Do not allow circumstances

To frighten you.

Do not allow situations

To torture you.

Look beyond the appearances.

Yours will be

The unmistakable happiness.

- Sri Chinmoy

"Hi Susameepan." Even though I had called him, I had to start the short greeting twice, as my voice wouldn't hold the first time.

"Apaga, how is he doing?!" Being one of Dipavajan's best friend, he was naturally one of those that I had texted before and therefore he knew that something was going on. He was someone that we had been keeping closely in touch with, since he had also been diagnosed with cancer. Even before Dipavajan had been. And I knew that he would want us to keep him informed, which was why I'd called him.

After a brief run down of the events, Susameepan tried to cheer me up by suggesting that this might all be for the best and that maybe there was a specialist in the hospital that day who would be able to solve even more than just this most urgent problem.

"And he might have a near-death experience, learn to understand what there is to learn and come back..." That had secretly been my hope for a long time. Maybe what had happened today was not a bad thing.

"Yes, maybe." He sounded hopeful, but not too convinced.

Having promised Susameepan to keep him posted I disconnected the call and pulled a small Transcendental out of my backpack.

The minutes trickled by, as I restlessly tried to concentrate on meditating. It was something that Guru had asked us to do whenever a disciple had to go to the hospital: to stay with them and meditate. (For their protection.) The picture emitted a lot of light, but that was something that I was quite used to. To me, it didn't mean anything other than that I had connected with some part of Guru's consciousness.

"Mrs. Renner?" Dread and excitement welling up within me, I followed the nurse through some clean, tiled hallway, into an elevator and onto another floor.

"The doctor will brief you on the situation," she explained, as she led me into a small room. "Please, sit down."

My heart beating in my throat, I quickly slid into the white plastic/metal seat closest to me and expectantly looked at the other three people – all clad in white – who were standing together at the other end of the white table before me. They in turn watched me with sombre expressions.

"Your husband – he is your husband, right?"

I nodded weakly.

"He is in an induced coma and stable for now."

My eyes fixed at the middle-aged doctor with the soothing, deep voice, I was hoping against hope for a bit of good news.

"But I'm telling you frankly that he won't survive the night." The look of compassion on his face – on all their faces – accentuated the hopelessness of the situation.

My heart sank. So, that's it? Just like that? The end of his life? I simply couldn't wrap my head around it. The whole situation seemed so utterly surreal.

Surely, there was a way to operate on him, or something else they could try? "And there's really nothing more you can do? No hope at all for him recovering?" I asked, my voice breaking.

"No. You see, the blood vessel that has been damaged by the cancer has ruptured behind his swollen tongue. We can't get to it. Therefore, we have only managed to stop the bleeding provisionally. But if we were to give him blood, it would just run out again."

But that can't be it! I simply refused to accept that there was nothing they could do. In a way, I respected that they felt that trying to save Dipavajan would just be a waste of time and resources, seeing that he was so very thin, weak and a cancer patient. It was obvious that they had already given up on him. "But what about an operation?" I pleaded.

"As I said, we can't get there. And even if we could, blood vessels that have been invaded by cancer are usually quite frayed and impossible to repair," the doctor replied patiently, while the nurse who had led me there and the other man nodded in agreement.

"And you're positively sure that there is no chance of him surviving?" I asked in a very small voice.

All three shook their heads in unison.

"If you want to, you can see him now," the nurse gently said.

Feeling utterly devastated, tears started streaming down my face. But I made no effort to wipe them away. Why bother.

"Yes, please." My voice was barely audible at that point.

I felt so lost.

So small.

With unsteady hands, I picked up my backpack and the bag that I had prepared for Dipavajan with everything that he would need during his stay in the hospital. And which I would be taking back home with me, unused.

I numbly followed the nurse down the hallway and around some corners, until I finally stepped into a small room that contained a few monitors silently displaying different vital sings, a bed and... my dying husband.

They had done a good job of cleaning him up: bandages concealed the fistula and covered the area around the breathing tube. His skin was blood-free and he looked very peaceful. And healthier than he'd done for ages. A renewed flood of tears streamed down my face. So this was really it?

