REAL PAST LIFE STORY
By Hitesh Chhabra • Past Life Regression Expert & Psychologist
Approx. 12 min read • October 2026
She did not come because she felt no love for her family. She came because the thoughts appearing in her mind seemed so far from the love she knew she felt. Her son was five years old. He had done nothing to hurt her, yet disturbing thoughts of harming him would arise. Their arrival frightened her. She did not want them, and she could not understand why they kept returning.
There was a second contradiction. She described her present married life as reasonably good and said that she loved her husband. Nevertheless, seeing him could bring a sudden thought that she should divorce him, that she should not remain with him. The thought did not fit the life she was describing. She wanted help understanding the distance between what she felt for these people and what unexpectedly passed through her mind.
Then she spoke about a difficulty that had followed her since childhood. She was afraid of making mistakes. Before doing something, she would think about it repeatedly, worry about the consequences and hesitate again. An ordinary decision could become heavy with the possibility that something might go terribly wrong. It was exhausting to carry so much fear into actions that other people seemed able to take more easily.
Those were the three questions she brought to Hitesh Chhabra: the unwanted thoughts about her son, the impulse to leave her husband, and the persistent fear of error. Her past life regression unfolded through two lives. One began with children playing in a garden. The other began with a young woman being invited to prepare for battle.
The scenes that follow are her session account, retold from the original narration. Their emotional direction is important: this is a story about understanding distress and moving towards care, not a reason to blame a child or a family member. The fuller reader note and support guidance are gathered at the end.
At first, she saw herself walking in a garden. She was a married woman of about twenty-five or twenty-six, dressed in fine clothing and jewellery. Several children were playing nearby. The surroundings suggested comfort and status, but she had not yet placed herself fully within that life. Hitesh asked whether any of the children were hers.
She looked more closely. No, they were not her children. She felt that they belonged to people who worked in the palace where she lived. One boy came towards her and spoke with her. He addressed her as Rani Sa. That simple form of address helped the scene settle into place: she was a queen in a Rajasthani royal household.
For a moment, the scene held the ordinary warmth of an adult speaking to children at play. Then she saw the king approaching. He was angry. As he came nearer, the children moved away from her. She noticed that they were frightened of him too. Before she could understand the reason for his anger, he seized her wrist and pulled her towards the palace.
Inside their chamber, his anger became violence. She experienced him striking her and felt the distress of being treated this way by her own husband. As the scene developed, the issue behind his resentment became clear to her: they had no child. He wanted an heir for the royal household and blamed her because one had not been born.
Seeing her speak to the children had brought that resentment to the surface. The garden, which had offered a little human connection, had become the starting point of another episode of fear. Her title and jewellery had not protected her. She was a queen, but within the room she felt powerless before the man whose anger determined what happened next.
The children had seen more than she realised. In the narration, they had watched the violence from a hidden place. When the king left, she was sitting on the floor, crying and asking why her life had brought her into this marriage. The same boy who had spoken to her outside came to comfort her. Among the people in that palace, a child had chosen to move towards her pain.
He tried to soothe her. The boy’s presence offered a small interruption to the fear and loneliness of the room. But before that comfort could settle, she sensed that the king was coming back. His anger had not passed. Having just been hurt for speaking with children, she panicked at the thought of being found with this child beside her again.
She hid within the room, behind an area where clothing was kept, and brought the boy with her. From the hiding place, she could see the king looking for her. In the scene, he had drawn his sword. He remained in the chamber, at one point sitting on the bed, apparently waiting for her return. She did not know how long the waiting would last.
Her attention narrowed to one desperate aim: they must not make a sound. In trying to silence and conceal the child, she accidentally prevented him from breathing. The king eventually put away the sword and left. Only after he had gone did she emerge and discover what had happened. The little boy who had come to comfort her was no longer alive.
The change in that moment was devastating. She had been trying to escape danger, and now the person who had approached her with kindness had died. When she saw his condition, she fainted beside him. The fear of the king had been replaced by a shock she could not bear.
When others found them, they initially thought that both the queen and the child had been attacked. Her own unconscious state made her appear to be another victim. After she recovered, she did not tell them what had happened. She behaved as though she could remember nothing. Because of her position, the questions did not immediately continue with the same force.
Outwardly, the palace seemed to return to its routines. Inside her, nothing had returned to normal. She described crying alone, feeling intense guilt and beginning to fear every action she took. What if she made another mistake? What if a small decision again caused an irreversible loss? The thought was no longer confined to that room. It began to colour her relationship with life itself.
