MANAN FF - TILL THE END OF TIME, COMPLETED - Page 6

Originally posted by: aseelashah

I think Manan met in 5 lifetimes.
1st in Mangoliya or china as husband & wife.
2nd in phalastine as father & daughter
3rd as john & his beloved wife
4th in Spain as husband & wife
5th in Egypt.
But I have a doubt .Is there any chance that Manan met in India as the trader & that poor girl ?
And in Magda's life also is that Magda's lover was Nandini?

By the time Dr. Dhawan had finished counting backward from ten to one, Nandini was already in a deep hypnotic trance. Her eyes were fluttering under their lids. Her body was limp, and her breathing had slowed into a very relaxed rhythm. Her mind was now ready for time travel.

Dr. Dhawan took her back slowly, this time using a peaceful mountain stream as a gateway to the distant past. She walked across the stream into a beautiful light. Walking through the light, she emerged in another time and another place, in an ancient lifetime.

"I'm wearing thin sandals," she observed, after Dr. Dhawan had instructed her to look at her feet. "There's a binding just above the ankles. I have a long white dress of different lengths. Over it is a veil-like covering down to my ankles. The sleeves are very wide and end at my elbows. I'm wearing golden bracelets at three different levels of my arms." She was observing herself vividly and with great detail.

"My hair is dark brown and long, below my shoulders. . . . My eyes are brown, too. . . . My skin is light brown."

"You are a girl," assumed Dr. Dhawan.

"Yes," she patiently answered.

"About how old are you?"

"About fourteen."

"What do you do? Where do you live?" He fired at her, asking two questions before she had a chance to answer.

"On the temple grounds," she responded. "I'm training to be a healer and to help the priests."

"Do you know the name of this land?" he asked.

"It is Egypt ... a long time ago."

"Do you know the year?"

"No," she replied. "I don't see that . . . but it is very long ago . . . very old."

Dr. Dhawan returned to her memories and experiences of that ancient time.

"How did you happen to receive this training, to be a healer and to work with the priests?"

"I was selected by the priests, just as the others were. We are all chosen, according to our talents and abilities. . . . The priests know this from the time we are very young."

He wanted to know more about this selection process.

"How do the priests know about your talents? Do they observe you in school or with your parents?"

"Oh, no," she corrected him. "They know intuitively. They are very wise. They know who has the ability in numbers and should be an engineer or a counter or a treasurer. They know who can write and scribe. They know who has military potential and should be trained to lead armies. They know who will make the best administrators. These will be trained to be governors and officials. They know those who possess healing and intuitive abilities, and these are trained to be healers and advisers and even to be priests."

"So the priests decide what occupations people train for," he summarized.

"Yes," she concurred. "Talents and potentials are divined by the priests when the child is very young. His training is then set. . . . He has no choice."

"Is this training open to everyone?"

"Oh, no," she objected. "Only to those of the nobility, to those related to the pharaoh."

"You must be related to the pharaoh?"

"Yes, but his family is very large. Even distant cousins are considered part of the family."

"But what of very talented people who are not related?" asked Dr. Dhawan, his curiosity causing him to linger at this family selection system.

"They can get some training," she again patiently explained. "But they can only progress so far . . . to be assistants to the leaders, who are relatives of the royal family."

"Are you a relative of the pharaoh?" he asked.

"A cousin . . . not too close."

"Close enough," he uttered.

"Yes," she answered.

Dr. Dhawan decided to move on, even though he already knew that the patient after Nandini had cancelled her appointment that day, so time was not hurrying him along as much as usual.

"Do you have any family with you?"

"Yes, my brother. We are very close. He is two years older. He has also been chosen to train as a healer and priest and we are together here. Our parents live some distance away, so it is very good to have my brother with me. ... I can see him now."

Dr. Dhawan risked another distraction, looking for clues to understanding Nandini's relationships. "Look closely at his face. Look into his eyes. Do you recognize him as anybody in your current life?"

