The Years of Awakening

J. Krishnamurti

• Publisher: Krishnamurti Foundation Trust Uk
• ISBN:
  9781911124153
• Topic: Philosophy
• Subtopic: Philosopher Biographies

Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895-1986) was an independent spiritual teacher for the rest of his life, writing many books such as Krishnamurti Reader: No. 1, You are the World, Commentaries on living; First series, from the notebooks of J. Krishnamurti.
Mary Lutyens (1908-1999) was a British author best known for her three-volume biography of Jiddu Krishnamurti; the other volumes in this series are Krishnamurti: The Years of Fulfilment and Krishnamurti: The Open Door. She wrote in the Foreword to this 1975 book, "This account of the life of the first thirty-eight years of Krishnamurti's life has been written at his suggestion and with all the help he has been able to give me. it shows the circumstances of the unfolding of Krishnamurti's teaching and demonstrates his extraordinary achievement in freeing himself from the many hands that clutched at him in an endeavour to force him into the role of traditional Messiah."
He told his audience, "I maintain that Truth is a pathless land, and you cannot approach it by any path whatsoever, by any religion, by any sect... I do not want to belong to any organization of a spiritual kind; please understand this."
Lutyens' sympathetic, yet detailed and critical biography is "must reading" for anyone wanting to know more about Krishnamurti.

1

Birth and Childhood

Jiddu Krishnamurti was born on May 11, 1895, in the small hill-town of Madanapalle about a hundred and fifty miles north of Madras. As the eighth child who happened to be born a boy he was, in accordance with Hindu orthodoxy, called after Sri Krishna who had himself been an eighth child. The Jiddu family were Telugu-speaking Brahmins, a Brahmin being the highest caste. Krishnamurti’s great-grandfather had held a responsible position under the East India Company and been an eminent Sanskrit scholar; his grandfather had also been a very learned man and a Civil Servant, while his father, Jiddu Narianiah, after graduating from Madras University, became an official in the Revenue Department of the British administration, rising by the end of his career to the position of Tashildar (rent collector) and District Magistrate. The family were not, therefore, poor by Indian standards.

Narianiah had married his second cousin, Jiddu Sanjeevamma, who bore him eleven children, only six of whom survived childhood. It seems to have been a very happy marriage. Narianiah described his wife as having a very beautiful melodious voice and liking to sing to him. Indian life in those days was primitive and the caste system rigidly adhered to. An open drain to carry all water used for household purposes ran beside the house where Krishnamurti was born; it was cleaned by the sweepers, the ‘untouchables’, who belonged to no caste at all. The sweepers were not allowed into the house except to collect sewage, and, in a Brahmin household, no food would be prepared, cooked or served by a non-Brahmin; moreover, in South India the cook would invariably be a South Indian Brahmin since the South Indians were such strict vegetarians that even the eating of eggs was forbidden by their caste rules. There was nothing to prevent a poor Brahmin from taking a domestic job in a Brahmin household, though he would not, of course, undertake any of the tasks performed by the sweepers or lower castes. The castes did not intermarry and no one could change his caste except in a future life. Europeans were on a par with ‘untouchables’. Sanjeevamma would throw the food away if so much as the shadow of a European fell across it, and if an Englishman entered the house on official business, the rooms he had been in were scoured and the children put into clean clothes. Such was the environment into which Krishnamurti was born.

Sanjeevamma had a premonition that this eighth child of hers was to be in some way remarkable and she insisted that the baby should be born in the puja room on the ground floor, a special room set aside for prayers in orthodox Hindu households. Narianiah gave way to her whim although the puja room was not normally entered at night after food or in the morning before washing.