"Could you please leave me alone?" I was barely able to voice my request.

"Of course. Just so you know, he's quite stable now, so he might be here for another few hours. You can stay with him for as long as you want to. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?

I simply shook my head.

"All right. If you need anything, just ask. We're just across the hallway."

"Okay, thank you."

A moment later, I was alone.

From all the near-death experience stories I had watched, I knew that Dipavajan would most probably be able to hear me. Therefore, after having moved a simple white plastic and metal chair right next to the his bed, I took his hand and addressed him after a long look at his beloved face: "Do you really want to go already?" He was only 54 years old, for God's sake!

The cold, motionless hand that I held tightly between mine did not move. Nor did any other part of him.

Should I create a scene and demand that the doctors try something more – anything? Because this was what the spouses of near-death survivors had often done and which had inspired some of the doctors treating the deathly sick patients to give it one last try or to do something different. Often with seemingly miraculous results.

But I didn't feel any urge to push anybody to do anything. In order to do so, I would have had to force myself into hysteria and fight against the calm, sad acceptance that I was experiencing. And I knew intuitively that doing so would not change anything. It would just rob me of the opportunity to really, consciously be with him during his last moments.

I swallowed hard, biting back the tears. I did not want to make this difficult for him.

"You know, I meant what I told you a few weeks ago: if you really want to go, then go. I won't hold you back." Not that I would have been able to so, anyway. But I knew that this is what the departing souls long to hear.

After some time of just looking at his face I decided to do something a little more useful, to try and create a more spiritual atmosphere in this sterile environment. Therefore, I started singing softly.

First the Invocation, then My Lord Beloved Supreme, Jiban Debata, Akarane Prabhu...

While I was trying to keep my voice steady, I realized just how exhausted I was. From everything that had led to this point, from going from hope to desperation and sadness, from the rollercoaster of emotions I had been through over the last 2 years...

An unwelcome thought popped into my mind: what would I do, if he really stayed the whole night? How would my depleted body be able to deal with it? I guiltily pushed it aside. I would sing for however long I could and then I would see.

Of course, I would never leave his side, but deep inside I was afraid that everything within me would start wishing for him to go at one point, just for the torture to be over.

Again, I pushed the thought away.

I would cross that bridge when I got to it.

In the meantime, I would continue to look at his face intently and try to remain open to the reddish light I was experiencing around his head.

After a few more songs, the door softly opened and the nurse stepped into the room. "Oh, so you have noticed?"

"No?" I turned in my seat to look at her, never letting go of Dipavajan's hand. "What do you mean?"

"He's already left."

"What?!" I really could not believe it. Again I looked at his face, so full of the qualities that were so uniquely him: his charm, his dynamism, his love of life, his spiritual depth...

"NO!!" And I started sobbing uncontrollably.

The nurse looked at me very compassionately and simply opened her arms for a comforting hug.

"I can't believe that he's really gone!" I cried, falling into her embrace.

"I know," she said, holding me close to her.

"But one thing is strange," she added a little later, after I had stepped out of her embrace: "the way he was stable, I would have expected him to linger for at least a few more hours. If not the entire night."

I shook my head and swallowed hard, trying to calm myself down enough to speak: "I told him that he could go."

A look of understanding crossed her face. "Ah, that's why."

"You know," I sobbed, "I'm quite sure that he's now up there, somewhere." I gestured at the ceiling. "Asking me in an exasperated voice: 'You know that I'm happy now. You've watched all these near-death experience videos. So why are you crying?' But-" and I looked up, raising my head, "You do know that this is a bit more difficult down here than it's up there, right?!"

A soft chuckle from the nurse accompanied the end of my outburst.

At that moment, I became suddenly aware of a part of me that was reacting in a very unexpected way: my heart. It was practically bursting with joy. Confused, I tried to make sense of what I was feeling. Are you serious?! I admonished my heart. Is this the time for you to be happy?!" And ‚happy' was even much too weak an expression. ‚Ecstatic' was more like it. But I had no time to dwell on the strange, extreme discrepancy between my mourning emotions and my celebrating heart, since I was still talking to the nurse.

