by Donna Bishop
Even though I’m just a spirit floating nearby, I feel his touch — it’s as if he’s blessed me for eternity. I’ve always touched my forehead in that exact spot when I’m trying to figure something out or calm myself. Sometimes, I press really hard, right where a person’s third eye is meant to be. That’s exactly where Gandhi touched Veda.
~ ~ ~
Images appear like a moving collage seen through a haze of red dust — walking and walking — sleeping huddled with other women and children in a barn or under the stars — vibrant flashes of red, blue, yellow, green, pink, purple and orange fabric, long dark braided hair — the view of a tiny baby surrounded by women.
~ ~ ~
I see Veda growing from a toddler to a little girl with long, black braids of her own. Suraya is always by her side, caring for her, feeding her, rubbing coconut oil into her hair and her feet after a long day of walking. They settle for months at a time at a riverside ashram Gandhi established for his followers, but they still embark on extended pilgrimages from time to time. Sometimes, they camp on a farm and work in the fields in exchange for food. I see Veda learning how to prepare meals over an open fire. She appears to be a cheerful girl, chatting with anyone and everyone, liked by the community of women and openly adored by Suraya.
~ ~ ~
I cast my blue thread into the future and find Suraya looking older and a little bent and Veda at maybe six or seven years of age, walking once more on a road swirling with dry dust, following closely behind Gandhi.
They march in silence in the stifling heat, accompanied only by their own measured breaths and the sound of hundreds of feet stepping on hard-packed earth. Occasionally their voices lift with a song or a chant and Veda’s heart rises with the knowledge that she’s part of something wonderful and meaningful.
The procession is passing through a village now. The market is buzzing with exotic smells, colourfully dressed people, laughter and good-natured bartering for goods. One young girl walking beside her mother pulls back to allow the walkers by — she is very thin and her clothes are ragged. Veda is drawn to her — she tries to catch the girl’s eye but cannot. Loneliness floods over Veda’s heart and I realize for the first time that there are very few children in the group she and Suraya travel with.
~ ~ ~
Forward again. A shimmer of blue light on water. Veda and Suraya are on a beach with a large gathering of devotees. I sense they have traveled far to reach this place. The crowd is noisy and jubilant, then there is a hush — Gandhi begins to speak.
But Veda is distracted — she’s mesmerized by the sea, which she’s never seen before. Far out on the glimmering horizon, she sees an enormous creature break the surface of the water — some kind of fabulous, gigantic fish! She thrills to the sight of it, awed in wonder.
I can see the luminous threads of hundreds of spirits, in all colours — everywhere. I feel a connection to everything — to the whales in the warm blue ocean, to those who walk on the dusty red earth with Gandhi and to the journeys of millions before and after.
Bound by a soul, Veda and I share this as one.
~ ~ ~
She’s ten and has a friend now — a lively, bright-eyed boy named Anil. He and his father recently joined Gandhi’s movement, shortly after Anil’s mother died. His father bitterly blames the British salt tax for their poverty and his inability to afford treatment for his sick wife.
Veda is hastily tidying the cooking area after a meal, keenly aware of Anil, who waits for her in the shade nearby. Her chore complete, she appeals to Suraya, who swooshes her away, smiling. Veda and Anil set off at a run for the river, where they romp in the muddy water.
~ ~ ~
As I cast the thread forward, I see that Gandhi’s vision, his voice and his message has grown stronger and more meaningful to Veda as she grows older. On this day, Veda and Anil are excited because Gandhi has called for all the children to gather. They love it when he does this.
To his fellow travellers, Gandhi speaks, “If we are to teach real peace in this world, and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with the children.”
Veda and Anil join the chattering group in the shade of a giant cashew tree, beside the Coca Cola-coloured Manori Creek, and soon Gandhi appears and sits cross-legged before them. The children are immediately attentive. The great man soon has them entranced with his fascinating stories, bringing to life the Hindu Gods like Hanuma the Monkey King and Veda’s favourite, Ganesha the Elephant God, who has a mouse as a protector.
He smiles and looks into the face of every child, and each feels treasured. He tells them, in his level, quiet voice, the story of an Indian girl he met named Shanti Devi, who was a source of concern to her family because she did not speak until she was four years old. To her parent’s surprise, when she finally did utter her first words, she spoke in full sentences and fervently insisted to her parents that she needed to return home to her husband and children in another town — a place they knew Shanti had never visited.
The little girl would not budge on her belief, and so her parents finally took her to the town. When they arrived, Shanti first recognized a man she knew as her brother–in-law — she called him by his name. Then she saw a man she knew as her husband and she ran to embrace him. As you can imagine, everyone was stunned by this, but they were even more surprised when Shanti, overjoyed to the point of weeping, set eyes on the very child she claimed she had died giving birth to.
Gandhi tells the children he met and spoke with Shanti some time afterward and found her to be a smart and honest little girl who earnestly answered his questions about her past life — answers no one else could have possibly known. For example, Shanti remembered having hidden money in a flower pot in her past life and indeed, she knew just where to go to find it.
