A young girl Tatiana Aya Tupinamba hailing from Brazil leaves New York, for Peru to look for a master to whom nature speaks in the documentary "Curandera". What she learned from her master Juan Flores was the importance of silence and quietude. She has a dream in which an old African man tells her that "the most important thing you can do in your life is to touch people's lives."
J. Krishnamurti, in his last days, is said to have been silent. The transcript from the video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=310LHMb9tgg goes as follows.
He was not a philosopher in the traditional sense. He was not a mystic, nor a preacher, nor a holy man wrapped in the robes of tradition. He was something else, entirely something unnameable, a presence, a flame, a whisper in the wind, that asked only one thing of you - to look not with the eyes of knowledge, not with the eyes of belief, but with eyes washed clean of yesterday.
He was seen by the Theosophical Society as the vehicle for a coming world teacher. They clothed him, trained him, and revered him. They gave him everything a messiah could ever need except perhaps the freedom to be. And one day, he gave it all back. In 1929, in a moment now echoing through the corridors of history, Krishnamurti stood before thousands and dissolved the very organization created to promote him. In a calm and unwavering voice, he said, "Truth is a pathless land, and you cannot approach it by any path, whatsoever by any religion, by any sect." It was more than a rebellion. It was a revolution in consciousness.
From that moment on he belonged to no one. No country. No religion. No system of belief. He walked alone and invited others not to follow him but to walk alone as well.
For over six decades, he traveled the world not as a teacher with answers but as a mirror that refused to flatter. He asked questions that cut deep. Questions that tore through the illusions we build our lives upon. He spoke in tents in India, universities in Europe, halls in America and under olive trees and quiet gardens. He asked, "Can you observe without naming? Can you look at a tree, a thought, a wound without bringing the past into it? Can you live without comparison, without becoming, without fear? He asked not for belief but for insight. Not for obedience but for freedom. Not for worship but for attention. And always he returned to silence. Not the silence of withdrawal but the silence that is born when the noise of thoughts subsides. A silence that is not created but revealed. A silence that is.
He was not easy to listen to. He made no promises. He offered no comfort. He never said do this and you will be saved. He said see. He said listen. He said you are the world. In his presence, many felt something strange. Not holiness. Not awe but an unsettling clarity as if all mass had fallen away. And there was only this - A human being fully awake looking into you.
His life was simple. A small house. A garden. Long walks. Conversations with friends. The scent of flowers in the air. He loved nature not sentimentally but deeply. He watched the movement of trees. The stillness of mountains. The flight of birds not as symbols but as revelations of beauty that asked for nothing.
And so the years passed. The body aged. The hair turned silver. The voice became softer but the flame did not waver. The light never dimmed. Then in the final season of his life at the age of 90, J. Krishnamurti was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, a silent illness, a quiet erosion of the physical body but not of the mind. Not of awareness. Even as his body weakened, he remained alert, present deeply watchful. He continued to meet with close friends to speak in whispers that carried the same sharpness. The same fire. There was no fear in him. No sense of tragedy. No clinging to the known. He had spent his entire life preparing for this without preparing. Dying each day to thought. To memory. To identity. He had often said "To live is to die every day. To die to the past. To die to the self. To die to everything that is not love. And now death was not a visitor. It had come to stay. But for him it was not the end. Not an event. It was simply the unfolding of what had always been. An unknowable mystery. Not to be conquered but to be embraced. In a small house in Ohio, California, as the winter sun cast its soft glow over the hills, he lay resting. There were no crowds. No ceremony. Just a handful of close companions, some of whom had walked beside him for decades. They sat in silence not out of reverence but because there was nothing left to say.
Shortly before he passed J. Krishnamurti gave a final statement. No one can represent me. Nobody. Never. You can get into a mess if you do. You have to be a light to yourself in a world that is utterly becoming dark. It was not an instruction. Not a warning. It was a final gift.And then on February 17th 1986 as evening descended he slipped away quietly, gently, without drama. There was no ritual. No chanting. No final declaration. Only silence. And in that silence something immense was present. Not a man. Not a teaching. Not a legacy but stillness itself. The very thing he had always pointed to.
He was 90 years old. But such a being does not end because he never claimed a beginning. He had once said "I do not mind if I die tomorrow. I have lived. I have seen the stars. I have heard the song of the birds. I have touched the sacred." And so he left. Not behind a following. Not behind a school but behind a living question: Can you be a light to yourself? Can you see without distortion? Can you love without fear? He left behind no successor. No system. No path. Only the invitation to begin again: Each moment. Each breath. Each glance at a tree. A bird. A stranger. He is gone but what he pointed to remains. Not in books. Not in temples. But in the quiet awareness of those who dare to look. Who dare to listen. Who dare to be.
If Juan Flores reminds me of Agathiyar to whom the plants and trees spoke, J. Krishnamurti reminds me of Tavayogi in every way. He also reminds me of the messages that Agathiyar gave me and had me do. In actuality, all messages are one. But man chooses to glorify each path and master, and eventually goes to war with each other.