WALKING DOWN the straight road on a lovely morning, it was spring, and the sky was extraordinarily blue; there wasn't a cloud in it, and the sun was just warm, not too hot. It felt nice. And the leaves were shining and a sparkle was in the air. It was really a most extraordinarily beautiful morning. The high mountain was there, impenetrable, and the hills below were green and lovely. And as you walked along quietly, without much thought, you saw a dead leaf, yellow and bright red, a leaf from the autumn. How beautiful that leaf was, so simple in its death, so lively, full of the beauty and vitality of the whole tree and the summer. Strange that it had not withered. Looking at it more closely, one saw all the veins and the stem and the shape of that leaf. That leaf was all the tree.

…Once, walking along a lane, one heard behind one a chant, melodious, rhythmic, with the ancient strength of Sanskrit. One stopped and looked round. An eldest son, naked to his waist, was carrying a terracotta pot with a fire burning in it. He was holding it in another vessel and behind him were two men carrying his dead father, covered with a white cloth, and they were all chanting. One knew what that chant was, one almost joined in. They went past and one followed them. They were going down the road chanting, and the eldest son was in tears. They carried the father to the beach where they had already collected a great pile of wood and they laid the body on top of that heap of wood and set it on fire. It was all so natural, so extraordinarily simple: there were no flowers, there was no hearse, there were no black carriages with black horses. It was all very quiet and utterly dignified. And one looked at that leaf, and a thousand leaves of the tree. The winter brought that leaf from its mother on to that path and it would presently dry out completely and wither, be gone, carried away by the winds and lost.

As one looked at that dead leaf with all its beauty and colour, maybe one would very deeply comprehend, be aware of, what one's own death must be, not at the very end but at the very beginning. Death isn't some horrific thing, something to be avoided, something to be postponed, but rather something to be with day in and day out. And out of that comes an extraordinary sense of immensity.

– Krishnamurti to Himself

RAJESH DALAL, a young technocrat who had just graduated from the Indian Institute of Technology, Kanpur, came to Rajghat to hear Krishnaji speak. Attracted by the depth and relevance of Krishnaji's teaching, he was the first of the young academics and professionals to turn away from a career and join as a teacher in Krishnaji's schools.

Krishnaji's visit to Rajghat in November 1976 led to Rajesh's first meeting with him. He went to Krishnaji's room, rather excited, a little nervous at the idea of meeting the “great one.” Krishnaji met him at the door, took him by the hand, and led him to the veranda overlooking the Ganga and the garden. They sat on a divan, and Krishnaji said, "Sir, please don't feel shy." He started to ask about Rajesh's life, where he was born, the house he lived in, his parents, his school. His presence was so reassuring that Rajesh rambled on, talking about himself; in his words, "forgetting who I was talking to. It was like talking to someone who was an intimate close friend. When I told him that in school and college I had always played with objects, people, ideas, numbers, words, and so on, he seemed to be happy and said, That is good'." Krishnaji suddenly became very quiet and serious. Rajesh grew acutely conscious of the silence and was deeply affected by it. He became aware of the sun setting and "the radiance of the pink gold of the ripples in the water." He perceived the movement of the peepul leaves as the breezes played through them and listened to the sound of the peacock's call. They sat about four minutes without a word. Rajesh looked at Krishnaji once or twice, expecting him to break the silence, which he was finding too much to bear. He was beginning to realize the immensity of the person sitting beside him, and the intimacy which they had shared gave way to a feeling within him of immense awe. He saw Krishnaji as part of the river, of the peepul tree and the birds flying over it. "It was the awe which you feel when you are face to face with something unknown, something very profound."

Suddenly, he heard Krishnaji's voice. "Look Rajesh, the world is in darkness. It is mad. The violence you see all around you is crazy. And these places Rajghat, Rishi Valley, Brockwood Park, and Ojai – have to become centers of light.” When Rajesh assured Krishnaji that this was the only thing that truly and deeply mattered in his life, there was a gentle yet enigmatic smile on Krishnaji's face.

To Rajesh it was a downpour of affection and blessing. He experienced a quiet alertness and went back to his room very aware of everything around him – the roses, boats on the river, and squirrels playing with each other.

The mind was more alive than it had ever been.

– Pupul Jayakar, J Krishnamurti A Biography