Only a cousin with experience as a midwife was present at the birth which, unlike Sanjeevamma’s other confinements, was quick and easy. Narianiah sat in the next room with his watch in his hand. At half past midnight the door of the puja room was opened a crack for the cousin to whisper ‘Sirasodayam’, meaning in Sanskrit ‘the head is visible’. This for Hindus is the precise moment of birth, essential for astrological calculations. As in Hindu astrology the day is reckoned from 4 a.m. to 4 a.m., Krishna was born on May 11, whereas by Western reckoning he would have been born at 12.30 a.m. on the 12th.

The baby’s horoscope was cast next day by Kumara Shrowtulu, one of the most renowned astrologers of that region. He was able to assure Narianiah that his son was to be a very great man indeed. For many years it seemed most unlikely that this prediction would be fulfilled. Whenever the astrologer met Narianiah he would ask, ‘What of the boy Krishna?’ Narianiah’s reply was evidently never very hopeful for the astrologer would again assure the disappointed father, ‘Wait. I have told you the truth; he will be somebody very wonderful and great.’

In November 1896 Narianiah was transferred to Cudappah, a much larger town and one of the worst in the district for malaria. The following year, a very bad famine year, the two-year-old Krishna had malaria so badly that for some days he was not expected to live and, although Narianiah was transferred again in 1900 to the healthier town of Kadiri, Krishna was for many years attacked by periodic bouts of the fever, and he also suffered a great deal from nose bleeding.

At Kadiri, when he was six, Krishna, like all Brahmin boys at the start of their education, went through the sacred thread ceremony, or Upanyanam. This ceremony marks their entrance into Brahmacharya, meaning that they take on the responsibilities of Brahminhood, for every Brahmin boy is born a priest. Narianiah described this important occasion:

It is our custom to make it a family festival, and friends and relations were invited to dinner. When all the people were assembled, the boy was bathed and clothed in everything new—very rich clothes are used if the parents can afford them. Krishna was brought in and placed upon my knee, while on my stretched hand I supported a silver tray strewn with grains of rice. His mother, sitting beside me, then took the index finger of the boy’s right hand, and with it traced in the rice the sacred word, AUM, which in its Sanskrit rendering, consists of a single letter, the letter which is, in sound, the first letter of the alphabet in Sanskrit and in all the vernaculars. Then my ring was taken from my finger, and placed between the child’s finger and thumb, and my wife, holding the little hand, again traced the sacred word in Telugu character with the ring. Then again without the ring, the same letter was traced three times. After this, mantrams were recited by the officiating priest, who blessed the boy, that he might be spiritually and intellectually endowed. Then, taking Krishna with us, my wife and I drove to the Narasimhaswami temple to worship and pray for the future success of our son. From there we drove to the nearest Indian school, where Krishna was handed over to the teacher, who, in sand, performed the same ceremony of tracing the sacred word. Meanwhile, many of the friends of the school-children had gathered in the room, and we distributed among them such good things as might serve as a treat to the pupils. So we started our son in his educational career according to the ancient Brahmin custom.

Krishna’s little brother, Nityananda, just three years younger, would run after him when he went to school, longing to go too. Nitya was as sharp as Krishna was vague and dreamy; nevertheless there was a very close bond between these brothers. Krishna would often return home from school at Kadiri without a pencil, slate or book, having given them to some poorer boy. In the mornings beggars would come to the house when it was the custom to pour a certain quantity of unboiled rice into each outstretched hand. Krishna’s mother would send him out to distribute the rice and he would come back for more, saying that he had poured it all into the first man’s bag. In the evening when Narianiah sat with his friends on the veranda after returning from the office, beggars would come again for cooked food. This time the servants would try to drive them away but Krishna ran inside to fetch food for them, and when Sanjeevamma made a special treat of sweetmeats for the children, Krishna would take only part of his share and give the rest to his brothers; all the same Nitya would ask for more which Krishna never failed to give him.

Every evening while they were at Kadiri, Krishna and Nitya would accompany their mother to the large Narasimhaswami temple, celebrated for its sanctity. Krishna always showed a religious vein. He also, surprisingly, had a mechanical turn of mind. One day, when his father was away, he took his father’s clock to pieces and refused to go to school or even to eat until he had put it together again. These two rather contradictory strains in his nature, as well as his generosity, have persisted throughout his life.

