His departure was evidently the cause of some sorrow to his friends, who were earnestly wishing him a safe journey and urging him to return soon. I concluded he was same kind of celebrity or honored guest.We went up the steps of the plane together and I was soon in my seat and deep in a book I had purchased at the airport bookstall, unconscious of my surroundings except for the fact that a good-looking young American woman settled down in the seat next to me. I paid no further attention to the man in the white suit and indeed forgot about him for the rest of that leg of the journey. I noticed an odd thing, however. Perhaps it was of no significance but the man carried no luggage with him.

The plane made a stop at Lucknow. The passengers alighted and we all went into the airport lounge to be served with lunch. I noticed that the Europeans gravitated to a table together and my first inclination was to join them. I changed my mind, however, when I saw the elderly man whom I had seen earlier go towards a smaller table at which the only other occupant was an Indian Army officer. I was in India, after all, to meet Indians and this would be a good chance to acquire a taste of local color. We exchanged the usual cordialities and I sat down. I introduced myself and he told me his name was Krishnamurti. 'I am a sort of philosopher,' he said. Had I known at that moment what I was to learn later about Krishnamurti I might have been awed with the significance of the occasion. For this was my first encounter with a man who for over forty years has held thousands all over the world spellbound with his wisdom, a teacher revered not only in his native India but in Europe and the United States too; a man who in his youth was groomed for stardom by well-meaning people as the Messiah reborn, no less.

I knew nothing of this: he was a fellow passenger on the plane and we had met by chance over the lunch table. At first our conversation was general. We talked about the weather, war and all the usual topics. He asked if I'd pass the salt. We were offered a choice of meat or vegetarian dishes and he chose the vegetarian diet. As a matter of interest and to make conversation I asked him why he had opted for the salad and he replied that he simply preferred the food, there was no particular moral principle involved. Like many Indians he had been brought up on vegetarian foods and the preference had stayed with him. Knowing that Krishna was an Indian word meaning 'God' I ventured to ask him what was the meaning of his name, Krishnamurti. It is customary in Southern India for the eighth child, if a boy, to be named after Krishna and his name, he told me with no trace of self-consciousness, meant 'in the likeness of God'. From this point our conversation began to veer away from the commonplace chitchat of fellow airplane passengers and I felt, if not actually encouraged, not actively discouraged, to go a stage further. As we both had some time on our hands I could see no harm in developing the conversation and there was, in any case, something about the man, an indefinable quality, an aura, which seemed to invite questions and in some strange way guarantee that his answers would be worth hearing. I would chance it, anyway.

'You say you are a "sort of philosopher" yet, knowing the meaning of your name, I should say you are a religious man also,' I suggested.

'If by that you mean do I follow a religion the answer would be no, sir,' he said. 'Nor do I follow any particular philosophy. I believe all philosophies and religions are wrong. The spoken or written word is not the truth. Truth can only be experienced directly at the moment it happens. Any thought or intellectual projection of the truth is a step away from the truth, sir.'

I paused for a moment to try and take in what he had said. He spoke quickly and directly in an impeccable Oxford accent; and I could not help being amused, if a little embarrassed, by the way he addressed me formally as 'sir' although I was a mere twenty-eight to his sixty-five or more. I could see the Indian Army officer at our table was more than a little surprised at the turn our conversation was taking but, rather rudely maybe, I paid no attention to him and he went on with his meal in silence.

'Since you don't follow any of the established religions,' I asked, 'which of the great religious leaders came closest to teaching and realizing the ultimate truth?'

'Oh, the Buddha,' replied Krishnamurti without hesitation and somewhat to my astonishment. I had expected him to mention one of the Indian gods or even Christ. 'The Buddha comes closer to the basic truths and facts of life than any other. Although I am not myself a Buddhist, of course.'

'Why not?' I asked, as politely as possible to make up for my directness.

'No organization, however old or however recent, can lead a man to truth. It is a hindrance, it can only impede. It blocks a man from sincere study. The truth comes from within, by seeing for yourself. The conventional way of acquiring knowledge, it's true, is by reading or listening but to understand you have to penetrate directly, by silently observing. Then you understand.'

He paused and I waited for him to go on. 'Obviously if you are going to build a bridge you must study strains and stresses, but in the matter of understanding truth or the concepts of love, philosophical or religious thoughts, anything to do with reality, it has to be penetrated and experienced directly without any intellectual interpretation. Truth comes from within. Once the understanding comes you are able to talk about it but it does not follow that a listener will understand.'

'If you described a book or a motor car or the plane we are traveling in I would understand,' I said.

'That is the purpose of the intellect, sir-to communicate. Mechanical or materialistic things can be understood, but if I tried to tell you what God is, what truth is or what love is you would not fully understand. Perhaps I know what love is, what God is, what reality is-I could write a book on what love is or what reality is and you could read it and intellectually you would understand the book, but it does not follow automatically that you would know what love is, or what reality is. This you must understand by direct experience, without interpretation and without intellectualization. The thought and the word are not the thing but a distortion of the reality.'

The old man's flow of words was entirely fascinating and I became very anxious to continue the discussion. When the meal was finished and our fellow passengers began to move towards the plane once again I asked him if I might occupy the seat next to him and talk further. He seemed glad to have a companion, then a shadow of doubt crossed his face. 'But what about that nice girl you were sitting with before we stopped here? She might be offended if you leave her.' His concern for the girl-even the fact that he had noticed her-bewildered me. I didn't know the girl at all and we had exchanged only a few polite sentences. I reassured the old man and moved my baggage to the rack nearest his seat.

