STUDIO ROBERT C. SMIT

Every image of UG is always the wrong one

FILOSOFIE

DIFFERENT FROM ALL THE WINDS

OF HEAVEN

I arrived at UG’s doorstep at 6 o'clock in the morning, feeling quite tipsy and still hearing the rhythm of the monotonous disco tune “Funky Town” on my lips.

UG was already waiting near the garden door, and when he saw me, he opened it to let me in. He went into the kitchen and prepared a nice breakfast for me. Unfortunately I did not really feel comfortable with UG’s caring that morning as I felt I didn't deserve it. So I mumbled a vague excuse that I felt sorry for not being so fit and ready, that I had spent a late night at the disco in the Palace Hotel, and that, anyway, I didn't have much appetite. The previous night, I had celebrated with some friends the honor of being privileged to drive UG to Milan that day in my own car.

The previous afternoon, UG had announced to everyone that he would be absent for the next two or three days. He had to take care of some things about his visa; and also the talking and answering questions became too much of a chore for him these days. He had planned to travel by train, and when I offered to drive him by car, at first he rejected the idea. After a while, however, he thought it was a good idea, but on one condition: no crowds, that is, no fellow-travelers. There was surely no need for him to worry about this because my small Citroen-Ami delivery van had only two front seats. Since I had almost run out of my holiday budget money, I asked UG to pay for the petrol.

And so this great honor was celebrated to an excess, until the disco closed at a late hour. Then the night’s cold weather made me suddenly remember the reason for this celebration: my appointment with UG at six in the morning in his chalet. Because of the duration of the journey, we had planned to leave this early. With a shock I realized that it was three o'clock in the morning already. And I still had to clean up my room -- for this was my last night in that place, to pack my bags and put them into the car. I had only two hours left after that, so I decided to take a refreshing walk along the river. Were I to go to sleep then, I would surely not wake up in time.

UG had offered me a cup of hot tea. '”You drink this, it will do you good,” he suggested in a friendly fashion. The tea tasted wonderful, “perhaps because of UG’s all-forgiving grace he might have put into it,” I volunteered with my muddled brains. As soon as I had finished sipping the tea and quenched my thirst, UG took the empty cup to the kitchen and washed it. Then we left.

After we drove for an hour or so, the sun began to beam his warmth through the valleys and into the car, and the downside of my nightly dissipation became sickly evident:

I had to fight against an overpowering lethargy. My eyes were lazily registering the winding mountain road and my hands and feet needed all their experience to keep the car on the road. The higher we got into the Alps, the more troubled my ears got by the change of atmospheric pressure. The boring, dull conversation that I reeled off -- already lacking any uplifting quality -- was now spoken with a most unpleasant nasal sound. I only dared to continue my stuff and nonsense after we had left the highest mountain peaks far behind us, having descended along deep ravines into regions where the air- and ear-pressure became comfortable again.

The threat of those deep ravines right next to the road made me ask UG whether he was comfortable. He answered in a rather animated fashion by complimenting on the car-seats: “It’s a Citroen, hmm? A small car, yes, but the seats are very comfortable.” I expressed my fear of the car tumbling down into the yawning chasm. UG assured me that he never worried about those things and even appreciated my driving saying that “it might not be so easy if you haven't slept whole night.”

As one can imagine, I was surprised by this gracious forgiveness. To depict the situation more accurately, I must reveal a little secret behind this UG’s easy and relaxed surrender: The ancient Rishis of India had predicted (in the nadi) that UG would “live right up to a ripe old age.” So, however hazardous or risky his situation might appear to be, God himself would keep an all-seeing eye on his “Chosen One,” especially on these mountain ridges. Even the driver was no longer afraid his car crashing at the bottom of some rocky canyon. Nevertheless, it’s a miracle to me why UG accepted this negligent chauffeur.