The story of Shanti tells us much about reincarnation, Gandhi tells his young listeners. Sometime later, when Shanti Devi had clearly demonstrated her ability to remember the transference of consciousness and had also developed an ability to heal others through touch, she was declared a Hindu saint. Throughout her life, people went to her to be healed of their ailments.
“This tells us that it is ever so important to treat everyone with love and fairness in this life, because we have no idea where our karma may lead us or who we will become the next time around,” Gandhi says.
Veda and all the children are wide-eyed at this thought. “Could we come back as a monkey or an elephant?” pipes Anil.
“Possibly,” Gandhi answers softly. “But I hope you will come back as a person helping to change the world with your love and kindness.”
~ ~ ~
I ride my glowing thread again into Veda’s future.
She’s twelve and standing in the crowd that has gathered to welcome Gandhi back from a trip to visit his wife Kasturba and their grown children in Pune, south of Mumbai. Veda is shocked to see how thin he is.
“He rarely eats but I don’t understand how this helps the cause,” she says to Suraya. “He thinks people will listen more if he denies himself food — but I’m not so sure about that.”
Veda doesn’t wait for Suraya’s reply — she rises and timidly approaches Gandhi where he sits in a circle of elders. She asks if he will please eat the fresh banana she’s picked for him. Gandhi gently tells her he will not break his fast. He asks her to remind him of her name and he bids her to sit beside him.
He tells her a story about a young girl from a wealthy family who went against her parents’ wishes and became a teacher to the poorest children in the slums of Calcutta. This fed not only her own soul, but the souls of the children she taught.
“To follow your own path is the most important thing any of us can do. I am following my path and I am so happy that, for this portion of your journey, you are walking alongside me. I want you to eat this perfect banana you picked. Please do not worry about me.”
As Veda walks away from this encounter, it’s with a new understanding. There are differe
nt kinds of nourishment — the ones that feeds your soul are far more important than the ones that feed your belly.
~ ~ ~
Anil and Veda sit side-by-side under a baobab tree with Suraya, who is helping them with their reading. Veda is pleasantly aware of Anil’s warm presence beside her. When it’s his turn, he reads aloud a poem by the Sufi poet, Rumi.
This is love: to fly towards a secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.
First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.
Veda is overcome by its beautiful simplicity, even more so because the words come to her through Anil’s voice. Her eyes moisten. Suraya takes note and smiles at her.
“You are far too young to understand such thoughts. But your name does mean ‘understanding’, so perhaps you are capable of thoughts far beyond your years.”
~ ~ ~
I toss the vibrant blue cord yet again, landing in a future where Veda is fifteen years old. She and Anil are walking along a Himalayan mountain-fed river that tumbles over rocks into a large pool. Veda is alert — she and Anil have been enlisted to take some of the children to the river for a cooling swim and she takes the responsibility seriously. They are nearly there and she’s acutely aware of Anil, conscious of her body. She longs to plunge into the clear, cool pond with Anil, just like when they were children. Instead, she’s preoccupied with being modest at all times, ensuring that her skin isn’t exposed inappropriately.
Nearby, two elephants are tethered. They belong to the farmer, who uses them for logging the Sheesham trees, sold for making into furniture. They notice that one of the elephants is hunched with his head down and shuffling restlessly, and when they look closer they discover horrible sores on its feet from the chains. While Anil stands watch over the children, Veda runs back to the encampment and fetches some turmeric and almond oil. She gently rubs the orange salve into the sores and resolves to do it again every day until the poor elephant is relieved of its pain. She’s become conscious of her own ability to show compassion and care.
~ ~ ~
Veda loves to hear Anil’s laugh. He’s reading aloud under the tree, and when he makes a mistake she teases him playfully. His laugh is the kind that comes from deep inside and she can’t help but joyously laugh along.
She’s distracted by the details of him — how perfect and strong his hands are, the interesting golden light in his eyes and the ease with which he moves through the world. He’s just as captivated by her — he listens to her with such attention when she speaks, watching her eyes, fetching her fresh coconut oil and watching with rapt interest as she melts it in her fingers and runs her fingers through her hair before she braids it. When she shares some chapattis she’s made herself, he declares they are tastier than any made by another hand.
~ ~ ~
There is a great crowd of people. My spirit line guides me to Veda, who is moving through the assembly with Anil. They look like a couple, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old. They have just arrived to the town square after a long train journey, to join a protest against British rule in defiance of the ban on public meetings. There’s an air of expectation, a sense that they are gaining ground. The British are losing control of the Indian people and many say this is a direct result of Gandhi’s tactics.
In addition to the protesters, many families have congregated here to celebrate the spring festival of Baisakhi. The heat is dry and suffocating, but the mood seems festive.
Veda and Anil join the gathering of protesters — she’s apprehensive, but I can’t tell why. Perhaps because Gandhi himself is not present. Neither is Suraya, as she is unwell and unable to travel. Veda senses danger and holds Anil’s hand tightly, looking about for a safer place.