Narianiah’s frequent transfers as well as Krishna’s bouts of fever interrupted the boy’s schooling (for one whole year he was unable to go to school at all), so that in lessons he fell far behind other boys of his age. Moreover, he hated book learning and was so dreamy as to appear at times mentally retarded. Nevertheless he was keenly observant when his interest was aroused. He would stand for long stretches at a time watching trees and clouds, or squat on the ground gazing at plants and insects. This close observation of nature is another characteristic that he has retained.

In 1903 the family, after three quick transfers, were back at malaria-ridden Cudappah where the following year Krishna’s eldest sister died. Narianiah recorded that his wife ‘was heartbroken at our daughter’s death, a girl of only twenty years, highly spiritual, who cared for nothing that the world could give her’. It was soon after her death that Krishna showed for the first time that he was clairvoyant. In a memoir of his childhood, written when he was eighteen, he says that his mother ‘was to a certain extent psychic’ and would often see her dead daughter:

They talked together and there was a special place in the garden to which my sister used to come. My mother always knew when my sister was there and sometimes took me with her to the place, and would ask me whether I saw my sister too. At first I laughed at the question, but she asked me to look again and then sometimes I saw my sister. Afterwards I could always see my sister. I must confess I was very much afraid, because I had seen her dead and her body burnt. I generally rushed to my mother’s side and she told me there was no reason to be afraid. I was the only member of my family, except my mother, to see these visions, though all believed in them. My mother was able to see the auras of people, and I also sometimes saw them.

In December 1905, when Krishna was ten and a half and the family were still at Cudappah, the worst blow of all fell on them—Sanjeevamma herself died. Krishna wrote in this same memoir:

The happiest memories of my childhood centre round my dear mother who gave us all the loving care for which Indian mothers are well known. I cannot say I was particularly happy at school, for the teachers were not very kind and gave me lessons that were too hard for me. I enjoyed games as long as they were not too rough, as I had very delicate health. My mother’s death in 1905 deprived my brothers and myself of the one who loved and cared for us most, and my father was too much occupied to pay much attention to us ... there was really nobody to look after us. In connection with my mother’s death, I may mention that I frequently saw her after she died. I remember once following my mother’s form as it went upstairs. I stretched out my hand and seemed to catch hold of her dress, but she vanished as soon as she reached the top of the stairs. Until a short time ago, I used to hear my mother following me as I went to school. I remember this particularly because I heard the sound of bangles which Indian women wear on their wrists. At first I would look back half frightened, and I saw the vague form of her dress and part of her face. This happened almost always when I went out of the house.

Narianiah confirmed that Krishna saw his dead mother:

We are in the habit of putting on a leaf, a portion of the food prepared for the household, and placing it near the spot where the deceased was lying, and we did so accordingly in the case of my wife. Between 9 and 10 a.m. of the third day, Krishna was going to have his bath. He went into the bathroom, and had only poured a few lotas of water over his head, when he came running out, unclothed [though wearing a loin cloth] and dripping wet. The house in which I lived at Cudappah was a long, narrow house, the rooms running one at the back of the other like the compartments of a train. As Krishna passed me running from the bathroom, I caught his hand and asked him what was the matter. The boy said his mother had been in the bathroom with him, and as she came out he accompanied her to see what she was going to do. I then said: ‘Don’t you remember that your mother was carried to the burning ground?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I remember, but I want to see where she is going now.’ I let him go and followed him. He went to the third room and stopped. Here was the place where my wife’s saris used to be stretched for drying overnight. Krishna stood intently gazing at something, and I asked him what was going on. He said, ‘My mother is removing her wet clothes, and putting on dry ones.’ He then went into the next room, and sat down near the leaf on which the food was placed. I stood by him some minutes, and he said his mother was eating. By and by he arose and went towards the stairs, and still I followed him. He stopped half-way up, and said he couldn’t see her any more. Then we sat down together and I questioned him as to how she looked, and whether she spoke to him. He said she looked just as usual, and had not spoken to him.