'I see you have no bags-you're traveling light,' I said.

'I am only going as far as New Delhi,' he replied, 'I have no need of possessions and carry none. I have no money with me either, I never handle it.'

'What will you do without money or clothes in Delhi?' I asked. 'How will you manage for food and accommodation?'

'I shall be among friends,' he replied simply. 'I have been invited to speak and the people who wish me to make speeches also pay for my journey, my food and anything else I require. They also put me up in their homes and you may be certain I shall be comfortable and want for nothing.' 'As a matter of fact,' he went on, 'I have no permanent home or any possessions, I spend my life traveling from place to place and my friends everywhere look after my needs. I belong nowhere, yet everywhere, and my friends are everywhere. My needs are simple.'

I think Krishnamurti was amused by my statement of incredulity. It must surely have shown in my face. Even now I did not guess that he was a world-renowned mystic with a following in almost every land ready to welcome him on his visits as their spiritual leader. In spite of all my reading and study of Eastern philosophy and religious beliefs I had not encountered the name of Krishnamurti, and for him it must have been something of a novelty to meet such an earnest young man who quite obviously had never heard of him. I did, however, recognize that I was in the presence of a remarkable personality, a man whose words were getting through to me and meaning something. My search for truth and the quiet mind was at last beginning to show the glimmer of results. Looking back, I think it may have been precisely because I was not one of his admirers that induced Krishnamurti to talk so freely to me. My questioning was unforgivably probing for a complete stranger, yet his answers were detailed and frank and, far from discouraging me or seeming reproachful for my self-confident cross-examination, he seemed to enjoy it and even invite more. His speech was lively and fluent and the flourishes and gestures that accompanied it were forceful and expressive. The airplane engines droned on monotonously and while other passengers read or slept we conducted our vigorous discussion.

'How do you live?' I asked, returning to his earlier theme.

'Oh, things just happen. I'm well provided for. I am happier without possessions of my own. People give me things but I can take them or leave them. What do we want with possessions? When you don't want things they come to you. When you do want things then you're in conflict and when you don't get them you suffer. When you get them you want something else which causes further suffering. My needs are very simple. All I need is something to eat every day, a few calories, enough clothes to keep me warm. These are very adequately provided for me. The only clothes I own are these I'm wearing,' he laughed.

'Man's real needs are simple. And it is quite easy to satisfy them. Television and automobiles are not needed to sustain life and indeed they lead to conflict. When you desire them and devote attention to acquiring them this is where conflict comes into life. You are never satisfied.We tend to live in confusion instead of clarity. This is destructive. Out of confusion more confusion grows. But if we are aware of the confusion we can stop and examine. Don't take action out of confusion, sir. Take action based on clarity.'

'How can one achieve clarity?'

'We have to understand living, the living of our daily life, with all its misery, confusion, conflict. It is not easy. If we can understand how to live, death is close. Without dying there is no living. We should observe ourselves constantly. See ourselves, our greed, envy, bitterness, cynicism, beliefs-and watch them. We cannot see them if we want to change them. Actual seeing demands energy, active and constant observation.'

'How would you answer a person who sought your advice on developing spiritually?' I asked.

Krishnamurti's face grew serious. 'Simply by silently watching yourself all the time, all your actions, your thoughts, your environment. Be silently aware of things as they occur, without interpretation.'

'But I cannot advise,' he said, laughing suddenly. 'When people ask me for advice or assurance it is the same as asking for a medicine. I cannot give it. The answer is within themselves. They must look for it. They are seeking security and there is no such thing. That's why they believe in a religion or try to reach God-it's the desire to feel safe. A man is his own salvation and it is only through himself that he will find the truth, not through religions, thoughts or theories, and certainly not through following a leader. Leaders and followers exploit each other and I will have nothing to do with such activities!'

'It's because of this urge to feel safe that we put our faith in leaders. And why? Because we don't want to do the wrong thing. Fear not clarity, is the basis of following. We want a permanent idea, a permanent God. When clarity is come to we don't want to follow. My teaching does not involve faith, but a mind that is free to examine.'

'Is there, then, no value in following a religion?' I asked.

'All organized religions are forms of escape, sir. They offer comfort, tell you what to do. If you behave properly you will be rewarded. It is childish. It is a block to understanding.'

There were many more questions I felt I must put to this sage old Indian whose words had struck, for the first time, a chord of true response in my mind. But the changing note of the engines indicated that, all too soon, the journey was over and in a few minutes we would land and go our separate ways.

'Shall we meet in Delhi?' I asked.

'I shall be gone in a few days,' he replied.

'Where are you going next?'

'America, perhaps, or Switzerland,' he said vaguely. 'I prefer a mild climate, you know.'

As he rose to leave the plane I noticed for the first time that he carried a book under his arm. When he saw me glance at the title he smiled a little sheepishly.

'This is the only kind of literature I read. Everything else bores me.'

It was a paperback crime thriller. I collected my bags and headed for the airport buildings and the door marked 'exit'. I turned but there was no sign of the man in the white linen suit-I saw only the crowd of excited men and women, and the press photographers, who had Krishnamurti somewhere in their midst.