“Stay by my side, Anil,” she pleads, and he squeezes her hand in reassurance.
At first, as the protesters sing Satygahra, the song for change, and all is peaceful. But suddenly, there’s a commotion — British soldiers along with Indian men in uniform mounted on horseback are converging upon the crowds. They fire their rifles up into the air and then into the crowd. People panic and run, but the soldiers come from all sides and block their escape.
Veda’s heart is pounding and she can’t catch her breath. Anil grabs her arm and helps her climb down into a well to hide. There are others there, maybe about thirty people, crushed together and pressed against the walls. They wait, hoping to be overlooked. The terror is palpable. A few people sob quietly and are shushed. But then they see soldiers looking down, gun barrels pointing....
Liv has dropped the stone and is clenching her hands into fists, her thumbs tucked inside. Her face is drawn with anxiety.
Far, far away, she hears Celeste’s voice, “Do you need to come back now?”
No, not just yet, I have to see it through.
Unconsciously, she takes the stone from Celeste and holds it in both hands, trying to breathe deeply and stay grounded.
Deafening blasts, screaming, the acrid, metallic smell of gunpowder, blood. Bullets are ricocheting off the stone walls, entering people’s flesh and ending their lives just as surely as the ones fired directly at them. Veda and Anil, chests together, hearts pounding as one… the bullet enters through Anil’s back and this is where….
I have to stop here! I know what happens. I remember this! I can’t experience this death again.
“Leave that turbulent world, Liv. One, two, three, four, five …walk with me back to our time… six, seven eight… knowing you are safe…nine, ten.”
Liv’s eyes open, but she is pale.
“I might faint, Celeste. I was shot!”
“You’re safe now, Liv. Hold steady, I’ll be right back.” Celeste returns quickly with a moist washcloth, which she applies to Liv’s forehead.
“That feels great. Thank you.” Liv sits back.
“Holy crap! What just happened?”
“I had the most intense sensation of confused memories — like a violent déjà vu!”
“This has happened to you before?"
“When I went travelling after high school, a friend and I visited a holy city in India called Amritsar. We went to this lovely brick-walled garden in the city centre called Jaillianwalla Bagh. There was a large, stone monument, but I didn’t stop to read the plaque.
“I found myself drawn to an ancient well nearby, and as I walked around it I realized it was riddled with bullet holes… I was instantly overwhelmed with so much emotion that I fell to my knees. It felt like I’d been shot — I actually felt the pain in my chest! I covered my ears and closed my eyes. I could hear people screaming inside the well.
“My friend ran over and asked what the hell was wrong with me. I told her. She sat with me for a little while on the soft green grass so I could get myself together — I was shaking violently.
“Celeste, Veda was killed there, along with hundreds of others. That’s why that place affected me so profoundly.
“That experience has always stayed with me. I’ve always known exactly what it would feel like to be shot, even though I never have been in this life. That bullet went right through Anil’s back and as I held him up, it went through my heart. The sight and especially the sound of guns or explosives, even fireworks, the smell of blood — all of these things frighten me more than they should. Yet, I’m so drawn to politics and social equality and repelled by war. I think this story, this life as Veda is reminding me that as I go through this change in my life and my marriage, I need to find some kind of work where I can …without sounding too corny… ‘be the change I want to see in the world’.”
“That’s remarkable, Liv! To have such an intense memory of something that happened in one of your previous lives — it’s like Gandhi’s story about Shanti Devi. Maybe now that you know where it comes from, it will be easier to let go of the fear. It isn’t about this life, it’s about that one. And, I think you’re already on that path you talked about…making change in the world.”
“Gandhi was
a famous guy and all, and I do feel so honoured to have possibly been witness to his work, but what really stands out for me, in this life as well as in Moragh’s life, is the love and acceptance from Suraya and the community of women who raised Veda. A throwaway girl, and yet, she grew up strong and confident.
“What I don’t really understand is: why have my past lives been so full of tragedy? Did I do something to deserve it? Is it my karma?”
“You likely have had dozens of happy and uneventful lives, but your spirit line has led you to these because they are relevant to you now. You’re choosing them.”
“Okay, I think I get it. And honestly, I wouldn’t change this story just because it ended tragically. I remember you saying that karma is the sum total of a person’s actions, in this, and in past lives, which determines the next incarnation in the cycle of life, death and rebirth. It just doesn’t make sense to me that if you lived some pretty good lives, like Hannah and Moragh and Veda, why don’t you get to keep having better and better lives?”
“It doesn’t seem to work that way. There doesn’t seem to be an order. Somebody who’s a saint in this life can be reborn as a mass murderer, or vice versa. It might be for their own spiritual development or for the karmic benefit of someone they don’t even know. It seems to be all about the contracts made back in that library in the sky. But I have to say it’s a sign of spiritual advancement that your soul spent time with Gandhi in a past life. That’s where your peaceful and loving nature comes from, and you want to keep that.”