CYCLES

CYCLES

Kerala

Chapter 1.

I was born on a night in Kerala and that Kerala night gave me it’s color. I was wrapped within a blanket of darkness and the darkness never left me. I was born to meditate on love, a mystery that can take numerous lifetimes to appreciate.

Moths danced upon a flickering oil lamp as my pregnant mother screamed upon the galaxy and rats came to steal from my grandmother’s cupboard. As for the cow with only one horn, with its sacred eyes that never closed. Well, it simply lay there, munching its hay, munching and munching, and shaking its one-horned head with ferocity.

When I was born, my poor mother shouted as if she were possessed, flinging curses so severe and sharp all the butterflies trembled away in panic.

Oh yes, and there were mosquitoes who heard the scream. Millions of mosquitoes swept through the coconut trees, overflowing and blanketing our hill. They had swept all over the land, sucking the blood of all that slept, for Kerala nights were very sleepy.

My poor, sweet mother swayed her head in labor and spoke in strange tongues. As for me, I rolled about sleepily in her amniotic sac, sucking my tender thumb and gently extended my toes.

When my mother opened her quick eyes and saw the thatched roof, wet and heavy from the rains, she imagined the roof would explode into wood, green leaves, and blue winds upon her face. I was a whirling torrent inside her womb, tormenting her with kicks and punches. The Hindu midwives surrounded her and attempted to calm her panicking body. Within my mother’s womb, time was moving sluggishly. Now and then I would kick my mother and then I would laugh heartily (it was hilarious at that age, playing within the womb).

Sometimes I would shout so loud many rats came scampering with renewed excitement to steal from my grandmother’s cupboard. And the cow with eyes that never closed? Well, it simply refused to blink, munching on its hay, munching and munching, and shaking its one horned head melodiously as my mother yelled in agony, cursing the biblical Eva for biting that distant forbidden fruit.

At first, I was afraid I might be alone, but then I felt the breath of another child breathing on my glossy neck. I turned my face sideways to watch this tiny creature. I observed her innocent and curious face, her black diamond eyes, and hand’s that floated and danced in that steaming pool of creation. Her legs swam over her umbilical cord as she felt the walls for an opening through which to escape. It is incredible when I think of it now, that before life began, she was with me— like two tiny, cellular structures pounding for life from the heart of one mother. Smiling, she introduced herself to me, with a “Hey you.”

“Yes?” I replied.

“How are you, brother?” she asked.

“Fine. And who are you?”

“Well, I’m your sister, silly! So, what’s your name?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “They haven’t given one. If they have, they’ve kept me quite in the dark about it.”

Then we were silent because we didn’t really know what else to say, and because we had no idea why we were there. It was a silence that lasted for a long time, in which I could do nothing but stare at the walls of tissue.

What was this bizarre place? I’ll admit I was, indeed, a bit fearful, and this sister beside me with her note of concern, was a witness to my fear.

Oh yes, friend (nod, nod), it’s true.

I was so afraid I cried like a baby (now my sister nods her head as well to tell you that what I’m saying is true).

‘He really was crying like a little baby’ she says chuckling.

So, my sister started to tell jokes to cheer me up and made me laugh. It was from the voice of my sister telling me the jokes of the unborn, to uplift my worried posture, that I first understood humor. I started giggling in utopian bliss at her outspoken, silly thoughts. Well, she really was such a comical sister. Unknown to my mother, she kept us both giggling and weeping in that womb.

At one of her jokes, I beat my hands on the floor of tissue, held my chuckling belly, crying with laughter, shouting to my sister with outstretched palms, “Sister, oh sister, please stop. I don’t want to die laughing!”

Annamma, our mother, started screaming from the pain of my drumming hands. Her shriek made me jumpy, because I was afraid for my life. (Birth is a precarious matter, I knew that even then) This caused my sister to crack even funnier jokes, causing me to pour forth even more laughter, pounding my hands even wilder, bringing tears to our mother’s face in a treacherous and mad cycle that left my mother crying, on and on and on.

Eda, I was so confused about this cycle of life and death!

Our grandmother Aradhana walked away with helplessness written across her face, past the figurine of an aching Yesu Christu hanging on a cross upon the blue wall, toward the framed portrait of our uncle, the Colonel Sidhardha before he was shot down, whilst dueling the daring terrorists of Sri Lanka. His uniform, shining with medals, hung on a hanger beside the door.