"I've really watched a lot of those. Near death experiences, I mean," I croaked, trying to explain what must have been some strange comments in the ears of the nurse.

The nurse just nodded with understanding.

"I know that he's happy. But it's still so very hard!" By the end of the sentence my voice completely broke and I started sobbing again. The kind of sob that is more a wail and that rakes your whole body.

The intensity of it took me a bit by surprise, even though it probably shouldn't have. I had just lost the physical presence of the person closest to me, after all. I knew that the spiritual was another matter - judging by the reaction of my heart and by everything that I had heard about the nature of life and death from spiritual masters and from all those who had already been to the other side with one foot - but that understanding did not manage to comfort me much at that moment.

Because I couldn't feel him.

Something that I had really expected to be able to do. I'd actually even thought that I might see his subtle body in some way.

Well, it appeared that I was not as sensitive as I'd thought.

When I was able to breathe normally again and the tears had slowed down to a trickle, I looked at the patient nurse. "Well, I've watched all these near-death experience videos from people that had been clinically dead, but returned to life," It was hard for me to speak, due to my clogged nose. "And they all say basically the same thing: that as soon as you leave the body, you feel truly free and happy. All your pain, anxiety and worries have completely disappeared. Then you go towards the light and you experience unconditional love and acceptance. Which is already quite delightful and the reason why those people often don't want to come back. But then you go farther and you realize that the light and love is actually the Divine. Or what we would call 'God'. Finally, you experience yourself as the love, light and the Divine - as everything." I wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

Talking helped a little, as it took my mind away from my intense emotions for a bit. As did concentrating on the positiv topic of 'life after death'. And the big-hearted nurse, who gave me the impression that she had all the time in the world and that there was nowhere she'd rather be than here with me, seemed only too willing to listen.

"Even my own mother-in-law saw herself lying on the floor once, after she had fallen down the stairs. And she told nobody else but my father-in-law about it, as she had never believed in such occurrences. Well, until she experienced it herself, I suppose." I smiled weakly at the thought. "My father-in-law told me about it, but only after she'd died from COPD two years ago. Which is a pity, since I'd have loved to ask her about it." What had been her feelings, her thoughts, as she'd realized that she existed outside of her body and was looking down on it...?

"And he also said that when he found her at the bottom of the stairs, she was most definitely dead. Having been a voluntary ambulance driver for decades, he knew what death looks like. Which was why he was overcome with grief at that moment when he saw her and he immediately started crying, screaming, shaking her and pleading with her to come back." I could picture the scene perfectly. Even more so now that I was in a similar situation. Feeling the urge to continue with my narrative, I bit back the tears that threatened to spill once more.

"So she came back. I guess that her soul realized that he would not be able to cope with it if she left that suddenly. And I personally think that this is why she developed COPD: to give my father-in-law time to get used to the idea of her departure."

"Yes," the nurse agreed," that's quite possible. I've also looked into these kinds of experiences, since I have to deal with death on a daily basis. And what I've found is very similar to what you're telling me."

"It is?" I was quite convinced that these stories were real – there's too many of them, they're all over the world and throughout all the cultures, they are too similar and too much in accordance with what the spiritual masters say about the nature of life, death and God, to ignore – but I still found it incredibly thrilling every time I got additional confirmation.

Without warning, the situation I was in hit me once again. I immediately dissolved in a flood of tears, which I unsuccessfully tried to wipe away with one of the ever present kitchen towels. Oh, Dipavajan...

But then an urgent thought stuck my mind and I extracted my phone from my backpack. "Oh, do you have any idea how I could call someone? It seems that I don't have a connection in here." I sniffed.

"You can use our station-phone," she kindly suggested. "Wait here for a moment while I bring it to you. Could I also get you something to drink? A coffee, maybe?"

Coffee had been Dipavajan's favorite drink... And the tears streamed down my face with renewed vigor.

I shook my head.

"Tea?"

Something warm was probably not such a bad idea. "Please," I croaked.

"It'll only take a moment," she reassured me.

After she'd left, both the sadness in my emotions and the joy in my heart intensified. Crying, I wondered about the strange reaction of my heart. But was it really that strange? Because if we as a society would not view death as a calamity and eternal loss, but as the joyful journey of the soul back to its original home... We would probably react differently. Wouldn't we? With... joy... maybe...?

