As you may know, we went to Boston to attend Daja’s Buddhist funeral, to see his wife Phuni, meet his friends and most importantly to help with our own mourning and feeling of loss. Daja was the center of a wheel – a wheel with dotted lines to so many people. In Boston we learned how Daja touched more people’s lives than we could have imagined. I say dotted lines because everyone we met talked about how much he meant to them. They spoke of him they way we do – his blood relatives – someone who was on our minds and in our hearts whether with him or away from him. His kindness, his laugh, how genuine he was, thoughtful. Anyone who knows us, has heard of Daja – we mention him often. We, the Greenbergs, knew that Daja was a special person, but now more than ever we realize what a rare human being he was. Rare, but also damaged and lost. It seems that he probably never really understood what “family” meant. The lines were dotted to all, no solid line for him. During his last visit, which was less than one month ago, he probably didn’t take it literally, when we said – “you can stay with us as long as you like, as long as you need.” It seems that Daja gave and gave and gave of himself, but ultimately he did not get back whatever it was that he needed in return. The head of the Tibetan Community in Boston told us that Daja had been so important that entire community is mourning. The Dalai Lama himself was chanting for him. We all feel a bit of guilt, that somehow if only we had … but we will never fully understand why Daja took his life. We miss him so much and know that we will always feel a void in our hearts… and in our lives.

It was five minutes before the kickoff in the Spain v. Netherlands final of the World Cup that I learned that Daja had died. Just a month before, when Daja was visiting Los Angeles for the last time, we watched the first match, America against Britain. My parents, my brother, Max, the dog, and Daja. Daja didn't usually watch soccer, but he was game for anything. He could become an instant and enthusiastic fan of ATP tennis, the Food Network, HGTV or international soccer. He watched that game with us and commiserated with the British goalie who let an easy ball slide to the 1-1 draw. Our last weekend together, his final goodbye, was special. My car was in Idaho so I couldn't really leave the house. We spent Friday and Saturday at home, almost completely together. We walked Max, we watched more soccer, more tennis, we got coffee, we talked about Karma -- I even made a Facebook page for the store. And on his final night, after a day inside, reading, writing, and planning his trip home, we wanted to get out. We had beers and lamb and liver skewers at an Israeli grill with twenty small plates of different kinds of mayonnaise and hummus salad. It was quiet because it was early and we talked, as we often did, about our eventual trip to Nepal and India. We would take off for a month, maybe a month and a half, and Daja would show me Katmandu and the monastery where he grew up. Then we would travel all around India, especially to the South, and to the resorts there. The trip would either end or start with a two-week climb to the Base Camp of Mt. Everest, which he'd always wanted to see. We even talked about getting visas to Bhutan. In March, on another surprise visit, I spent a day with Daja at LACMA. We walked inside and around the Richard Serra sculptures. He was so taken by these imposing, industrial structures. Their very manufacture seemed miraculous and peaceful. We touched the cold, red artwork and looked for the rivets that connected the fifty ton sheets of iron. He talked about taking his father, Larry, to see them. Everyone who knew Daja knew his laugh: a hiccupy, high-pitched, and infectious giggle that introduced levity to just about any situation. It always reminded me of Mozart in Amadeus -- I also took that similarity as further evidence of his obvious genius. He laughed a lot during our trip to LACMA. He loved the irreverent, sexy, bizarre Jeff Koons sculptures. They were just the kind of thing that made him giggle. And he was fascinated by Josef Beuys, the performance artist and pop intellectual. Museums brought out the imagination and curiosity that was always so alive in him, even if during his everyday life, he spent more time on QuickBooks than reading Kafka, who he always loved. Our first meeting, more than ten years ago, also took place at a museum, the Boston Science Museum. I was a precocious, inappropriate eleven-year-old and he was my willing accomplice. We found the exhibits on human anatomy embarrassingly funny. I was always proud of Daja. There aren't too many people I know who haven't heard the short or long versions of his life's story: a miracle, better than fiction, and the most compassionate, generous person you'd ever want to meet. I always looked forward to sharing new adventures with him. I have fond memories of our trips to London, Jerusalem, Toronto, Prague, even Palm Springs. We had even talked about him visiting me at the farm in Idaho, to take "a vacation from a vacation," as he called it. He never made it there. The closest he got was his last visit to his mom in Washington State, where, as I understand, he spent time meditating, maybe contemplating what might come next. The world will be a poorer place without Daja in it. I will always remember our last days together, and I will always miss him.

We have all been devastated by Daja’s passing. On July 18, the Greenbergs held a memorial service at our home in Los Angeles, and more than 40 friends and family members said Kaddish for Daja. The love for Daja in that room was palpable -– even among those who didn’t know Daja well, or didn’t know him at all. Here, in four separate installments, are our remarks on that day. From Jacob Greenberg: Gentle. Benevolent. Thoughtful. Witty. Daja was more than just a perfect friend and cousin. He would tolerate, and support, almost anything; he even bought me a canoe paddle following an incredible day on the Charles River (a small keepsake, I explained). I have only fond memories of Daja, but I think that is true for all of us here. He reminded us of the virtues of life, of living, even though he himself was lost. His peaceful nature was reassuring and calming to those blessed with his presence, for it truly was a gift to know him. So today, let us focus not on how Daja passed, but rather on how he lived. Let us celebrate his beautiful and remarkable life. We were all lucky to have known him.

In his memory, his family has established the Daja Wangchuk Meston Greenberg ’96 Endowed Scholarship, which will recognize a Brandeis student who carries on the social-justice ideals and values that Daja championed. To make a gift in support of the scholarship or for more information, contact Raquel Rosenblatt (rosenbla@brandeis.edu or 781-736-4022).

It is a sad irony that memories of a friend become most vivid and fresh in their passing. My earliest memories of Daja are when we were growing up together in Kopan Monastery. On one occasion my mother came to visit me and suggested that we go for a picnic to Balaju - a botanical garden near Kathmandu. My mom insisted that we invite Daja to come along as well. I would have been about 10 and Daja 7 years old then. I remember my mom was paying much more attention to Daja which made me feel a bit jealous, however we ended up having a great time. As I was a bit older and in separate classes, we didn’t interact that much soon after he joined the monastery. But when he became a little older, he used to share his feelings and thoughts with me. I guess he felt comfortable with me as I was the only other young western monk at that time. I will always cherish the memories of our time growing up in the monastery. Even though on a conventional level it may appear that his passing was untimely and tragic; one never really knows. I chose to believe that he has done what was possible and necessary in this life - which is a brief account for all of us, and has moved on to continue doing good deeds elsewhere, leaving us to cherish and learn from his time with us.