She seemed to be peering into his face. "No," she said sadly. "I don't recognize him."

Dr. Dhawan had somewhat expected her to recognize her beloved mother, or perhaps her brother or father. But there was no identification.

"Go ahead in time now to the next important event in that Egyptian girl's life. You can remember everything."

She went forward in time.

"I am eighteen now. My brother and I are much more advanced now. He is wearing a white and gold skirt that is short. It ends just above his knees. . . . He is very handsome," she noted.

"How are you more advanced?" he inquired, bringing her focus back to the training.

"We have many more skills. We are working with special healing rods that, when mastered, greatly speed up the regeneration of tissues and limbs." She paused for a few moments, studying these rods.

"They contain a liquid energy that flows through the rods. . . . The energy is concentrated at the point of regeneration. . . . You can use this to grow limbs and heal tissue, even dying or dead tissue."

Dr. Dhawan was surprised. Even modern medicine cannot accomplish these feats, although nature can, as with salamanders and other lizards, which can regrow detached limbs or tails. The latest research in traumatic spinal cord injuries is just now leading to the beginning of controlled nerve regeneration, about four to five thousand years after Nandini's work with healing rods that could induce limb and tissue regeneration.

She could not articulate how the rods worked, other than with energy. Nandini did not have the vocabulary or mental concepts to understand and explain.

She began to speak again, and the reasons for her lack of understanding became clear.

"At least that's what they tell me. I am young and a girl. I have held the rods, but I have never seen them work. I have not yet seen the regeneration. . . . My brother has seen this. He is allowed, and when he is older he will be allowed this knowledge of regeneration. My training will be ended before that level. I cannot progress to that level, for I am a female," she explained.

"He will be allowed the knowledge of regeneration, and you will not?" Dr. Dhawan questioned.

"That is true," she commented. "He will be allowed to know higher secrets, but I will not."

She paused, then added, "I am not jealous of him. It is the custom ... a foolish custom, because I have more ability to heal than many men."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He will tell me the secrets anyway. . . . He has promised me. He will teach me how the rods work, too. He has already explained many things to me. . . . He has told me they are trying to revive people who have recently died!"

"Who have died?" echoed Dr. Dhawan.

"Yes, but this must be done very quickly," she added.

"How do they do this?"

"I don't know. . . . They use several of the rods. There are special chants. The body must be positioned in a certain way. There is more, but I do not know. . . . When my brother learns, he will tell me." She ended her explanation.

Dr. Dhawan's logical mind arrived at the assumption that the people allegedly being revived were not really dead yet but probably near death, like patients recovering from near-death experiences. After all, they did not have equipment to monitor brainwave function in those days. They could not pinpoint the absence of brain activity, which is the modern definition of death.

His intuitive sense told him to keep an open mind. Other explanations could exist, explanations beyond his current comprehension.

Nandini was still silent, so he resumed the questioning.

"Are there other forms of healing that you do?" he asked her.

"There are many," she responded. "One is with our hands. We touch the area of the body that needs the healing and send energy directly there . . . through our hands. Some don't even need to touch the body. We feel above the person's body the areas of heat. We disperse the heat and smooth the energy. The heat must be dispersed at several levels above the body, not just the closest," she explained. She was speaking rapidly now, describing ancient variations of healing techniques.

"Others can heal mentally. They can see the problem areas in their minds, and they mentally send energy to those spots. I can't do this yet," she added, "but I will learn eventually.

"Some touch the person's pulse with their second and third fingers held together and send energy directly into the flow of blood. You can reach the internal organs this way, and you can see the cleansing energy leaving through the person's toes." Nandini continued her rapid and increasingly technical explanation.

"I am working now with putting people into very deep levels of trance and having them also see the healing as it occurs, so that they complete the healing transformation on the mental level. We give them potions to help them go very deep." She paused for a moment.