Outside, the angels of our ancestors skipped and hopped about the hidden magical forest of darkness. From inside our mother’s womb, I heard the adults talk. Sometimes I grew serious, when I heard the adults speak of E.M.S. Namboodiripad and his Marxist faction of the Kerala Communist Party, or when they spoke of the war with Pakistan. My sister listens in unusual interest, listening to angry words. From inside our mother’s womb, I shouted, and I screamed! I tried to tell them that violence was not an answer and that humanity was equal, not in poverty, but in opportunity. That we should never end up the bitter prisoners of our own shame! The adults kept talking as though we would never be born, while the same one horned descendent of that Indus cow shook its sacred head in a dreamy magic to our realism.

In those silent moments with my sister inside our mother’s womb, I sat and pondered over many fleeting thoughts. What sort of world would society leave us? Would they burn it down before we have a chance to view its diverse marvels? Would they craft enemies that we must inherit? Would they set up destructive rules that we must pass on to other generations, or would we inherit a social contract that is fair and just to all, without regard to poverty or wealth? When did this evil of bitterness and hate begin? Did it exist amongst the first humans, bracing down the branches of trees with small circles of stones to provide them a hut, and exploding the red sparks of fire that would propel their progeny to great civilizations? In the end, I came to the conclusion that justice and love was an evolution to all humankind - devoid of national boundaries - to be guarded from the cruel ignorance of our own kind.

But my sister had a different idea, one of fury and kindheartedness for those were outside of the caste structure, who had been hurt by historic wrongs, and she proclaimed that it was not just.

‘But let us take things into perspective’ I tell her.

‘No’ argues my sister ‘I need to get out of this sac and do something about these capitalist!’

I was about to explain to her that things were far more complicated than that, that capitalism worked, that she should calm down, when I felt a vibration within my mother’s sac. The embryonic walls rumbled. I looked over to my sister and asked her, “Did you feel that sister?”

“Feel what, brother?” my sister replies angrily.

“That vibration!” I spoke. “I think it was a shaking.”

“Please brother kutta, stop making up stories. I didn’t feel a thing!”

“I’m not making up stories. I felt a tremor! I think it is time, sister, for our leap into that vast mystery of this sacred universe!”

My sister stared at me, puzzled, rolled her eyes, and in an annoyed tone, asked “Really now, why must you always talk like that?”

Then, a louder earthquake knocked her into silence. Her thoughtful eyes darted around in fear, blinking with questions, and then she looked over to me.

“See?” I answered the unasked question in my sister’s eyes. “I wasn’t making it up!”

“Oh my,” she whispered to me in fear, staring back at the walls of tissue which shuddered from the vibrations. “It’s happening, and one may not survive.”

She decided then that if one must survive, it would be her. Our sac tore, opening a narrow tunnel into another world so dazzling we were forced to shut our eyes. Within the realms of that fantastic creation, we suddenly understood instinctively what it was that we must do. There was a cruel yet necessary gene in our body named Survival that was activated by this light. It was this gene that told us our mission in life, which is to survive or perish.

We clashed within the womb to be the first one out. It was never personal, simply the business of Survival. We fought like capitalists and communists, like young tigers, like the metal depictions of those fearsome tigers waiting to pounce, as seen on the imperial seals of the mighty Chola dynasty, that invincible empire of dangerous Tamil warriors who destroyed their enemies as quickly as their craftsman could build them those terrifying battle axes. With hateful ferocity, we clashed and gnawed, clawing and biting each other’s necks. Like maniacs, our eyes began to burn with the hunger to win. In our battles, we shook our mother’s womb into a froth of blood. Like warriors, we cut each other down. We were amazed at the unlimited capacity of our cruelty. We were surprised, sad, and hurt that our friends could suddenly become our enemies, breaking into tears because we did not really want to fight. We continued gnashing each other, still unaware that love was meant for all.

You don’t believe me, do you?

You say I am a liar?

Do you insist on your scientific claim that there is no such thing as a survival gene? Do you think that I am making it all up? That the unborn child has not yet developed a consciousness to even consider such things as love or survival?

Just ask my mother, and she’ll tell you herself.

“True, true, true,” she screams to the midwives. “These mad children are at war. I know because I feel it in the hollow of my bones.”

Survival directed me to think for myself, even in the darkness and magic of the womb. For many years, I would attempt to deny this in order to calm my conscience, to keep myself human and allow myself the power of moral authority.