At one point, her distress became so great that she felt unable to go on living. Another queen intervened and kept her safe. Although they were married to the same king, she experienced this woman not as an enemy but as someone as close as a sister. For the first time in this part of the account, the truth of what she was carrying could be spoken to someone who wanted her to live.
The other queen listened as she described the accident and the guilt that followed it. Her presence did not undo the child’s death, but it interrupted the isolation around the first queen’s pain. She tried to help her understand that the terrible outcome had not been something she had intended. Still, the grief remained difficult for her to bear.
Meanwhile, the apparent quiet in the palace had concealed an investigation. The king had put people to work finding out how the child died. Witnesses eventually came forward. The client understood that others had seen parts of what happened, including her emergence from the hiding place with the child. The account did not present the helping queen as the person who betrayed her confidence.
The truth reached the court. She saw herself standing there and receiving a sentence of death, to be carried out after a short period of confinement. The chamber in which she had hidden from the king had already become a place of loss. Now the royal household itself seemed to offer no future beyond punishment.
Once again, the second queen came to help. She arranged a way for her to leave, gave her food and some valuables, and guided her out through a concealed route. The instruction was clear: she must not return. This opportunity had been made possible now, but another rescue could not be promised if she came back.
She left in ordinary clothing. The woman who had once been recognised by her ornaments and addressed as Rani Sa now travelled without revealing who she was. The change was not simply a change of surroundings. The identity that had shaped her life in the palace could no longer be carried openly into the world.
In the forest, children found her and helped her reach an older couple. Following the second queen’s advice, she kept her royal identity hidden. The family took her in. She became part of their household and helped with work and service. After the fear of the palace, the scene held the possibility of a simpler kind of belonging.
That life did not continue for very long. In a later forest scene, while she was out gathering what was needed, she was bitten by a snake and died. During the regression, she recognised the king as her present husband, the child as her present father-in-law, and the queen who helped her as her mother. The people who sheltered her in the forest were not identified.
For her, the first life gave shape to two questions: the wish to get away from her husband, and the fear that any action might become a terrible mistake. Yet the question about her little son had not been answered. The session moved towards that emotion, and another royal household began to appear.
This time she was younger, about fourteen or fifteen, and unmarried. She felt that she belonged to an extended royal family, although her exact relationship within it was unclear. A ruler had died. The atmosphere in the state had become tense, with the British threatening its future. The queen was preparing resistance.
When the queen approached her, she was not dressed only for ceremony. Her clothing belonged to someone preparing for martial activity. She was gathering women for an army and wanted the young girl to join. The client described agreeing, but hesitating to tell her parents. She expected that they might prevent her from taking part.
So she began training quietly. She came to practise alongside other women, learning the skills needed for the struggle ahead. At first, the commitment existed alongside secrecy. She was willing to help the queen, but she did not yet know whether her own family would see that willingness as courage or disobedience.
Eventually, the family found out. The response surprised her. Instead of the opposition she had feared, she received appreciation. Her parents were proud. She felt that her position within the household had changed. Previously she had been one young member of a royal family. Now people recognised her as someone preparing to stand for her land.
Their support made her participate with greater energy. She described fighting in a battle and surviving it. Afterwards, the respect around her grew further. But the next danger did not come from the battlefield. It came within the place where she should have been able to rest.
She saw herself asleep in her own room and described being killed there. At first, she had not seen the attacker’s face. As the experience continued beyond that moment, she identified her younger sister. The sister had resented the attention and praise she received. In the account, jealousy had been building for a long time, and the attack had been planned.
Others knew that she had died through a plot, but they did not discover who was responsible. Her own reaction was not immediate release. She described remaining near her sister as a soul for four or five years, trying to trouble her and repeatedly demanding to understand why someone she loved had done this. Death had ended one part of the relationship without ending its anger.
The turning point came through a dream. The sister, who had previously resisted her, was now crying and asking for forgiveness. She admitted the wrong and pleaded for the suffering to stop. The client described something changing at that apology. She left, and the attachment that had held her near the sister came to an end.
During the session, she named the queen who had organised the women as Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi. Her own name and her parents’ names in that life remained unclear. But one recognition felt direct to her: the younger sister in the scene was the soul she now knew as her five-year-old son. The story had reached the relationship that had frightened her most.