Except for the potions, this last technique very much resembles the hypnotic visualizations that Dr. Dhawan and others were using in the late twentieth century to stimulate the healing process.

"Are there more methods?" he inquired.

"The ones that evoke the gods are reserved for the priests," she answered. "These are forbidden to me."

"Forbidden?"

"Yes, because women cannot become priests. We can become healers, and we assist the priests, but we cannot do their functions. . . . Oh, some women call themselves priestesses and play musical instruments in the ceremonies, but they have no power." With some sarcasm in her voice, she added, "They are musicians like I am a healer; they are hardly priests. Even Hathor mocks them."

Hathor was the Egyptian goddess of love, mirth, and joy. She was also the goddess of festivity and dance. Nandini was probably remembering one of Hathor's more esoteric functions, that of defender and protectress of women. Hathor's mockery of these priestesses underlined the empty grandiosity of their titles.

Nandini grew silent again, and as she did, Dr. Dhawan's mind drew parallels to the current time. Glass ceilings seem to be as old as time itself.

The road to advancement in this period of primitive Egypt seemed to be restricted to only a few. Relatives of the pharaoh, who himself was considered half divine, could advance, but female relatives would soon bump into the gender barrier. Male relatives of the pharaoh were the privileged few.

Nandini was still silent, and Dr. Dhawan urged her forward. "Go ahead in time to the next important event in that life. What do you see?"

"My brother and I are advisers now," she commented, after progressing a few more years into the future. "We stand behind the governor of this area and we advise him. He is a great administrator and a good military leader, too. But he is impulsive and needs our intuition and inner guidance. . . . We help to balance him."

"Are you happy doing this?"

"Yes, it is good to be with my brother. . . . And the governor is usually kind. He often listens to our advice. . . . We do our healing work also." She seemed contented, if not ecstatic. She had not married, so her brother was her family. Dr. Dhawan moved her ahead in time.

She was visibly upset now. She began to cry, then stopped. "I know too much for this. I must be strong. It is not that I fear exile or death. Not at all. But to leave my brother . . . that is hard!" Another tear fell.

"What happened?" asked Dr. Dhawan, somewhat startled at the sudden decline in her fortunes.

"The governor's son became severely ill. He died before anything could be done. He knows about our work with regeneration and our attempts to bring the recently dead back to life. So he demanded that I bring his son back from the dead. If I did not, I would be sent to permanent exile. I know that place. Nobody returns."

"And the son?" Dr. Dhawan asked hesitantly.

"He could not be returned. It was not allowed. So I had to be punished." She was again sad and the tears welled up once more in her eyes.

"It makes no sense," she said slowly. "I was never allowed to learn about the rods. ... I was never allowed to acquire the knowledge of regeneration and revival. My brother taught me a little, but not enough. . . . They didn't know he told me anything."

"What happened to your brother?"

"He was away, so he was spared. All the priests were away. Only I was around. . . . He returned in time to see me before the exile began. I don't fear exile or death, only leaving him. . . . There is no choice."

"How long are you in exile?" he asked.

"Not very long," she answered. "I know how to leave my body. One day I left my body and did not return. That was my death, for without the soul, the body dies." She had jumped to that point and was speaking from a higher perspective.

"As simple as that?"

"There is no pain, no interruption in awareness when such a death is chosen. That is why I did not fear death. I knew I could never see my brother again. I could not do my work on that barren island. There was no reason to stay in physical form. The gods understand."

She was silent, resting. Dr. Dhawan knew that her love for her brother would survive physical death, as would her brother's love for her. Love is eternal. Had they met again over the intervening centuries? Would they meet again in the future?

He also knew that this memory would help ease her grief. Once more she had found herself in the distant past. Her consciousness, her soul, had survived physical death and centuries of time to emerge once again, this time as Nandini. If she could survive through time, so could her mother. So could all of us. She had not found her mother in ancient Egypt, but she had found a beloved brother, a companion soul whom she could not recognize in her current life. At least not yet.