When I tried to reach for life, my sister pulled me by my leg and dragged me back inside like a barbarian, for she had in her blood the remnants of a Stone Age Queen, and she reached out to the precipice of new beginnings, smiled triumphantly back at me with her black diamond eyes, and leapt into the whirlpool of life. She swam through a blue midnight tunnel that was full of stars, meteors, moons, and memories. She was the Bharatanatyam dancer, Soney Rajeshwari, who danced electrified in a temple and seduced men with the flash of her eyes. She entered that strange ether the ancient alchemists claimed could allow my sister to float on a red carpet over the golden deserts like an Arabian princess and my sister came out as a baby in shining tears, overjoyed to see the colorful beauty of this new universe.

Her quest to revolt against the world had commenced.

There were smiles on the faces of the midwives as they took my shrill whimpering sister up into the air. My grandmother smiled, her chubby cheeks a sign of pride.

“Karthav” she called to God with outstretched palms. “Death is her destiny. Grant her the love to survive this life.”

My grandmother Aradhana looked up towards the ants crawling over the metal-framed portrait of her son, the Colonel Sidhardha, who had once led young men toward ethereal dream valleys of red apples and children’s blood. She studied his calm, almond eyes and his Kerala-brown skin that fought the cruel bandits of the Deccan Plateau, wrestled mighty giants along the solitary deserts of Rajasthan, and battled ghostly insects in the dreamy jungles of the savage Sundarbans. In the portrait, the Colonel was wearing his uniform, with the green and black military hat of a warrior. In his eyes were the look of a sailor in a far-off tumultuous sea. His portrait hung beside the window, directed toward the magical forest of darkness where mynah birds with saffron melodies hid behind colossal colorful flowers.

As the last of the ants fled from the portrait, their antennae still weld like thin black swords, my grandmother thought the Colonel was immensely handsome in that portrait. His arms were folded, and his eyes searched for many distant memories, which had become saturated in his mind and added to his personal solitude. You see, his large red heart, beat to a different rhythm than other men. It is said that he had been around the world on a ghost ship whose sails were torn by the harsh winds of the South China Sea, and that he had seen the souls of men as they drowned themselves in the solitude and bitterness of memories.

“Oho, listen,” one of the midwives proclaimed. “It’s a girl.”

’Is the baby huge?” Aradhana asked

“Why no, a tiny one,” the midwife replied with a smile.

“Such a strange thing.” Aradhana said. “The way she was, it seemed the baby would be very large.”

The midwife blinked her eyes with a questionable thought and became slightly confused at this tiny absurdity. She noticed the other midwife (the one with pretty eyes) placing a steel cone on my mother’s belly. This midwife put her ear to one end of the cone and looked confused.

“I hear another heartbeat!” she said, her pretty eyes flickering in astonishment. They all gasped and fretted and stammered, asking the same question that E.M.S. Nampoodiripad had asked the poor and illiterate of the state. “What is to be done?”

Oh great E.M.S. Namboodiripad! Wise man of the poor!

Great leader of the Kerala Communist party! Zindabad! You represent the early blood and fire of Kerala, dear Sarai. His awesome voice came through my grandmother’s dusty old Phillips radio, placed on the table beside the door. It was huge, the size of a suitcase. It seemed to vibrate, and then it started to shake with the rhythm of E.M.S.’s voice.

Violent now.

“What is to be done?” E.M.S. Namboodiripad asked the poor

and illiterate of the state. “About poverty and illiteracy?

About the laksa prabhus—the rich who get richer and richer?”

Now the radio shook and trembled, vibrating with the terrible

anger of one man. Somewhere in an auditorium lit by a

storming sun, Kerala’s mythical leader E.M.S. Namboodiripad

stood, showing his bronze face to the world.

“What is to be done,” he roared, “of the oppression of the voices? What is to be done of the systemic wiping away of our wealth? The annihilation of our dignity? The decadence of the rich? Who took it all away from us, and why?”

The intellectuals of Kerala, sitting white haired with sharp eyes,

stared at him with pent-up anger and nodded randomly in

agreement.

“Are we not left with bitterness?’ E.M.S. shouted at them

slapping the air with his battle-scarred palms. “Of course, we

are. And hate? Have you not been left with pure crystallized hate? Has this not been the case for the last two hundred years? The sheer humiliation of this, of our homes, our schools, our poverty? Where in this land do you see the glory that is meant for all of India, not just the overindulged children of the wealthy?”

Far away, hands waved with hate. Outraged fists beat on the

metal of their chairs, as though they had just seen Soney Rajeshwari, the pretty Bharatanatyam dancer of Kerala, whose graceful dance of the Nagini, princess of the torrential snakes, were meant to create hurt in the hearts of men.