After his wife’s death Narianiah took a few months’ leave and returned to Madanapalle for the sake of the children’s health; when he resumed service again he was able to remain there until his retirement. Krishna and Nitya were both admitted on January 17, 1907, to the High School at Madanapalle which they attended until January 1909.

About two miles from their house was a lonely hill with a temple on the top and Krishna liked to go up there every day after school. None of the other boys wanted to accompany him, as it was a stiff climb over stony ground, but he would often insist on taking Nitya with him. He also liked taking his friends on picnics. As his father was now a District Magistrate, a position of some importance, Krishna’s brothers considered it beneath their dignity to carry the food to the picnic spot; Krishna, who had no such feelings of self-importance, would take the food from the servants and carry it himself.

Narianiah, though an orthodox Brahmin, had been a member of the Theosophical Society since 1882 (Theosophy embraces all religions) and Sanjeevamma had evidently been sympathetic to his ideas, for Krishna recalled that as he was kept so much at home with fever during childhood while his brothers were at school, he often went into her puja room about noon when she would be performing her daily ceremonies, and she would then talk to him about Mrs Annie Besant, one of the leaders of Theosophy who was greatly beloved in India because of the work she had done for Indian education. He also remembered that as well as pictures of the Hindu deities on the walls, there was a photograph of Mrs Besant in Indian dress sitting cross-legged on a chowki covered with a tiger skin.

When Narianiah retired at the end of 1907 at the age of fifty-two on a pension of only Rs. 112 a month, half his former salary, he wrote to Mrs Besant, who was now President of the Theosophical Society, to offer his ‘whole-hearted and full time service’ in any capacity in exchange for free accommodation for himself and his sons in the Compound of the international Headquarters of the Society at Adyar near Madras. He told Mrs Besant that while in Government service he had been in charge of 800 square miles containing 160 villages, and felt he would be able to manage a fairly large estate. He pointed out that he was a widower with four sons, varying in age from fifteen to five, and that as his only daughter was married there was no one but himself to look after the boys. It was Krishna’s eldest brother, Sivaram, who was fifteen. The boy of five, Sadanand, five years younger than Nitya, was mentally deficient.

Mrs Besant turned down his offer on the grounds that there was no school at Adyar nearer than three miles; this would involve the expense of sending the children there in a pony cart, and, anyway, boys would be a disturbing influence in the Compound. Narianiah, undaunted, appealed to her three more times in the next few months. By good luck one of the secretaries of the Society felt in need of an assistant at the end of 1908 and suggested Narianiah for the post. After meeting him at the Theosophical Convention in December, Mrs Besant at last agreed to accept his services, and on January 23, 1909, he moved to Adyar with his four sons and a nephew. Sivaram joined the Presidency College in Madras in preparation for a medical career, while Krishna, Nitya and their cousin went to the Pennathur Subramanian High School at Mylapore, walking the three miles there and back every day. Little Sadanand was neither physically nor mentally well enough to go to school at all.

As there was no house available inside the Compound, the family lived just outside it in a dilapidated cottage with no indoor sanitation. Narianiah’s sister, who had quarrelled with her husband, came to stay with them at first to do the cooking and housekeeping, but she seems to have been a slovenly woman and a very bad cook. The boys arrived at Adyar in shocking physical condition. Great credit should be given to Narianiah for his persistence, for if he had not succeeded in getting to Adyar it is very doubtful whether any of his sons would have reached maturity.