***

NEXT: A message to Dr. Dhawan, Manik and Nandini from the Master Spirit.

IT IS AMAZINGGG.Superb.Kya uska bhai manik hoga?Anyway update soon and thank you for the pm

Wow brilliant update dear
Eagerly waiting for the next part
Is there any chance for Manik being the brother

Manik felt the message sear itself into his soul. The living words pressed themselves forever into his being. As he rested after leaving his splattered body, both Manik and Dr. Dhawan pondered the different levels of meaning of these outwardly simple words.

The session had begun in the usual way. Dr. Dhawan regressed Manik using a rapid induction, and he slipped quickly into a deeply tranquil state. His breathing became deep and even, and his muscles relaxed completely. His mind, focused by the hypnosis, penetrated the customary limits of space and time, and he remembered events that had happened far before his birth as Manik.

"I'm wearing brown shoes," he observed as he emerged in the physical confines of a previous incarnation. "They're old and battered. . . . I'm a man around forty years old," he added without any prodding from Dr. Dhawan. "Balding on the top with hair beginning to grey. My sideburns and beard are grey already. My beard is short, and it's shaved pretty far down my cheeks."

He was paying considerable attention to minor details. Dr. Dhawan appreciated the accuracy of his description, but he was also aware of time slipping by.

"Go ahead," Dr. Dhawan advised. "Find out what you're doing in this life. Go to the next significant event."

"My glasses are small and wire-rimmed," he noted, still occupied with physical features. "My nose is wide, and my skin is very pale."

It was not unusual for a hypnotized patient to be resistant to suggestions. Dr. Dhawan had learned that you can't always guide the patient; sometimes the patient has to guide you.

"What do you do in this life?" asked Dr. Dhawan.

"I'm a doctor," he answered quickly, "a country doctor. I work very hard. The people are mostly poor, but I get by. They are good people overall."

"Do you know the name of the place where you live?"

"I believe it is in this country, in Ohio. . . ."

"Do you know the year?"

"Late eighteen-hundreds, I think."

"And your name?" he delicately inquired.

"Thomas . . . my name is Thomas."

"Do you have a last name?"

"It starts with a D . . . Dixon or Diggins or something like that. ... I don't feel well," he added.

"What's wrong?"

"I feel very sad . . . very sad. I don't want to go on living!" He had jumped ahead to a time of crisis.

"What is making you so sad?" Dr. Dhawan inquired.

"I have been despondent before," he clarified. "It comes and goes, but this is the worst. It's never been this bad before. The both things are just overwhelming... I can't go on this way."

"What 'both things'?" echoed Dr. Dhawan.

"My patient died. The fever killed him. They trusted me to save him. They put their faith in me, and I couldn't. I've let them down. . . . Now they have no husband, no father. They will have to struggle to survive. ... I couldn't save him!"

"Sometimes patients die despite our best efforts. Especially in the eighteen-hundreds," Dr. Dhawan added, paradoxically attempting to ease his guilt and despair over an event that had occurred a century ago. Dr. Dhawan could not alter the event, only Thomas' attitude towards it. He knew that Thomas had already experienced and acted upon his feelings. What was done was done. But he could still help Manik, by helping him to understand, by helping him to see from a higher and more detached perspective.

Manik was silent. Dr. Dhawan hoped that he had not jarred him from that doctor's lifetime by doing therapy aimed at a level of understanding beyond Thomas. He had not even found out the other event that had precipitated his depression.

What is the other thing causing your sadness?" he asked, trying to put the genie back into the bottle.

"My wife has left me," he answered. Dr. Dhawan was relieved to be talking to Thomas again.

"She has left you?" he repeated, encouraging him to elaborate.

"Yes," he answered sadly. "Our life was too difficult. We couldn't even have children. She went back to her family in Boston. . . . I'm very ashamed. ... I couldn't help her. I couldn't make her happy."

