Also present at this interview was Mary Zimbalist, one of the monstrous regiment of protective and possessive women who always surrounded Krishnamurti. Before the interview started, I asked him if I could smoke. (In those days nearly everybody smoked). Mrs Zimbalist said, "He’s allergic to cigarettes." He said, "I will speak for myself, Mary. Most certainly you may smoke."
I lit my cigarette. He started to cough and splutter, almost in a convulsion. I hastily put it out. Mrs Zimbalist glared at me. Krishnamurti had been described as a great teacher. Perhaps this was his way of teaching me.
Later, in India, I got to know him slightly. I was grateful to be able to talk to him privately. He was a beautiful old man, and he carried reassurance in his voice. Whenever we met, I felt soothed: nothing to do with his philosophy. He wrote many books; it was an industry of sorts and has continued after his death. There are now books about him rather than by him. Vernon’s is the latest. Unfortunately it’s little more than a rehash of previous material on him, though better written than most.
Krishnamurti had several affairs with women. A book has been written on his private life. Vernon records this, but also quotes a statement that Krishnamurti made about himself in his last days, which is new to me. It reads, in part, "You won’t find another body like this, or that supreme intelligence operating in a body, for many hundred years."
It somehow does not sound like the person I met in Pupul Jayakar’s house in Delhi. "I only like to read thrillers," he once said to me there. "Pupul does not have any. Can you lend me some? Good! The bloodier the better."