But it appeared that I was still as much a child of the society I'd grown up in, as the spiritual person that I'd become.

Therefore, when the nurse came back, she found me wrecked with sobs. Again.

"I don't even know why I'm crying, he's happy now." Wiping the tears away with the left hand, I took the phone she offered with the right. Then the nurse passed by me to put the cup of tea she had brought on a small, tall table at the foot of the bed. "Yes, but you still lost someone."

Don't remind me! I nodded, my shoulders slumping in defeat.

"I've already unlocked it for you, now all you have to do is dial the number."

It took me three tries until I had successfully entered Sumeru's number into the phone, because of the renewed tears clouding my vision.

Please, pick up, please pick up! I silently prayed.

"Scheucher?"

I heard her voice after a few rings. Thank God!

"Sumeru," Suddenly, I couldn't speak.

"Apaga?"

"Dipavajan has passed on," I barely managed to squeeze out amidst a new onslaught of sobs.

"What?!"

"He's gone!"

"Dipavajan?! Oh, no!"

Hearing her burst into tears naturally did nothing to help stop the flow of mine. For a few seconds, we both simply cried.

"I'm in the hospital. Can you please come? And bring the music for 'Jibaner Bhor'. (A song, which Guru had asked us to sing for every disciple leaving this earth plane as it would really help them in the inner world.)

"What? All right, I shall try," Sumeru agreed, her voice sounding sniffly.

"And please let everybody in the centre know and ask them to pray for him." Since it was Sunday, the centre meditation would start soon.

"I shall. But it will take me at least 40 minutes."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere." The sobs that followed made it almost impossible for me to squeeze out a faint: "See you."

Oh, Dipavajan, why did you have to leave?!

"You know, I'm a bit angry with him," I declared when I was able to speak again.

"That's understandable." The nurse, who had stayed with me the whole time, gave me faint smile.

"Because he could have left a few years later. From these near-death experiences I know that sometimes the soul gets to choose and is able to stay on earth, if it decides to. But usually they don't really want to. They just come back because of family, or because of something that they still want to accomplish. Or because it's not their time, yet. Mum told me of someone she knows who was not given the choice. He had to come back. And, apparently, he's really bitter about it!" I chuckled humorlessly.

"The people who've gone through this, they all say that this world is like a dream where we learn, make progress and have experiences. And the other realm is the true reality, where you are at home. So... in a way, I can understand that my husband didn't want to come back. I do. Still..." Shrugging helplessly, I couldn't help the new flood of tears.

"I know, it's hard." The compassionate nurse didn't seem to mind my rumblings. She actually appeared to really be interested in what I had to say. And in comforting me.

A fresh wave of grief hit.

"Don't hold back, let it all out," the nurse advised me.

She didn't have to worry about that. Holding back my emotions had never been my strong suit. I didn't see the point. But I didn't want to simply succumb to them, either. Therefore, I tried to remind myself again and again of what I'd understood of the true nature of our existence to be:

Nothing and nobody was really lost. He had only turned invisible to my human eyes.

And Dipavajan and I had definitely been together for quite a few lifetimes.

Indeed, when we had first met we had found the level of brotherly/sisterly closeness we'd shared so unfitting for a romantic relationship, we had tried to split up. Which had not really worked, as something within us – I now suspect to have been our souls – had pushed us together again and again.

And then, a few weeks ago, I'd come across a picture of Dipavajan at the age of about seven. It had showed him just standing gingerly in the middle of the living room of his parent' apartment, his concentration focused on a small bird perched on his head. He looked so cute and innocent and the thought had briefly crossed my mind that I was looking forward to having this little version of Dipavajan running around once again, somewhere.

But naturally I had prayed for that not to happen too soon. A thought that triggered another round of tears. Will that ever stop?

But to sum it all up: having been together several lifetimes also meant that we had also already died on each other several times. Only to somehow meet again. And our connection had only grown, especially in this incarnation.

Then why did it hurt so much?

Right.

Because I didn't feel his presence. He could really have made an effort to contact me!