Dr. Dhawan did not even attempt therapy with Manik's higher mind at this time. Instead, he asked Thomas to move ahead in time to the next important event in that life. They could do the therapy later, as he reviewed this life while still in the hypnotized state, or even later, after he emerged from the hypnosis.

"I have a gun," he explained. "I'm going to shoot myself and end this misery!"

Dr. Dhawan suppressed the urge to ask him why he chose a gun and not one of the many medicines or poisons available to a doctor of that time. He had made his decision at least a century ago. The question itself was probably Dr. Dhawan's way of intellectualizing his despair, despair of such magnitude as to drive him to self-annihilation.

"What happens next?" he asked instead.

"I've done it," Manik said simply. "I've shot myself in the mouth, and now I can see my body. . . . So much blood! So much blood!" He had already left his body and was seeing it at a distance.

"How do you feel now?" asked Dr. Dhawan.

"Confused. . . . I'm still sad. . . . I'm so tired," he answered. "But I can't rest. Not yet. . . . Someone is here for me."

"Who is there?"

"I don't know. Someone very important. He has something to tell me."

"What does he tell you?"

"That I have lived a good life, until the end. I should not have ended my life. Yet he seems to know I would do what I did."

"Is there more?" asked Dr. Dhawan, pushing this paradox aside. The answer came directly at him now, in a more powerful voice. Was this Thomas, or Manik, or someone else? He flashed back momentarily to the Masters who spoke through Mukti. Except this was years later, and Mukti was not here.

"It is the reaching out with love to help another that is important, not the results. Reach out with love. That is all you need to do. Love one another. The results of reaching out with love are not the results you look for. Results to the physical body. You must heal the hearts of men."

Both physicians, Thomas and Dr. Dhawan, were being addressed, and they both listened raptly as the message continued. The voice was more powerful, more sure, more didactic than Manik's.

"I will teach you how to heal the hearts of men. You will understand. Love one another!"

They could both feel the force of these words as they were impressed into their being. The words were alive. They could never forget them.

Later, Manik told him that he vividly saw and heard everything that this luminous visitor communicated-words that danced with light as they bridged the space between them.

Dr. Dhawan had heard the same words. He was sure they were also meant for him. Important lessons leapt at him. Reach out with love and compassion, and do not worry so much about outcomes. Do not attempt to end your life before its natural time. A higher wisdom deals with outcomes and knows the time for all things. Free will and destiny coexist. Do not measure healing by physical results. Healing occurs at many levels, not just the physical, and real healing must occur at the heart level. Somehow Dr. Dhawan would learn about healing the hearts of men. Most of all: Love one another. Timeless wisdom, easily grasped but practiced by only a few.

His mind drifted back to Manik. Themes of separation and loss plagued his lifetimes. This time they had led him to suicide. He had been warned about not ending a life prematurely. But losses were occurring anew, and grief had returned. Would he remember or would hopeless despair overtake him once again?

Dr. Dhawan's POV -

How devastating it is to be a healer who cannot heal his patient. Nandini's "failure" in ancient Egypt. Manik's despair as Thomas, the Ohio physician. My own painful experiences as a healer.

My first frustration as a healer who could not stop the onslaught of a rampaging illness occurred more than twenty years ago during my very first clinical rotation as a third-year student at Yale Medical School. I began with paediatrics, and I was assigned to Danny, a seven-year-old boy with a large Wilms' tumour. This is a malignant tumour of the kidney that occurs almost exclusively in childhood. The younger the child, the better the prognosis. Seven was not considered young for this cancer.

Danny was the first real patient in my medical career. Prior to him, all of my experience had been in classrooms, lecture halls, laboratories, and sitting for endless hours in front of my textbooks. The third year began our clinical experience. We were assigned to hospital wards with real patients. Enough facts and theory. The time for practical application had arrived.

