SHYAMDAS 1953-2013 IN MEMORIAM
SHYAMDAS 1953-2013 IN MEMORIAM SHYAMDAS 1953-2013 IN MEMORIAM
OUR LAST DATE ALLY GOPI KREIM SHYAMDAS'S PARTNER On the 19th of January, as we walked hand in hand along the beach, like we had been doing every day since arriving in Goa a couple of weeks earlier, Shyamdasji seemed, as was his normal bhava, completely elusive about what the future would hold. I hardly knew what was going to happen three minutes into the future with Shyamdasji, because each moment was complete and always filled with richness. The future was never the focus, but it would never be anything less than miraculous with him. On this particular evening, we were invited to a showing of our friend Krishna’s documentary of Buddhist pilgrimages filmed all over India. Shyamdas had one manoratha (heart’s desire) for going. He said, “I want to show you the sunset from Anders’ home.” Anders is an old friend of Shyam’s, a gentleman from Denmark who has a beautiful abode outside of Arambol in Goa. “But we shouldn’t go until after dinner,” I said, since they were planning on having a non-vegetarian meal and I wanted to protect Shyamdasji from having to experience that. “I don’t care, I want you to see the sunset view from his home,” Shyam replied. As we continued walking up the beach, we ran into our deeply dear soul brother, Kabir Das, who humorously and eloquently recounted the events of his glorious day in Goa to Shyamdas and me. Kabir had Shyam almost rolling in the sands laughing with so much appreciation and fascination. The conversation soon concluded with Kabir’s blessings for us to go and check out the documentaries that night at Anders’. We continued on our way back up the beach to the Mandrem Beach Resort, where our usual nightly kirtan beckoned, with gorgeous, familiar souls in a circle, singing the various, delicious names of Bhagavan. Shyamdas paused, standing just by the side of the circle of 14 Special Issue • Shyamdas ~ In Memoriam Shyamdas and Ally Gopi at Śrī Gusainjī’s Baithak, Belvan kirtaniyas, in deep appreciation and childlike curiosity, almost as if it was the first kirtan he had ever witnessed. He sang along for a brief moment, leaning back, throwing his hands out to the side in a familiar bhava-filled posture Shyam was known to take from time to time, before we continued on our way back to our room to gather our things for the evening. Since we were as usual sidetracked with the various love filled dramas always manifesting around Shyamdasji, we were late to catch the sunset, but we did in fact miraculously arrive at Anders’ home just in time to see the last rays emanating from the dimly lit horizon, over the inlet river below Anders’ wide open home. As I gazed softly out upon this darshan Shyamdasji had so sweetly dreamt up, my heart melted in gratitude for knowing this unbelievable gentleman, whose pure heart’s desires seemed to always manifest for him, since they were coming from such a potent place deep within him. We didn’t stay long once the sun went down, for the dinner party was about to commence. We rode into Arambol, a town about ten minutes south of Anders’ home, and Shyam parked on the street across from a restaurant I had never been to before, called Magic Carpet. This was only the second time we had eaten at a restaurant in our three months in India. We walked into the silent, surprisingly peaceful, widespread vegan heaven. Looking around, I was thoroughly impressed by the sattvic décor and the people sitting in the sands taking their meals from low tables dimly lit by candles. As I looked up towards the front of the restaurant and saw a flourishing Tulsi plant contently blessing the arena, I reflected, “Wow Shyam, this is your type of restaurant.” “Yeah, they even have kirtans and yoga events here,” he affirmed.