At the Swiss-Italian frontier we took a short break to stretch our legs. Due to the unpleasant after-effects of my celebration compounded by the terribly hot weather, I didn't even have the energy to get out of the car; so I leaned back in the seat. UG didn't have any problem with the tropical temperature; he looked relaxed. He walked to the shop near the petrol station and after sometime, came back with a big roll of chips and some sweets. Sitting next to me in the sweltering hot car, he tore off the roll of chips and let the package paper whirl out of the open window. “You want some of these?” UG asked me as he started munching his chips, and without waiting for my “No thank you,” he put some of his unappetizing chips in my hand. Half-heartedly I put them in my mouth and ate them listlessly. Yah! How stale and dull they tasted! I thought UG was keen on the quality of his food. To me the quality of these chips was not really great. But even before we had left the parking-place, he finished off three quarters of the chip roll! Well, about tastes there is no disputing – I’m certainly not with “One of the Great Teachers of Mankind.”

It took us two more hours of suffering the oppressive highway before we arrived in Milan. Somewhere in the centre of the city UG went into a tourist information bureau to ask about a hotel and a few minutes later he emerged with a map rolled up in his hands. Turning it round and round, he walked down the busy street. I stayed in the car, feeling completely knocked out, but very happy to have arrived without trouble and be here with UG. In this satisfaction I rested for half an hour before UG had returned. He could not find a suitable hotel; so, we had to get into the chaotic traffic again. Eventually, at about three o'clock, the trip had been completed, right in front of a luxurious hotel.

UG was speaking to the receptionist in a language sounding somewhat like Italian. When I asked him about it, he smiled and said: “Well, they were just some sounds; that’s all.” “Yes, but I thought you only spoke English sounds, UG.” “Not even those,” replied UG in jest. Anyway, within five minutes he and I each had a nice room. UG suggested that I should rest for a while, to catch up with my sleep, while he himself would give free rein to his passion for window shopping. We would meet in the evening and then go downtown.

Having enjoyed a quick and refreshing bath, I went to bed. Although I couldn't sleep, two hours of relaxation made me overcome most of my tiredness.

It was so special walking together with UG in the illuminated Milan shopping streets hovered by twilight. Actually, it was lovely, terrific! Truly incredible: millions of faithful followers worship their giant Jesus or baffling Buddha, and they would certainly spend a fortune merely to catch a glimpse of their saviors’ dead bodies; and here I am, loafing around with such a living and lively Superstar. I was window shopping with the Savior of Mankind, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world!

UG must have detected my sentimental admiration for him; he stopped abruptly right in front of a shop window. When I stepped back to him, I saw his eyes were fixed on something in the shop window -- a mobile chemical toilet made of plastic. Realizing the odd facts of the actual situation, my romantic and pious reveries were beaten to a frazzle and had to make room for a funny memory from the School of Philosophy in Amsterdam. In this institute the tutors routinely recited a certain ancient shloka in a terribly serious and deadly tone:

When a realized person walks, he merely walks;

when a realized person looks,

he merely looks -- without any distraction

in his entire consciousness.

Amused, I wondered whether, according to this rigidly repeated verse, a realized person was allowed merely to feel attracted by some 20th-century synthetic mobile toilet.

After nightfall, we were lounging in a big shopping centre, and UG invited me for a pizza in a snack bar. They had pizzas with anchovy and without anchovy. UG ordered a pizza without fish for himself, because, as he said, he couldn't stand the smell of anchovies. I asked for the same. When UG had almost finished his pizza, I only took my first bite of the delicacy and distinctly tasted the strong anchovy. I asked UG whether he had not tasted something like fish. He stopped chewing and abruptly got a ‘fishy’ expression on his face! Then a quick run to the nearest garbage bin and the ‘Master of the Senses’ vomited some nice lumps of masticated pizza -- with anchovy!

A few days later, after returning to Gstaad, a friend of UG told me a story concerning another odd incident involving UG in Milan. She said: “When UG had entered his hotel room, he saw a freshening-up sachet on the table, and since he liked to refresh himself, he opened it and mopped his face with the odorous tissue -- anyway, that was what he thought he did. But when he looked into the mirror, he saw that it was no lotion but shoe polish shining on his ‘enlightened’ face!