“We can do this!” the great leader shouted back. Many

distant angry voices drowned out his voice, as they called out to

him, shouting to E.M.S. to tell it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

“We can make Kerala into the glory it once was! We can

survive our bitter memories! Our shame! We can lead for all of Kerala, and for all of India! There is no reason to live in these miserable swamps of humiliation! Do our lives mean nothing? Are our lives not worth celebrating as well? Where in this country do we see the dignity of our lives?”

Can you hear the people rise from their blue, metal seats calling out to him? These snowy white-haired old men being led

to the Communist Paradise. They shouted with thunderous

applause for this cult of a man. Each clap higher than the

previous. Can you see the thin, bearded photographer from The Times of India, exploding flashes as he crawled sideways, never taking his focus off this cult of a man, this Brahman man who decided to destroy the India I wanted, whom some would say would give Kerala its greatest gift, the highest literacy level in the world for any state of a nation? All this Kerala politics could also be credited for perpetuating the Bandh and Zindabad madness that would destroy the lives of these people for the next few decades (or even those frightening times of the Naxalites, when young Maoists would roam the hills of Kerala, searching for all the titled nobility. They did this so they could pull them into a solitary forest, cut their throats, and leave their bodies to decay in the rivers). But enough of these politicians and revolutions that eventually became just that - a murderous and humorless class war tamasha.

While the communists scattered throughout Kerala shouting

“Inquilab Zindabad” in festive shouts that reminded one of the

overthrows of dictatorships, explaining to illiterate villagers

that E.M.S. Namboodiripad had a vision for Kerala. That in this

vision, he saw that he would bring back glorious days for the

poor of Kerala.

At that same time, back in my mother’s womb, I had a thought, one that was more frightening than love or birth or death. I called it solitude. I reasoned that at the rate things were moving, I would be stuck within this womb forever. I was afraid that without someone to talk to, I would shrivel and die, never to love anyone, and never to know love. Oh eda, I could not hold my fear back for much longer and I yelled, and I kicked my mother. I swam, rotating in that sac of amniotic fluids, searching for a way out of solitude, while blue bubbles floated about me. My mother screamed a long velvet echo, and the midwives revolved and revolved in ritual around her, like blood sucking vampires around a sacrificial prey, singing a phantasmagoric midnight song.

My poor sweet mother, how I hurt her that night. Please do not blame me! Anybody would have snapped after what I felt. Eda, I was so frightened and vulnerable. My legs were wobbling. My heart was racing. I was so scared I felt like pissing. I felt an exploding pressure between my legs, and I crimped my legs together like a wet towel and my face turned blue. The ocean arrived to suck me away into its whirlpool of light and liberation—that blue midnight tunnel through which I saw the twinkling stars and a burning comet, the hate of men and the revolutions of history. One world as it truly is—an oval marble of blue and white clouds floating oblivious of EMS and the hate and hurt of history. Speedily into a black ocean of infinite space that according to one school of astronomical thought, expanded and contracted, expanded and contracted, in continuous cycles, I was welcomed into the world. Like the rhythmic hands of that pretty Bharatanatyam dancer, my tenderness Soney Rajeshwari, dancing in her blue midnight sari with golden borders, with the melody of her ankle bells quietly tinkling as she took quick steps forward in the red sacred temple where she served as the most palatial dancer in all of Kerala, I was welcomed into the world with clasped hands in Namaste, as I reached a dusty room of wooden beds and cheap red saris, where pretty midwives took hold of me, raised me to the still air, and completed their phantasmagoric song with a resolute announcement.

“Look here Edi, it’s a boy. Oh, so cute, no?” My grandmother was relieved and allowed herself to breathe. She prays to Karthav.

It was while she was praying that my own sense of disorientation was disturbed and I felt that sensation between my newborn legs and I pissed (Oh, how embarrassing what your fear can make you do. Really now, how long can you keep it all in?)

I sprayed right into the midwife’s face, and she gave out a “What? Who? Huh?” She didn’t think I was very cute anymore. She handed me to my grandmother. Well, I really wanted to be with my grandmother anyway—that ancient woman whom I knew only from the tone of a voice speaking from the other side of my mother’s womb.