But knowing Dipavajan, he probably didn't feel the necessity to appear before me, since he knew I was going to be all right. And as devastated as I felt (with the exception of my heart, which was still exceedingly happy, but which I stubbornly ignored), I knew that I would be all right again at one point. I had known and felt so deep within from the beginning.

Actually, realizing where this might go, I had made a conscious decision along the way that I would not allow the experience to break me. That I would try my utmost to turn my spiritual believes into my reality and this way weaken the veil between this realm and the other. Which I did by reading about the lives of spiritual figures and watching lots of near-death experience interviews on Youtube. And truly, who can be better equipped for dealing with life and death matters than someone who sincerely believes in the continuation of life? Unfortunately, grieving still appears to be a natural part of losing someone.

"Those people who have experienced this other sphere all say that from there, you realize that everything is perfect and everything is the way it's supposed to be." I paused to swallow as my voice was breaking again. "But it sure is difficult to see that from this side of the veil!"

The nurse chuckled.

"Maybe this is also so difficult for me because we really thought that he would be able to recover," I told her after having dried my eyes. Thank God I'd brought a whole role of kitchen towels. For Dipavajan...

"You know, About six weeks ago, we discovered something that started to dissolve the cancer. It went from being stone-hard to wobbly within a matter of days. But I think that was also the problem: the cancer had already invaded a big blood vessel. And when it retracted from that vessel, it broke..."

Maybe I should meditate and not talk so much. The thought flashed through my mind. But I discarded it immediately. Even if this was true, I was not in the right frame of mind to go deep within. And it was very soothing to be able to talk to someone.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door.

"Sumeru?"

Her slender, tall frame appeared in the doorway. Scanning the room her eyes fell on Dipavajan's unmoving form and she rushed to embrace me, tears streaming down her face. "Oh, Dipavajan, oh no!"

Of course, my tears immediately followed suit.

"Do you have the song?" I asked her after we'd embraced and cried for some time, sharing our grief and comforting each other.

"Yes. But I had to go to the centre to get it. So I told all the others that were already assembled about everything and they are now praying and meditating for him. I hope that's okay."

"Perfect. Thank you so much!"

Guru had always told us about the importance of prayer and so had some of these people who had returned from death. According to them, you can feel every prayer and every good thought as a form of energy in the other realm. Well, it's probably quite powerful also in ours, but we lack the subtle awareness to be able to perceive it.

One man – an American – had a car accident somewhere in the middle of the USA, where the people are still very Christian and religious. He'd left his body and had found himself in another world, when he noticed some balls of light flying towards him from what he perceived to be further down.

At first he didn't understand what it was that he was seeing, but then he gradually came to realize that these balls of light were prayers. As he watched in amazement, those balls quickly grew in numbers and came at him with increasing speed.

At one point they united into a big ball of light which exploded – and pulled him back into his body.

The people who had arrived at the scene of the accident and who had started praying had literally prayed him back into his body.

It had been with this knowledge in mind that I had sent out all those texts earlier. Unfortunately, it had not been able to change his fate (or maybe rather: his soul's mind). But I imagined that the out-of-body Dipavajan was probably deeply enjoying all these good energies that were and had been coming his way.

Not enough to come back, though.

Next time I saw him, I would definitely complain!

I slowly took the sheet of music from Sumeru's hands and scanned the melody. I had already learned the song by heart before and I'd even sang it on different occasions (mostly after the deaths of some of the disciples' relatives. There had been quite a few during the last year), but due to the state I was in, I did not trust myself to sing it correctly by myself.

Sensing our wish to be alone, the nurse took her leave. But not before having informed us that we were allowed to stay for however long we wanted. Even for the whole night.

I thanked her profusely, as I felt that she had been accommodating far beyond her call of duty.

Having sung the song twice, for good measure, Sumeru and I prepared to leave. Gathering my - and Dipavajan's - belongings, my eyes fell on the now cold cup of tea. Somehow, I had completely forgotten about it.

I turned to say a final farewell to the body that I had identified as my husband for so many years... and promptly broke into tears once again.