We sat down in a cozy, quiet corner by the counter, so that Shyam could have easy access to ask for more goods from the cooks. On the rare occasions he did decide to go out, he would always get so deeply involved with the whole lila, inquiring about every detail of how and what would be offered. He was a high maintenance wallah, I would say, in these types of settings. We decided on two chocolate milkshakes and a few slices of German bread as our incredibly romantic mercy meal for the evening, and I filled in the space with a lot of chit chat, Shyam doing almost all of the listening. He held an unusual type of silence I had never really felt from him before. I went on and on about the incredible hospitality of Indian culture, how people welcome you into their oneroom home, give you everything they have, and ask you to stay forever, and how we as Westerners have a lot to learn from this country. Shyam just quietly listened, nodding his head, and ordering more of that German bread. Shyam had an incredible way of honoring my not-so-great ideas, like bread slices for our last meal together. He would order more just to shower my pathetic little desires with so much grace. A perfect gentleman. It’s seriously the little things that eternally pierce the heart. Soon we had our fill from the Magic Carpet, and Shyamdas and I headed back to Anders’ home for what we thought was going to be a viewing of Buddhist pilgrimages, but when we arrived and assessed the scene, we found that the hard drive which stored the documentaries was malfunctioning. There was a lot of energy around the computer to try and get the thing to work. We all ultimately gave up fussing over the technology and just sat down for satsang with Shyamdasji and a circle of friends at the dinner table: Andy, Krishna, Ira, Sophia, Anders, Janna, and Mohan. As our friend Andy expounded upon historical highlights of Buddhism and how it morphed, expanded, and influenced souls in India, Krishna spoke about the sacredness of being within a pilgrimage, and Shyamdasji shared anecdotes of his unique experiences living in this sacred land. The conversation was deep, filled with great bhava and enlightening information. After a couple of hours of discussion, the group felt in synchronicity the wave to move the lila along, to say our Radhe Radhe’s, and dissipate into the night. As I went to grab my purse and say goodbye to everyone, I looked up by the door, and there was Shyamdasji, eleven steps in front of me as always, waving me to come to him with his left hand raised and his right hand by his side, looking quite familiar in that divine rupa, almost like Śrī Nāthjī Himself, a form very beloved to him. We headed out to the driveway with a small group of the satsang, and Shyamdasji and I boarded our motorbike and began our way back home. Our friends, Sophia, Janna and Andy were getting into a taxi van that left just ten minutes after we did. Shyam and I both took so much joy from these night rides on the motorbike, the soft cool breeze along our faces and bodies, the darshan of Goa’s peculiar yet beautiful scenery, its personality accentuated by its colorful, European style houses amongst huge and numerous banyan trees, and people from all different places around the world, Indians, Russians, Americans, Danes, etc. all adding to the unique allure of this realm. We would watch it all, like a movie reel, together, in silent appreciation, as we flowed so easily onwards. But on this particular night, the Lord had some special plans. We were just about to enter into the town of Arambol and were going around a turn in the road when the single headlight of an oncoming motorbike shone directly in our gaze. At that moment, I felt like we entered into a deep, dreamlike state. Shyam steered to the right to avoid contact with that oncoming motorcycle, and we came down onto our right sides. We both sat up immediately, fully conscious and alive. I could see out of my left eye fine, and I saw that Shyam was also sitting beside me in the road, Indian style. I called out to him, “Shyam! Are you okay?” He softly replied, “Yeah.” Within what seemed like moments, our friends got out of their taxi and came over to us. Sophia saw that we were okay and were able to get ourselves up, so she called Anders to come with his Jeep. He was there within five minutes. We got ourselves into his car, and he took us directly to the nearest hospital, Vrindavan Hospital, about thirty minutes away. Anders was driving, Mohan was in the passenger seat, Shyam and I were in the middle seats, and Sophia was sitting behind us, holding our bodies from moving too much from the bumpy roads. Shyam was silent. I was quietly whispering, “Shri Krishnah Sharanam Mama" – "Shri Krishna is my refuge,” and Shyam’s hand found mine as we traveled onwards. Upon arriving at the hospital, we entered into the first floor examination room, where they separated us. My last sight of our beloved Shyamdasji was of him plopping himself down on one of the examination beds like he usually does, with full throttle and fearless energy. But at that point, his breath became heavier, so they took him immediately up into the ICU on a higher floor. They hooked me up to an IV and started probing and prodding, X-raying – you know, the whole hospital lila, but all I wanted to know was where Shyam was and if he was okay. Sophia eventually came back to me and told me that, “Shyam is fine,” with full conviction in her voice. I was able to eventually fall asleep after all of the X-rays and all of the injections to satisfy the junior doctors on call that night. I dreamt the sweetest dream of Shyamdasji checking out of the hospital, looking rather lean and young, and calling out to me from the checkout desk, “Let’s go.” I awoke to Sophia’s voice. She told me to get up and come sit in a wheelchair. She said, “Listen to me. Shyamdas has passed away.” And the lila goes on. I can’t fully express all of the incredibly miraculous events that validate this truly divine soul’s passing and which continue to reverberate the magical mystery of his life. It’s beyond description. He’s beyond description. What else can we say, besides, Jai Jai Sri Radhe! Jai Jai Sri Radhe! Jai Jai Sri Radheeeeeee! Shyaaaaammmm! January 2013 15