I had to draw Danny's blood for the laboratory tests, and I took care of all the minor procedures, called "scut work" by more advanced practitioners but very meaningful to third-year medical students.

Danny was a wonderful child, but our bond was even stronger and more special because he was my first patient.

Danny fought heroically. He had lost his hair from the powerful but toxic chemotherapy treatments. His belly was severely bloated. Yet he was rallying, and his parents and I took hope. A good percentage of children were able to recover from this type of malignancy at that time.

I was the youngest member of the treatment team. The medical student usually knew less clinical medicine than the intern, resident, or attending physician, all of whom were incredibly busy with their work. On the other hand, the medical student had more time to spend with the patient and family. In general, the medical student also placed a higher priority on getting to know the patient and his family. We would customarily be assigned to talk to the family or to convey messages to the patient.

Danny was my main patient, and I liked him a lot. I spent many hours sitting on the side of his bed, playing games, reading stories, or just talking. I admired his courage. I also spent time with his parents, frequently in Danny's dark and drab hospital room. We even ate together in the cafeteria. They were frightened but also encouraged by his rally.

Suddenly, Danny took a drastic turn for the worse. A dangerous respiratory infection overwhelmed his weakened immune system. He had difficulty breathing, and his usually bright eyes turned dull and glazed. I was shunted aside by the more senior members of the medical team. Antibiotics were started and stopped and changed, to no avail. Danny slid downhill. I stayed with his mother and father, feeling helpless and horrified. The illness won. Danny died.

I was too upset to spend more time with his parents, beyond a brief word and a hug. I identified with their pain as much as I could at that time. Three years later, when my own son died in a hospital, I understood even more. But at the time, I felt some vague responsibility for his death, as if I should have done something, anything, to avert it.

The "failure" to heal strikes at the very soul of every healer. I understood Thomas's despair.

Far fewer psychiatric patients die of their illnesses. Yet the inability to help a severely disturbed patient evokes chords of the same frustration and sense of helplessness.

When I was chairman of the Psychiatry Department at Mount Sinai, I treated a beautiful and talented woman in her thirties. A successful career woman, she had recently entered into a happy marriage. Gradually she became paranoid, and the paranoia was worsening despite medicines, despite therapy, despite every intervention. Neither I nor any consultant I called in could determine why, because her course and symptoms and tests were very atypical for schizophrenia, mania, or any other of the usual psychoses. She had begun to deteriorate soon after a trip to the Far East, and one test showed extremely high antibodies to a parasite. Still, no medical or psychiatric treatment helped, and she gradually worsened.

Again, I had felt the pangs of helplessness, the frustration of the healer who could not heal.

To reach out with love, to do your best and not be so concerned with results or outcomes, that is the answer. This simple concept, ringing so true to me, is the balm of understanding that healers need. In a sense, I had reached out with love to Danny, and he had reached back to me.

***

NEXT: Nandini recalls being torn away from husband in an ancient life in China. Or is it Mongolia?

Superb update and a great message
We all can practice this message
Reach out with love & care don't think about the results
Eagerly waiting for the next part
Update soon
Thanks for pm

AWESOMEE! AMAZINGG..Loved this chapter very much.Thank you for helping me.Update soon.

Nandini was frustrated and despondent. Her new relationship had lasted for only two dates. Aryaman was avoiding her. She had known him casually for more than a year, through work. He was successful and handsome and shared many of her interests. He told her that his long-term affair with a married woman had just ended. Aryaman had had several short-term relationships with other women, but there always seemed to be something lacking in these women. According to him, they would turn out to be superficial or unintelligent or not share his values, and he would end the relationships. His married lover would always accept him back. Her husband was rich, but their relationship lacked passion. She would not leave her husband and their affluent life.

"You're different from the others," Aryaman swore to Nandini. "We have so much more in common." He told Nandini that she was more intelligent than any of the others, more beautiful, that he knew their relationship could last.