"You don't want to stay any longer?" The nurse, who'd quietly come back to ask us if we needed anything, was obviously surprised that I did not feel the need to linger.

"No." I shook my head for emphasis. "He is no longer in his body, so why should I keep looking at it?" I was exhausted, drained and couldn't imagine just sitting there, wondering when to finally leave. When to finally look at his face for the last time.

I'd never liked the concept of: 'for the last time' and this was especially true for my current situation. And dragging out the inevitable would only torture me unnecessarily.

"Do you want me to take you home?" Sumeru asked me, her voice full of concern.

"Yes, please." I had not even thought about how to get home until that mement, but I felt deeply relieved at her offer. "I came here by ambulance."

The nurse informed me about the next steps: they would relocate the body to the hospital's morgue the following morning and I had to contact a funeral company in the coming days, who would then arrange the rest. Relieved, I took note of the fact that I would not have to organize too much at this point, but that I would be able to follow some kind of set procedures. (Fortunately, I had no idea at that time just how much red tape would follow later on...!)

Stepping next to the peaceful form on the bed that had been my husband and companion for the last 35 years, I took a last long look at his beloved face. I slowly bent to gingerly brush a soft kiss onto his cheek."I love you," I whispered, before determinedly turning away. I looked at Sumeru, who watched me expectantly. "Let's go."

In the car, I called my parents and sent text messages in German and English to all those whom I had contacted before:

'Thank you so much for your prayers!

Dipavajan is in the Light now with Guru.

Without any earthly restrictions, bondage or pain.

Love, Apaga'

It took me the entire ride across the whole town to type the simple words, as I had a hard time seeing the display.

Too many tears.

I briefly considered calling my father-in-law, but then I decided that I would do so the next day. He already appeared to suffer from a kind of depression due to his wife's death two years prior. Calling him in the evening when it was dark and nothing but the lonely, cold night ahead, seemed too cruel.

And I would call my father-in-law's cousin first and ask him to be with my father-in-law, when I broke the news. In this way he would not be alone...

Sumeru accompanied me to my apartment.

I went through the motions of riding the elevator, opening the door and entering our - now my – apartment in a trance like state.

Once we stepped into the living room, my heart plummeted: there was blood everywhere! On the floor, the sofa, the glass table, the carpet...

For some moments I simply stood there, not knowing what to do next. And with no strength to do anything.

Fortunately, Sumeru had a much better grip on the situation. Having asked me for the cleaning supplies, she immediately got to work. I, on the other hand, felt unable to put down my phone, since it just wouldn't stop beeping as message after message arrived. Each one brought with it a new burst of tears, but also a feeling of being supported, cared for and loved.

Sumeru assured me that it was all right for me not to help her with her endeavor to free the living room from the remnants of the fateful scene that had taken place there only a few hours prior and that she fully understood my need to communicate with those who were contacting me.

"Dipavajan never once complained." In between typing, I told the sympathetically listening Sumeru whatever came to my mind. And in no particular order. "Yes, sometimes when he was in a lot of pain, he made a slicing hand-motion indicating that everything was getting too much. But he never asked the question 'why me' or 'what did I do to deserve this'. In fact, one time I complained and told him that - once back face to face with the Supreme – I would really tell Him off. Because I thought that all that was not really necessary. But Dipavajan just looked at me. Then he wrote me a note (as he was not able to talk because of his monstrously swollen tongue): 'Please, do not say such things. It hurts me.'"

I shrugged. "I guess he didn't appreciate my sense of humor." My phone beeped.

"Wow. Really?" Sumeru looked impressed. "He was such a fighter."

I nodded. "He most certainly was."

The past tense of the sentence was too hard to bear and a fresh flood of tears streamed down my face. (Honestly, how much can a person cry?...) "Even this one health practitioner (the one who was able to look into people and the only one whose remedies had truly made a difference. If we'd only found him earlier!) took one look at him and said that he had an extremely strong spirit. But that he was almost not able to feel his body." Thinking back to the scene I suddenly wondered: "Do you think that Dipavajan has kept himself in this world by sheer will power these last few months?"

"I wouldn't put it past him." Sumeru graciously and compassionately listened to everything I was saying, while meticulously scraping the sofa clean.