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- Page 17 and 18: Leading Kirtan at Bhakti Fest Midwe
- Page 19 and 20: samādhi, they returned home. They
- Page 21 and 22: “To awaken the wives of the gods,
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- Page 25 and 26: offering. A short while later, Rasa
- Page 27 and 28: Brahmaváda philosophy, in which ev
- Page 29 and 30: universal destruction, “Go and si
- Page 31 and 32: YAMUNA’S STORY SHYAMDAS few years
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- Page 35 and 36: joy of His own Being. And it was th
OUR LAST DATE<br />
ALLY GOPI KREIM<br />
<strong>SHYAMDAS</strong>'S PARTNER<br />
On the 19th of January, as we walked hand in hand<br />
along the beach, like we had been doing every day since<br />
arriving in Goa a couple of weeks earlier, Shyamdasji seemed,<br />
as was his normal bhava, completely elusive about what the<br />
future would hold. I hardly knew what was going to happen<br />
three minutes into the future with Shyamdasji, because each<br />
moment was complete and always filled with richness. The<br />
future was never the focus, but it would never be anything less<br />
than miraculous with him.<br />
On this particular evening, we were invited to a showing<br />
of our friend Krishna’s documentary of Buddhist pilgrimages<br />
filmed all over India. Shyamdas had one manoratha (heart’s<br />
desire) for going. He said, “I want to show you the sunset<br />
from Anders’ home.” Anders is an old friend of Shyam’s, a<br />
gentleman from Denmark who has a beautiful abode outside<br />
of Arambol in Goa.<br />
“But we shouldn’t go until after dinner,” I said, since they<br />
were planning on having a non-vegetarian meal and I wanted<br />
to protect Shyamdasji from having to experience that.<br />
“I don’t care, I want you to see the sunset view from his<br />
home,” Shyam replied. As we continued walking up the beach,<br />
we ran into our deeply dear soul brother, Kabir Das, who humorously<br />
and eloquently recounted the events of his glorious<br />
day in Goa to Shyamdas and me. Kabir had Shyam almost<br />
rolling in the sands laughing with so much appreciation and<br />
fascination. The conversation soon concluded with Kabir’s<br />
blessings for us to go and check out the documentaries that<br />
night at Anders’. We continued on our way back up the beach<br />
to the Mandrem Beach Resort, where our usual nightly kirtan<br />
beckoned, with gorgeous, familiar souls in a circle, singing the<br />
various, delicious names of Bhagavan.<br />
Shyamdas paused, standing just by the side of the circle of<br />
14 Special Issue • Shyamdas ~ In Memoriam<br />
Shyamdas and Ally Gopi at Śrī Gusainjī’s Baithak, Belvan<br />
kirtaniyas, in deep appreciation and childlike curiosity, almost<br />
as if it was the first kirtan he had ever witnessed. He sang<br />
along for a brief moment, leaning back, throwing his hands<br />
out to the side in a familiar bhava-filled posture Shyam was<br />
known to take from time to time, before we continued on our<br />
way back to our room to gather our things for the evening.<br />
Since we were as usual sidetracked with the various love<br />
filled dramas always manifesting around Shyamdasji, we were<br />
late to catch the sunset, but we did in fact miraculously arrive<br />
at Anders’ home just in time to see the last rays emanating<br />
from the dimly lit horizon, over the inlet river below Anders’<br />
wide open home.<br />
As I gazed softly out upon this darshan Shyamdasji had so<br />
sweetly dreamt up, my heart melted in gratitude for knowing<br />
this unbelievable gentleman, whose pure heart’s desires<br />
seemed to always manifest for him, since they were coming<br />
from such a potent place deep within him.<br />
We didn’t stay long once the sun went down, for the dinner<br />
party was about to commence. We rode into Arambol, a<br />
town about ten minutes south of Anders’ home, and Shyam<br />
parked on the street across from a restaurant I had never been<br />
to before, called Magic Carpet. This was only the second time<br />
we had eaten at a restaurant in our three months in India. We<br />
walked into the silent, surprisingly peaceful, widespread vegan<br />
heaven. Looking around, I was thoroughly impressed by the<br />
sattvic décor and the people sitting in the sands taking their<br />
meals from low tables dimly lit by candles. As I looked up<br />
towards the front of the restaurant and saw a flourishing Tulsi<br />
plant contently blessing the arena, I reflected, “Wow Shyam,<br />
this is your type of restaurant.”<br />
“Yeah, they even have kirtans and yoga events here,” he affirmed.
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