My grandmother took hold of me from those silly midwives and her silver, wet hair fell on me. She carried me close to her bosom, and I wanted to sleep there forever. Outside, the dead leaves were swirling into a soft whirlwind, playing the same songs my grandmother whispered into my newborn ears like some quiet orchestra of the most silent bansuri flutes. It was the same quiet song that Gandhi heard as he treads the villages of India, as he bent down in the beaches of Dandi to break salt and defy an Empire. Was there some grinning sitarist who played for the students of Travancore as they took to the streets on strike to protest, when civil disobedience electrified the cities of Trivandrum and Kottayam? What ensemble was performed for Sri Narayana Guru, seated cross-legged at the entry of the Vaikom temple, as he preached against the evils of caste with outstretched palms? Did anyone hear that melody, when the first Muslims entered India through the Malabar coasts of Kerala, to trade with their ancient ships bringing Islam to India, giving us Muslim neighbors and brothers and sisters to spread the words of the Prophet (peace be upon him)? Did the mountains sing for that lonely Pandit meditating on the icy slopes of the Himalayas, tiny swastikas carved on the rock boulders on both sides of him? Is it not said that it was hope and meditation from which sprung our Vedic Indian culture?

There was the note of that poignant sitar again, reaffirmed by the weeping of my sister, her tiny lips yawning like that of a kitten, and those winding dirt roads of Kerala where the lovers of Goa have arrived to sing sad songs to each other. Every time you see those flying pigeons of Kashmir (it’s snowing in magical Kashmir) flapping over the winds, who are said to be at such peace with this fascinating tribe in this valley, that they have learned to feed from outstretched palms, you can also hear that same song of love and hope said to have been sung by Saint Thomas, the Apostle

And, oh, drum that tabla, as we talk of that same Saint Thomas, the doubter, who touched the holy wounds of Yesu Christu, the Nasrani, and then believed he had been crucified, and that he was resurrected on the third day, as he was swept into the beaches of Kerala almost two thousand years ago to bring Christianity to India. The Emperor Shah Jahan sang it to himself as he lay dying in the Red Fort beside the wicked ants, staring out to his Taj Mahal, still whispering the songs of affection from his lips for his beloved Mumtaz Mahal who slept like a dead Empress under that marble monument.

Did my grandmother understand it, as the mote dust that hung in the airless room became a fog of chocolate that sang for us to sleep? When the legendary merchants of Gujarat arrived in Kerala to trade with the Amazing Jews of Cochin, almost two millennia ago, battling merciless storms and terrible pirates, did they lose faith or hope? Is it not said that they climbed the mast of their merchant vessels to yell of their dharma, and hope, and truth, and honor, as the ancient storms rocked the darkest oceans, hollering the same ballads of love my grandmother sang for me?

Now that my sister and I are born, may I proceed to introduce ourselves? My name for this life will be Amal, which means hope, and I am the nephew of the Colonel Sidhardha, the legendary hero of India. My sister here who has the annoying habit of rolling her eyes has been named Kripa, which means blessing, because she was born with her hands clasped in prayer. Then again, being an Indian, it could have been a Namaste (or Namaskaram as we say it in the South).

As for my mother, she lay unmoving on the bed, her thin lips parted and frozen forever, her eyes gazing at the peaceful, still thatched roof. The midwives closed her eyes, for she had departed for the valley of the dead to await judgement.

As for my grandmother, she did what she had done all these millenniums. She wept a few tears for her daughter. But she was a strong woman of Kerala and death was not new to her. She walked outside the house with a tired sigh on her face, past the zigzagging voyage of the talking ants. Then, with her broom made of dried coconut leaves, Aradhana began to sweep away the saffron leaves that gathered about our porch throughout the previous night.

Chapter 2

Death in Kerala

We were was shot dead when we were still young. When we were shot, our souls jumped out of our bodies. As spirits, we had looked at our death, laid upon our ancestral home, and we were astonished our existence continued. Our souls remained while Varghese, John, and Kumar’s (who were the other Naxalites) souls escaped to reincarnate for the next life.

Kripa’s body rested still beside the window, as the soldiers of the Indian army rushed in. Her camouflage uniform of the Naxalites was bloodied with bullet wounds and she was holding her rifle. As for me, my body was in the kitchen, resting on the poems of Jorge Louis Borges, that I was reading when they started shooting.

I was not even part of this Naxalite movement. I was against it, in fact. I was just reading, and they shot me too.

I had tried my best to convince Kripa of the danger of her ways, that violence was not the way. But she would not listen, and now we were both dead.

It was the army, led by our uncle, the Colonel Sidhardha, who had finally destroyed Kripa’s movement. They had arrived from all over the hill. They moved in five squads, surrounding the hill, while Kripa were still asleep.