A more constructive, sincere policy of impressing a man’s devotees is to express the reality of the inner man. Since there is no conflict between UG’s inner and outer face, he was not at all embarrassed by any shoe-shine appearance (nor should anyone be). Probably the most intelligent way of facing such unexpected situations is not to reject them, but to use them to adjust our plastic images of wisdom.

Next morning, after having my breakfast (UG didn't have any breakfast, for he hadn’t gotten to trust Italian food yet!), we walked to the travel agencies to find out if they had any reasonably priced round-the-world tickets. UG planned to fly from Switzerland via USA to India. Unfortunately no travel agencies were open yet. Back at the hotel, UG paid the bill, while I brought the luggage into the car and replaced the cassette recorder under the dashboard. All the windows of the car were opened, and UG’s comfortable seat of the Citroen-Ami cheerfully sagged under his weight as we rode out of the town and took the highway back to Gstaad.

Held up by a tailback near the frontier, we were riding slowly and quietly. I turned on the music of Carlos Paredes on the cassette player. The brilliant melodies played by this master guitarist reminded UG of the holy hymns of the Vedas. As a boy he had to listen to those chants over and over again. Hence I presupposed that he certainly would like this up-to-date version. However, after a few minutes, UG was twiddling the buttons of the recorder. “Are you already bored by your guitar-based Vedas?” I asked him. He smiled. So, I changed the cassette: “Crisis, What Crisis,” performed by Super Tramp, now filled the car with its striking tune. One thing I couldn't have presumed at this pleasant moment was that the ‘Crisis’ would soon have a reference to my personal situation.

It was already getting to be evening when we arrived at UG’s Chalet Sunbeam. On the whole the journey had been rather exhausting, and I felt very happy to be back after all that driving. I put the car in the parking place behind the house, helped UG step out and took his luggage out of the trunk. With the idea that we would have a nice cup of tea together after our Italian adventure, I already followed him down the path to the front side of the house. But UG abruptly interrupted my sentimental tea-illusion, saying "Yes, thank you. Bye-Bye!" Whereupon he walked to the other side of the house, alone, and without looking back even once! I had to leave.

Dazed, hurt and terribly lonesome all at once, I stepped into my dear Ami and left UG’s place. Driving the car down the hill, I reached the main road and following it I arrived in Saanen, a friendly village near Gstaad. Luckily I found a cheap room. But alas, its ceiling was very low, so even my own room made me bow down!

. . . Prostrated, I lay down on the bed (which was too short for my length), musing upon my contribution to the propagation of the uniqueness of this Mysterious Being called UG Krishnamurti.

It was only a cold comfort that one of the passages in the Holy Scriptures provided me with: the Kena Upanishad expresses how even the gods themselves had trouble with that Mysterious Being:

Then the gods said to Vayu, the Air-god,

“Find out who that Mysterious Being is.”

“So be it,” he said and rushed toward It.

The Mysterious Being asked Vayu who he was,

and Vayu answered: “I am Air, also called Wind,”

Then the Mysterious Being asked: “What power is in you?”

“I am the air and I can blow away all on this earth.”

The Mysterious Being placed a blade of grass before him, saying:

“Blow away this straw.”

Vayu rushed toward it with all speed,

but could not blow it away.

Then Vayu stormed back to the gods,

confessing he could not find out

what this Mysterious Being was.

Ik had een potsierlijke associatie met de Filosofieschool waar de tutoren opdreunden: ‘Als een wijs mens loopt,

loopt hij alleen; als een wijs mens kijkt, kijkt hij alleen’; geamuseerd vroeg ik me af of er in hun strenge interpretatie

van dat wijze versje wel ruimte genoeg overbleef voor ‘alleen maar kijken’ naar een ordinaire poepdoos!