Nandini convinced herself that Aryaman was right. "He was there all the time, and I never really noticed," she thought. "Sometimes the answer is right in front of your eyes and you never see it."

She forgot that the reason she never really noticed Aryaman and his good looks was that she never felt a chemistry with him. She was lonely and desperate for a man's arms. She listened to her head and ignored her heart's warning.

Their first date was very promising. They went out for a casual dinner, a good movie, and intimate conversation while watching the wind-whipped waves on the beach under the cool light of a nearly full moon. "I could fall in love with you," he told her, teasing her with a promise that would never be fulfilled. Her head carefully heard every word, ignoring the lack of response from her heart.

The second date seemed fine. She had a good time, and she sensed that he did, too. His affection seemed genuine, and he hinted at sex in the future. But he never called back.

Finally she called him. He said that he wanted to see her again but that he was very busy, and it was difficult to pick an exact time. He assured her he had not had a change of heart. He did want to see her; he just couldn't tell her when.

"Why do I always pick losers?" she asked Dr. Dhawan. "What's wrong with me?"

"You don't pick losers," he told her. "Here's a handsome and successful man who told you he was interested and available. Don't blame yourself."

Dr. Dhawan didn't say so, but inwardly, he knew she was right. She was picking losers, in this case an emotional loser. It turned out he could not leave the safety of his married lover. He chose to remain dependent and "safe." Nandini became the victim of his fear and his lack of courage. Better now than later, thought Dr. Dhawan. Nandini was strong; she would recover.

Nandini asked if they still had time to attempt a regression. She could sense something important was near the surface, and she was anxious to find it, so we proceeded.

After she emerged in an ancient past life, Dr. Dhawan was not sure if they had made the right decision.

She saw a land of broad, rolling plains and flat-topped hills. A land of yak like animals and small agile horses, of large rounded tents and nomadic wanderers. It was a land of passion, and it was a land of violence.

Her husband was away with most of the other men, hunting or raiding. The enemy struck, flying in on waves of horses against the depleted defenders. Her husband's parents were killed first, hacked down by broad, razor-sharp swords. Her baby was killed next, gutted by a spear. A shudder convulsed her spirit. She wanted to die, too, but such was not her destiny. Captured by the young warriors because of her beauty, she became the property of the strongest of the invading horde. A few other young women were also spared.

"Let me die!" she pleaded to her captor, but he would not allow it.

"You are mine now," he said simply. "You will live in my tent, and you will be my wife."

Except for her husband, whom she would never see again, all her loved ones were dead. She had no choice. She attempted to escape several times, only to be quickly caught. Her suicide attempts were similarly thwarted.

She hardened herself, and her depression turned into a constant smouldering anger, devouring her capacity to love. Her spirit withered, and she merely existed, a hardened heart trapped in a living body. No jail could be as confining or as cruel.

"Let's go back in time," suggested Dr. Dhawan. "Let's go back before your village was raided." I counted back from three to one.

"What do you see?" he asked. Her face was now serene and peaceful as she remembered the early years, growing up, laughing and playing with the man she would eventually marry. She loved this childhood friend dearly, and he returned this love to her. She was at peace.

"Do you recognize this man you married? Look into his eyes."

"No, I don't," she finally answered.

"Look at the others in your village. Do you recognize anyone?"

She looked carefully at her relatives and friends in that lifetime.

"Yes . . . yes, my mother is there!" Nandini gasped happily. "She is the mother of my husband. We are very close. When my own mother died, she took me in as a daughter. I recognize her!"

"Do you recognize anyone else?" he inquired.

"She lives in the largest tent, with the flags and white feathers," she answered, ignoring his question.

Her face darkened.

"They killed her, too!" she lamented, jumping back to the massacre.

"Who killed her? Where did they come from?"

"From the east, from beyond the wall. . . .This is where they have taken me."