"What do we do with all that stuff?" she pointed at some blood-soaked pillows and a blanket. I had just recently bought them to help Dipavajan recline more comfortably and they were very beautiful. One was even filled with cedar wood shavings and it emitted a beautiful fragrance that was supposed to be very beneficial for the health and for sleeping. But I would never be able to completely rid them of the blood. "I think we have to throw them out."

"Yes, I agree."

After I'd searched for and found a few big plastic bags, we dumped everything that was too soiled or otherwise not useable anymore.

I noticed that even one of Guru's books: 'The 77.000 service trees, part 2' had been hit by a few drops of blood. But this one I did not want to throw out. "Dipavajan faithfully read Guru's books until the last day," I chocked out, remembering. "And learned his Kailash's songs. He'd even started with the new batch, already." (Kailash's group is an international group of boys, dedicated to learning and performing every single one of Guru's songs. Three times a year, they sing three hundred songs over a period of several days during the April and August celebrations as well as on one part of the Christmas-Trip. At that point, they'd already performed more than half of Guru's about 23.000 songs.)

"This is quite incredible," Sumeru commented, her eyes misty as well.

"I think that his deep, sincere spirituality was also the reason why everybody who came to visit him was completely surprised how healthy he looked. He just had this radiance and glow about him. Even the doctor from the palliative team always said that it might sound strange, but Dipavajan looked like life itself." Reminiscing somehow helped ease the pain.

"Do you want me to stay for the night?" Sumeru asked me at about two a.m..

"I don't know." Taking any kind of decision, even a small one like this, seemed almost impossible for me at that moment. Everything was so unreal. And there was nothing that I wanted or didn't want. In a way, nothing mattered and I felt like flowing weightlessly in an unsubstantial world.

Would I go to sleep? Possibly. At one point.

Was I tired? I was not really able to tell.

Was I exhausted? Definitely. But also quite hyper.

In the end, I told Sumeru that I wouldn't mind her going home and that I would be fine. Or rather: I would not be afraid, or in danger of hurting myself.

"Can you imagine that – looking at the sofa where he's been lying during the day for the last eight months – I can almost not remember what it was like?"

"Really?" Sumeru looked a tad shocked. Or at least very surprised. She stopped trying to stuff one particular big pillow into a bag and gave me her full attention.

"Yes. I think that this is mainly due to my river nature." (In short, the spiritual name that Guru gave me means the heart river flowing towards the infinite ocean of light and delight. And I can relate to that meaning extremely well. It definitely describes my nature.) "I live very much in the present and for me the past quickly disappears and becomes unreal. Of course, if I wanted to, I could force myself to remember. But that would only be painful."

"Yes. No, don't do it." Sumeru agreed. "But this is indeed a big blessing in this situation."

"I know." A beeping sound announced the arrival of a new message. I briefly glanced at the screen, felt tears welling up and decided to answer it a bit later. "In a way, I'm also very lucky that Dipavajan usually spent so much time (sometimes seven months or more) away from home each year. (On the Peace Run, giving lectures, in NY or doing other stuff.) To see his room empty or just the fact that he's not here, is normal for me. It does not make me sad. For my system, this simply means that he's exploring new shores again."

"Quite literally, in this case," Sumeru remarked, solemnly resuming her task.

"Yes, quite."

I took a few moments to read the sweet message that I'd just received and to type a quick reply. Which was not an easy task, since the heartfelt concern and love contained in the text made me cry all over again.

My thoughts went to Dipavajan. Wherever he was at that moment, he must have been blown away by the sheer amount of love and prayers that were coming his way from, literally, all over the world. Especially, since I was sure that he never expected it. After all, he never thought that he had done anything special...

Having deposited the bags and their bloody content in the proper waste disposal bins which stood in a small, metal shed-like structure outside of our apartment house, I thanked Sumeru profusely for everything that she'd done for me and assured her once again that I would not mind being by myself for the night.

She didn't look too convinced, but finally agreed to go home to catch some sleep.

I took a shower and got ready for bed. But then spent the next two hours texting, crying and smiling through my tears. All activities that I would repeat over and over the next few days.