‘It’s time for our reincarnation’ says Kripa

‘But I’m not ready to move on’ I explained ’Soney is still in this life.

Kripa sat next to me, as soldiers ransacked the ancestral house, searching for arms, and she said she was sorry about Soney.

‘What now?’ Kripa had asked ‘Are we going to heaven now?’

We were just sitting there when an angel appeared before us. He said his name was Shajan, and he was the angel of Justice.

‘You cannot go to heaven for you have sinned. Not only did you kill your mother, you were very violent. You see, you will keep reincarnating until you the day you truly love again.’

Love can take many lifetimes to truly appreciate.

I thought of Soney Rajeshwari then, a lower caste Dalit and I remember her eyes.

I had bumped into her before her performance.

Shajan asks ’Are you ready for your next life?

‘We are’

‘I will allow you two to remember each life time, he explained, but remember, the only way to escape the cycle of reincarnation is to love.’

Then, with a snap of his finger, we just disappeared.

We knew what we needed to do. We needed to love someone. Only then could we break the cycle of reincarnation and join our mother in heaven.

CHAPTER 3

ATLANTA

At early dawn, two stars glinted above a hospital in the vigorous city of Atlanta.

We were in our mothers womb.

I was black and my sister was white, because our mother was white and our father was black.

In our womb, we saw the dna string which created us, and in the DNA was our history.

We saw our European history, titled and nobles, and it was a long history. But when we considered our African history, it was empty but for the slaves on ships.

Somewhere a white ballerina dances.

This upset my sister, as we heard Malcolm X being played on the TV.

My sister was so angry, inspired by Malcom X that she started a rumble in that womb.

I tried to tell her to calm down, that it was a lot more complicated than this, but she would not listen. She was just being passionate., Then we escaped the womb, and as we escaped, our mother died. We were named Jacob and Kadeesha.

Chapter 4

We were shocked we were dead. Our dead souls witnessed the riots in Chicago between Nazi’s and the African American community. It was the police, under the Captain Sidhardha, who started shooting everyone, and we were killed as well.

I was black, but open minded about the world. Kadeesha was white but decided she needed to prove her blackness.

Kadeesha had joined the Nation of Islam

I had fallen in love with a white ballerina.

I wanted to tell her, and my soul regretted that I never told her.

But at the time, it was unacceptable, and I could not fight my times.

Then Shajan appeared and asked if we had done something out of love?

We said no, and we reincarnated.

Chapter 5

Germany

Birth

I was born into a bamberg morning and that bamberg morning gave me it’s color. I was wrapped within a blanket of whiteness and that whiteness never left me. I was born to meditate on love, a mystery that can take numerous lifetimes to appreciate.

I was born with blue eyes and blonde hair. My sister was a redhead with brown eyes.

I was in love with the dancing girl in the club.

We heard a politician in Germany talk of being hippies and spreading love. My name was Jude and my sister was Katrina.

CHAPTER 6

Death in Germany

In Germany, we saw our dead bodies in a club in berlin.

We had overdosed on drugs. I tried to tell Katrina not to follow the wrong crowd, but she did not listen.

She was doing plenty of drugs, and I tried it as well. That’s how we died.

I just regret not giving the dancing girl in the club, that I loved her, she was jewish, and I felt she would not accept me.

What jewish girl? Asked Katrina

‘The dancing girl in the club’ in answered

‘Cant you see?’ asks Katrina… maybe Soney had been reincarnating as well? Perhaps she is the love you musty unlock?

Shajan appeared, and asked us if we unlocked love? We said no, so we reincarnated yet again.

Chapter 7

birth in latin america

We were born again in Latin America…

This time, the dancing girl was salsa dancer.

We were born latin.

My sisters name was Maria and my name was Jorge,

Maria agreed that we should find the Salsa dancer.

Chapter 8

Death in latin america

We looked over our dead bodies, ridden with bullets.

We found out that the salsa dancer was the daughter of the mafia.

We had approached the salsa dancer for her love,

The salsa dancer said it was true, that she had memories of past lives….

…. But we ended up being killed by the mob

Chapter 9

Birth in Japan

We were born in Japan, and our names were….?

Here the pop star was the girl.

Chapter 10

We end up killed by the Yakuza. Though we fought for life.

Chapter 11

We were born in South Africa

We go against conventions of the time, and we marry the African woman even though we are white.

Chapter 12

We discover we have reached heaven and had finally broke the cycle of birth and death.