The Sage and the Housewife

This book brings a whiff of fresh air in an atmosphere infested with self-proclaimed godmen, gurus and pseudo-religious seekers. If you like to tread a path of adventure, risking your pet beliefs, assumed certainties and habitual hypocrisies, you will love this unique work by a simple and ordinary housewife. Her spontaneous encounters with the enigmatic sage are full of wit and humor. The amusing episodes transport you to newer heights of crystal-clear vision of yourself. U.G.'s straightforward but ego-shattering statements give you no scope to duck out of real life situations, leaving you to face life as it comes. Within these pages, U.G. Krishnamurti emerges not as a guru or a godman dishing out homilies and commandments but a person in flesh and blood. He is a zen master without a school and at large. But there is something about him which defies description. Nevertheless, the readers cannot fail to notice the freshness and vitality of his words which seem to spring from a sourc

I hope my memory stands by me like a faithful companion as I relive before you, the reader, some of my more memorable moments in the company of that enigmatic philosopher, U.G. Krishnamurti. I met this man in the course of my long, arduous adventure on the so-called spiritual path, in an attempt to thrash out the burning questions in my mind. I listened to every sort of lecture given by every sort of holy man. I attended talks by saffron-robed messiahs, bearded sannyasins, and wise acharyas. But I succeeded only in intensifying my frustration. I was exhausted and confused. My tears replaced my prayers, and all my supplications to the Omniscient and Omnipotent God to please show himself were to no avail. Finally, I came across the book, I Am That , a volume of translated interviews with Nisargadatta Maharaj. With my adoption of this teaching I felt sure I had at last reached the end of my spiritual search, that really there was nothing left to do. I thought I had gone far beyond any mer

I had heard that U.G. was once again in Bangalore, and, happy as a lark, I jumped into the first taxi I could find to rush to his place in Poornakuti. With Chandrasekhar home on leave, Nagaraj on his way, and some Germans and an American visiting there, I was sure it would be a merry get together. Half expecting him to be out playing tour guide to his Western friends, I was delighted to find him and the others at home. Chandrasekhar was taping his poetry and singing with all his might. I drifted upstairs and found U.G. trying to coax Valentine into something warm to fight the evening chill. He remarked that she was becoming slightly violent, not a very good sign. The next day I arrived with my kids, Prashant and Mittu, at Poornakuti. U.G. was to leave the next day for Bombay. We found U.G. upstairs in the big room, which was converted into what he called his “office,” talking with one of his visitors. We brought him some pepper papads, which he insisted on tasting at once. He soon turn