Venerated Guru,
Thousands of bow downs to you!
My heart is shattered, my soul lost, and my spirit yearns for solace. I beseech you, compassionate mentor, to illuminate the path forward, that I may find healing, redemption, and peace. 
31st of March 2025,
A vision that shook me.
As I closed my eyes, I was transported to a life beyond my own. I found myself standing before a massive wooden door, adorned with intricate carvings, in a 16th-century monastery. With a gentle push, the door creaked open, revealing a serene courtyard. My gaze fell upon a majestic statue of Lord Buddha, radiating peace and tranquility. I wore the simple yet vibrant orange robes of a monk, and as I walked towards the statue, I noticed my students seated on either side of me, their small desks and open books a testament to our daily chanting sessions.
But my heart sank as I realized the kind of teacher I was. I was a man consumed by cruelty, belittling my young students for even the slightest mistakes. The fear in their eyes still haunts me, as they trembled with each harsh word. Among them was one student in particular, a fragile soul who bore the brunt of my wrath. I’d mock him mercilessly, leaving him in tears, begging for mercy. Yet, I showed him none.
The memory of that little boy still haunts me. The weight of my cruelty crushed his fragile spirit, and one fateful day, he couldn’t bear the pain anymore. He rose from his seat, walked out of the monastery, and ran to the edge of the hilltop. With a desperate leap, he plunged off the cliff, sacrificing his young life.
His mother’s anguish still echoes in my mind. “You monster,” she cried, her eyes brimming with tears. “You should have never been allowed near my child.” Her words cut deep, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the karma that had brought us together again in this life.
The little boy who took his own life is now my husband, and the woman he’s having an affair with, is his mother from that past life. It’s as if the universe has conspired to make me confront my past mistakes. I’m filled with regret, and all I can do is offer a feeble apology to the mother and son.
As I pray fervently, I hope that my husband will find it in his heart to forgive me and return to me. I yearn for redemption, for a chance to make amends for the pain I inflicted upon an innocent child. The weight of my past actions threatens to consume me, and I’m left with nothing but tears and sorrow.
As I sit in silence, reflecting on my past, I hear the whispers of my conscience. “Can you truly change?” “Yes.” I’ve undergone a profound transformation. I’ve become a beloved and respected teacher, cherished by my students and peers alike. I’ve made a conscious effort to positively impact the lives of those I teach, and I’ve been able to make a meaningful difference.
This transformation wasn’t accidental; it was a promise I made to myself and to the young soul who tragically took his own life. At my own deathbed, I vowed to redeem myself, to use my experiences to become a better, more compassionate person. I’ve kept that promise, and it has brought me a sense of peace and purpose.
My heart aches as I gaze at my husband, once the embodiment of love and care, now estranged from me. The chasm between us seems insurmountable, and I’m left wondering if he’ll ever be able to look beyond the shadows of the past. Can he forgive me for the pain I inflicted in that lifetime? The memory of that life weighs heavily on my conscience, a stark reminder of the harm inflicted by my own hands. a burden I can hardly bear. In that moment, I yearn for forgiveness, not just from my students, but from myself. The weight of my longing to make amends threatens to consume me, but I’m uncertain about the path to redemption.
In desperation, I turn to my Guru, Dr. Venu Murthy, seeking solace and guidance. I yearn for his wisdom to help me navigate this treacherous terrain and find a way to heal the wounds of the past. As I pour out my heart to him, I pray that he’ll lead me to the peace that has eluded me ever since this event was revealed to me.