The guidance that followed did not ask her to continue the old punishment. In her meeting with the spiritual guide, she was told to leave what had happened behind and give love in this life. The purpose of seeing the relationship was to understand what she was carrying, not to carry the conflict further.
That distinction changes the direction of the whole story. Recognition was not presented as permission to reject her son. He was her child now, dependent on care and safety. The meaningful next step was tenderness, responsibility and support, not treating him as an opponent from a scene experienced in trance.
The first life had shown a woman overwhelmed by fear and guilt. The second had shown how hurt and jealousy could keep a relationship bound to retaliation. Both returned to the same present question: could an old emotional pattern be met without being repeated? Her love for her family was already present. The guidance asked her to make that love the direction of her actions.
The video does not provide a clinical follow-up or claim a demonstrated cure. What it shares is the exploration and the instruction to move towards love. For readers, the invitation is to understand distress with compassion, seek appropriate support when it is needed, and remember that no spiritual interpretation removes our responsibility to keep the people around us safe.
This subjective session narrative includes themes of domestic violence, accidental death, suicidal distress and unwanted thoughts. It is not a diagnosis or evidence that these difficulties originate in past lives. No child or relative should be blamed on its basis. The NHS explains that intrusive thoughts do not themselves mean someone will act on them; persistent distress warrants professional support. This article does not diagnose OCD. Seek urgent local help if safety is at risk. Scenes are literary adaptations and images are symbolic AI artwork.
Past Life Regression Expert
& Psychologist
Helping people explore recurring emotional, relationship & life patterns through Past Life Regression, healing and spiritual guidance.
Open each reflection to explore the story’s lessons and the choices they invite in everyday life.
The mother sought help because the thoughts distressed her and conflicted with her love. That distinction deserves to be heard. Reducing someone to the most frightening thing that passes through their mind can make honest conversation harder. Compassion means listening carefully and supporting appropriate help, rather than answering distress with shame or a label.
In the palace scene, the queen’s attention narrowed around escaping the king’s anger. The story shows how fear can crowd out a wider view of what is happening. In everyday life, recognising overwhelm and seeking safety or support can create room for a more considered response. Abuse is not something a person must spiritually earn their way out of.
After the accident, ordinary actions became frightening to the queen. Her guilt spread beyond one event into her whole relationship with choice. The lesson is not to dismiss harm, but to distinguish learning and accountability from a belief that we must suffer forever. Support can help us face what is painful without abandoning the possibility of living responsibly.
The second queen did not meet distress with rejection. She listened, intervened when safety was at risk and later helped the woman leave. Her role shows the importance of a person who stays present when someone feels beyond help. We do not need a perfect solution before offering careful attention, practical support and a route towards appropriate assistance.
The two queens could easily have been described only through rivalry because they shared a husband. Instead, their relationship carried sister-like affection. The story reminds us not to decide another person’s role solely from a social label. Care, trust and loyalty are revealed through conduct, sometimes where our assumptions least expect to find them.
The young woman initially hid her training because she expected opposition. Her family’s pride gave her greater confidence to participate. Recognition matters, especially when someone is attempting a difficult new responsibility. Families can acknowledge courage and effort without making affection a competition in which another child must feel less valued.
The younger sister’s jealousy grew around the recognition given to the elder. The story makes that pain visible through an extreme event, but the everyday question is familiar: can we celebrate another person’s progress without treating it as proof of our own worthlessness? Naming insecurity honestly creates more possibility than feeding silent resentment.
The soul’s years near the sister did not represent freedom. The relationship remained organised around injury and punishment until the apology opened a change. The practical reflection is to notice when a wish for another person’s suffering is governing our own days. Boundaries and accountability can remain important without revenge becoming our purpose.
The final recognition led towards love, not blame. A child must not be treated as an enemy because of a regression story or any spiritual interpretation. In present relationships, care is demonstrated through safe actions, patience and responsible support. The child before us has present needs that cannot be displaced by a story about the past.
The closing guidance asked the mother not to continue the conflict. This is the central test of an insight: does it help us respond more gently and responsibly now? Understanding does not require forgetting every hurt or avoiding professional support. It should give us a clearer direction for the choices we can actually make today.
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Past Life Regression Expert & Psychologist
We help people explore recurring emotional, relationship and life patterns through Past Life Regression, healing and spiritual guidance.
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Watch Hitesh Chhabra’s original session narration on YouTube. The source video is in Hindi.