"Do you know the name of their land?"

She pondered this question. "No. It seems to be somewhere in Asia, in the northern part. Maybe the west of China. . . . We have oriental features."

"It's okay," he responded. "Let's move ahead in time within that lifetime. What happens to you?"

"I was finally allowed to kill myself, after I had grown older and was not so attractive anymore," she answered, without much emotion. "I think they grew tired of me," she added.

She was floating now, having left her body.

Dr. Dhawan asked her to review her life. "What do you see? What were the lessons? What did you learn?"

Nandini was silent for a few moments. And then she answered, "I learned many things. I learned of anger and the foolishness of holding on to anger. I could have worked with the younger children, with the old ones, with the sick ones, in the enemy's town. I could have taught them. . . . I could have loved them... but I never allowed myself to love. I never allowed myself to let my anger dissipate. I never allowed myself to open my heart once again. And these children, at least, were innocent. They were souls entering into this world. They had nothing to do with the raid, with the deaths of my loved ones. And yet I blamed them, too. I carried the anger even to the new generations, and this is foolish. It could hurt them, but most of all it harmed me. . . . . I never permitted myself to love again." She paused. "And I had much love to give."

She paused again and then seemed to speak from an even higher source.

"Love is like a fluid," she began. "It fills up crevices. It fills empty spaces of its own accord. It is we, it is people who stop it by erecting false barriers. And when love cannot fill our hearts and our minds, when we are disconnected from our souls, which consist of love, then we all go crazy."

Dr. Dhawan considered her words. He knew that love was important, perhaps even the most important thing in the world. But it had never dawned on him that the absence of love could cause us to lose our minds.

He remembered the famous monkey experiments of the psychologist, Dr. Harry Harlow, in which young monkeys deprived of touching, of nurturing, of love became completely asocial, physically ill, or even died. They could not survive intact without it. Loving is not an option. It is a necessity.

He turned back to Nandini. "Look ahead in time. How does what you learned then affect you now? And how can this learning, how can this remembering, help you in your current life to feel happier, more peaceful, more loving?"

"I must learn to let go of anger, to not hold it in, to recognize it, recognize its roots and let it go. I must feel free to love, to not hold back, and yet I still search. I haven't found someone to love completely, unconditionally. There always seems to be a problem."

She fell silent for half a minute. Suddenly she was speaking with a voice much deeper and slower than usual. The room felt very cold.

"God is one," she began. She struggled for words. "It is all one vibration, one energy. The only difference is the rate of vibration. So God and people and rocks have the same relationship as steam and water and ice. Everything, all that is, is made up of the one. Love breaks down the barriers and creates unity. That which creates barriers and creates separateness and differences is ignorance. You must teach them these things."

That was the end of the message. Nandini was resting.

Dr. Dhawan thought of Mukti's messages, which seemed so similar to Nandini's. Even the room felt cold when Mukti would relay these messages, much as the room felt cold with Nandini. He pondered her words. Healing is the act of bringing together, removing the barriers. Separation is what causes harm. Why is it so difficult for people to grasp this concept?

***

NEXT: Dr. Dhawan realizes the connection between Manik and Nandini.

A feeling of familiarity, of interest, overwhelmed Manik. His concentration was riveted on Nandini as she opened a book. He watched her hair, her hands, how she sat and moved, and she seemed so familiar to him. He had seen her momentarily in the waiting room, but why this level of familiarity? They must have met before the time in the office. He racked his brain to find the hidden memory of where.

Nandini felt herself being watched, but this often happened to her. She tried to concentrate on her reading. Concentration was difficult after all the hastily changed plans, but the meditation training had helped. She was able to clear her mind and focus on her book.

The feeling of being watched persisted. She looked up and saw Manik staring at her.

***

Woohoo.Wow.It was superb.I'm waiting waiting WAITING for the next chapter.Update soon and thank you for the pm.