I took a trip to Florida with my family when I was 7 years-old.
The details have gone fuzzy but the highlight reel remains:
We travelled by train; I remember the grandeur of the old Penn Station in New York City and the bustling crowds of people.
I remember that there was a mix up with the overnight cabin assignments: we were four people in a cabin for two; there were two people in the cabin for four right next to us.
We met the couple in the cabin for four but they wouldn’t trade with us even though it was obviously a mistake that would result in a big inconvenience for us.
I remember the man’s name: Weeb Eubank.
Of course I remember it. Do you think it’s possible to forget a name like that?
My favorite memory about that train ride is of a woman whose name I did forget, but who said something to me that left a lasting impression.
She was about my grandmother’s age. We had a long conversation. I have no idea what we talked about or why we were talking at all. My family got off the train a few stops before hers.
As we were saying our goodbyes, she said, “If you remember me and think of me hard enough, then I’ll remember you, too.”
And here I am, thinking about her all these years later. I still have a vague picture of her in my mind, waving to me from the window of the train as it left the station.
She has surely gone on to another life by now. Maybe two or more. Who knows?
And what I recall of my seven year-old self feels very much like recollections of a previous life. In fact, I feel as if I’ve had a few previous lives in this one lifetime.
Having lived long enough to know that the body I’m wearing now is definitely not the body I wore in my youth has made samsara, the transmigration of the soul, more of a lived experience than a philosophical idea.
The distinction between the temporary and ever-changing material body and the eternal changeless spiritual self within the body is the philosophical baseline of the yoga wisdom tradition.
The Bhagavad-gita offers a multitude of verses on the topic:
This last verse, where Krishna tells Arjuna that he remembers our previous lives, is especially significant.
For starters, it tells us that we are never alone; that there is a supreme universal consciousness who knows who we are, where we’ve been, and what we’re going through right now.
It also confirms that our inability to recall previous lives is natural. Impressions from past lives form the starting point of our temperament in this life, . . .
but, with rare exceptions, remembering the details of any previous life is beyond our capacity.
Which is fine with me because if I remembered my previous lives then I’d also remember my previous deaths—memories that I’d just as soon live without.
On the other hand, reasonable faith in an omniscient being who never forgets me is something I’m happy to live with.
I don’t know if the lady on the train, wherever she may be, ever remembers me when I think of her. What I do know is that the Bhagavad-gita puts an interesting spin on her parting words to me: if I remember Krishna and think of him hard enough, then the train will take me to the ultimate destination:
Wishing you all good fortune,
– Hari-k