2

The Leadbeater Scandal

At the time Narianiah went to live at Adyar, the Theosophical Society estate already comprised some 260 acres on the south side of the wide Adyar river, just south of Madras, with a mile of river frontage and half a mile of private beach. The Headquarters building, standing on the bank of the river and consisting of library, Convention hall, shrine-room, offices, guest rooms and suites of rooms for the leaders of the Society, is virtually unchanged today. A path leading from it direct to the sea still passes through a coconut grove, and then under the arches of Adyar’s famous banyan tree, the second largest in India, to come out at the wide stretch of sandy beach where the river flows into the Bay of Bengal. In the perfect winter climate there can be few places in the world more beautiful than Adyar.

The Headquarters building was once a modest Anglo-Indian house called Huddlestone’s Gardens flanked by two octagonal pavilions. This, together with twenty-seven acres of land, was bought for £600 in 1882 by the first President of the Society, Colonel Olcott. Gradually, adjoining properties were acquired, new houses built and old ones re-built to accommodate the growing number of Theosophical residents and visitors. These houses and properties, together with a printing press, communal Hindu kitchen and a small farm, were incorporated into one great compound. Huddlestone’s Gardens itself has been so altered and enlarged that nothing can be discerned of the original house but the two pavilions.

After Mrs Besant became President in 1907, members of the Society were encouraged to build themselves houses to occupy whenever they visited Adyar, on the understanding that in their absence she could dispose of the accommodation as she chose, and that on their deaths the buildings became the property of the Society.

The Theosophical Society had been founded in America in 1875 by Colonel Henry Steel Olcott, a veteran of the Civil War who was interested in spiritualism and mesmerism, and Madame Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, the notorious Russian, considered by her enemies to be a complete fraud, and worshipped by her adherents as a seer and miracle-worker whose occult powers derived from the highest spiritual source. The Society had three objects: 1. To form a nucleus of the Universal Brotherhood of Humanity without distinction of race, creed, sex, caste or colour; 2. To encourage the study of Comparative Religion, Philosophy and Science; 3. To investigate the unexplained laws of nature and the powers latent in man. The headquarters of the Society was moved in 1882 from America to the more spiritual climate of India, and from there Theosophy rapidly spread throughout the world.

Olcott, who was forty-three when the Society was founded, was its President, but it was Madame Blavatsky, a year older, who was the inspiration for its Eastern or esoteric heart, culled from the ancient wisdom of several religions—virtually a society within the Society, the great difference being that whereas members of the public were encouraged to join the outer organisation, only Theosophists of two years’ standing could apply for membership of the Esoteric Section and were not accepted unless they had done some work for the Society. (Narianiah was a member of the E.S., as it was called, and it was as assistant to the Recording Secretary of the E.S. that he had been allowed to come to Adyar.)

Inherent in this inner teaching was a belief in evolution through a series of lives to ultimate perfection, when the ego, the soul, is released from the wheel of karma, that inexorable law...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Copyright
• Title Page
• Contents
• Foreword
• 1 Birth and Childhood
• 2 The Leadbeater Scandal
• 3 The Discovery
• 4 First Initiation
• 5 First Teaching
• 6 In England
• 7 Legal Guardianship
• 8 The Lawsuit
• 9 ‘The Herald of the Star’
• 10 Doubts and Difficulties
• 11 Cramming
• 12 After the War
• 13 Life in Paris
• 14 Critical and Rebellious
• 15 In Love
• 16 Return to India
• 17 Trouble in Sydney
• 18 The Turning Point
• 19 The Process Begins
• 20 The Process Intensified
• 21 Climax of the Process
• 22 Teaching at Pergine
• 23 ‘The Travelling Circus’
• 24 Fears for Nitya
• 25 The Self-appointed Apostles
• 26 The First Manifestation
• 27 The Kingdom of Happiness
• 28 ‘The World Teacher is Here’
• 29 Liberation
• 30 Revolutionary Pronouncements
• 31 The River into the Sea
• 32 ‘Everyone will give me up’
• 33 ‘Truth is a Pathless Land’
• 34 The Full Flower
• Postscript
• Chronology
• Notes and Sources
• Illustrations
• Back Cover