Flashback

Inside, on a beige-gold couch, sat Daksha, a 30-something woman in a turquoise blue shirt and black trousers. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her unpolished nails bitten to the skin. She looked at me, gave a friendly smile and told me to settle on the couch. All was well till she had one look at the photographer. 8220;I will not allow my pictures to be taken,8221; she yelled in alarm. 8220;A photograph steals part of a person8217;s soul,8221; she said. Eh? What was that again? A bit rich coming from a 21st century woman. But I gulped my impertinence and explained that it was not hers but my picture that needs to be taken. After much convincing, she allowed the photographer to click once before asking him 8212;very rudely so 8212; to leave.

In the minutes of uncomfortable silence that followed, I looked around the room to find incense sticks lit in every corner. Soon, I felt her staring at my T-shirt. 8220;8216;Cute but Psycho.8217; Why did you buy this shirt? Do you think you8217;re a psycho?8221; she asked. 8220;It was gifted to me by a friend. Perhaps he does,8221; I grinned. She gave me a stony glance. 8220;It may be a joke to you and your friends but by wearing this shirt you are telling the universe that you are, indeed, a psycho. Those are the vibes that you are sending out to the universe,8221; she scolded. 8220;Umm, I8217;ll keep that in mind,8221; I said, dying to change the subject.

8220;Let8217;s start the session,8221; she said. 8220;Are you comfortable? Sit back and relax your muscles,8221; she said. The lights were dimmed and soft, instrumental music switched on. 8220;I want you to imagine that you are looking at a clear, blue, summer sky. And an airplane is writing your first name on it in fluffy, cloud-like letters.8221; That wasn8217;t too hard, I thought, as I drifted off into a stupor and imagined my name being scribbled in white smoke. 8220;Now,8221; Daksha whispered, 8220;let your name dissolve. Forget about your name. Forget you even have a name. Go back in time. Go back 10, 15 years ago. Let your imagination take you wherever it wants.8221;

I saw myself in an animal farm with dogs, pigs, cows, goats, camels and horses. 8220;That8217;s it. Stay there. This is your past life,8221; she said. Whoa! I didn8217;t see that coming. I looked at her with startled eyes and she asked me, 8220;How many goats do you see?8221; 8220;About ten,8221; I said. She snapped her fingers and now I was fully awake. 8220;You were a goat in one of your past lives,8221; she told me. I feebly ventured, 8220;Couldn8217;t it be that I imagined an animal farm because I8217;m really fond of animals?8221; 8220;No,8221; she said and told me to shut my eyes again.

A few minutes later, I am half-asleep again. 8220;What do you see?8221; she asked. 8220;I see a poor man searching for his stolen bicycle,8221; I said. 8220;Where is this?8221; 8220;Rome,8221; I reply. 8220;What year is it?8221; 8220;Post World War II,8221; 8220;Who else is there?8221; she asks, her tone a little louder now. 8220;His son. A little boy, around 6,8221; I replied. 8220;Do you empathise with him?8221; 8220;Yes,8221; I tell her,8221; 8220;The little boy is you,8221; she said and snapped her fingers again. That was it. My eyes popped open and I explained to the therapist that the images I saw were from the Vittorio De Sica movie Bicycle Thieves I watched last evening. The smile on her face disappeared and she said, 8220;You have come here with a pre-conceived notion that past life regression is rubbish. I can only help you if you are willing to help yourself,8221; she said and stormed out of the room.
Gobbledygook, the goat in me said.

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