(31 October 1951 – 5 November 2020)
Shanti Gunageet writes:
Satyam Sharan lived in nearly all communes that Siddhartha has started. In the last one here in Oshostadt he was very rebellious. After he left the small commune in Ovelgönne he learned to become a carpenter, a skill he developed into beautiful art. He was also painting and writing; and enjoyed taking guests for long walks in the forests.
“Why should I go from here. Here I can meditate,” his heart was saying.
Sharan left his body after a long time of being ill, having a cancer in the lungs. He only took natural herbs which he found every day in the garden. He became very thin.
He allowed me to take care of him, which I did for his last three months. I felt his transformation in the process. He made peace with himself and was clear. Sharan left his body very well prepared and was excited about how dying will be. We saw his sannyas heart opening.
Sharan surrendered to existence in the arms of our friend Daniel just before brushing his teeth which had been his daily meditation.
Text and photos thanks to Shanti Gunageet and Shunyam
When I first came to Oshostadt as a worker in May 2008, I hardly noticed him: in the evenings, after White Robe, he used to show up in the kitchen with a bowl of vegetables, washing and chopping them into little pieces, and then silently vanishing again. First I thought it was ignorance, but slowly learned to accept, later on even to appreciate it as his very way of life.
While others fought their fights, had their quarrels, Sharan mostly kept watching, seldomly entering the ring himself. And step by step I realized this as one of Oshostadt’s peculiarities making this place so special, as an opportunity to find, what he or she is actually looking for: if company, to find company and joy; if solitude, to find solitude, silence, and as his or her final goal: inner peace. So his being ‘rebellious’, as some remember Sharan, he had apparently already quit when I came there, or better said, transcended. If there was a kind of Zen style scale, Sharan, ‘the old monk’ as I remember him, was quite close to this scale’s top.
Not unconcerned with what and who surrounded him, he anyway followed his very own path. Restoring vintage objects and furniture, pouring another life into them with love and devotion, later on also creating paintings full of warmth and tender melancholy, slowly growing in his studio like pearls in a shell. If comparing Oshostadt with an orchestra, Sharan never played the grand piano or the violin in the foreground, always rather hiding amongst those sitting in the back rows, like the flutists: almost invisible to the audience, but missing, when absent. So there’s nothing left for me but to comfort myself with the idea that, as our presence doesn’t begin with being born, it also doesn’t end when we disappear, and that Sharan will still be there somewhere out in the universe each time we think of him. Yet, if he were still with us in his body and we could go again to a restaurant together, this would be much, much better.
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