REAL PAST LIFE STORY
By Hitesh Chhabra • Past Life Regression Expert & Psychologist
Approx. 14 min read • October 2026
The woman did not begin by talking about nine lives. She began with her own: a marriage, a husband who had spent his working years in government service, a son she had raised with hopes for his future, and a relationship with her husband’s family that had become increasingly difficult for her to bear.
For most of her married life, she had lived away from the ancestral village. Her husband’s postings had kept their small household in the city. They had brought up their son there, while his extended family remained in the village. Distance separated the households, but it did not separate their expectations.
She said the relatives in the village expected a substantial part of her husband’s salary to be sent home. To her, the demands did not feel like a simple request for support. She believed that her brother-in-law and his wife wanted to keep her own household financially restricted, leaving her husband with too little to meet her needs. She also felt that they repeatedly turned him against her.
I did not immediately move toward a past-life explanation. First, I asked her about the life she was living now. In a joint family, helping relatives financially is not unusual. Many families support a child’s education with the hope that, once earning, that child will support the household in return. What, specifically, made her feel that this was something different?
Her answer was that this was not a struggling family. They were prosperous landowners, she explained, with considerable agricultural land and property. In her eyes, the demands were not arising from need. They were part of a pattern in which she felt that her own comfort, independence and place in the family mattered very little.
That distinction was important to her. She was not merely asking why money went to the village. She was asking why, year after year, she felt that there was so little room left for her.
After her husband retired, the couple began staying in the village, although they still had their city home. What had once been a conflict carried across a distance was now part of everyday family life. And another person had entered the centre of it: their son, a young man of around twenty to twenty-two.
She had educated him with a particular future in mind. Like his father, she hoped he would build a career away from the village, find good work and establish himself in the city. Instead, he wanted to remain with his uncle and work on the family’s agricultural land.
To the mother, this did not feel like an innocent change of direction. She believed her brother-in-law had influenced him. Her fear was that the family saw a young man who could work for them without asking for an independent share of the income or property. The brother-in-law, she said, controlled the family’s money; her husband did not question him. The arrangement, as she experienced it, was that everyone could stay, eat and live together, provided they did not ask for anything separately.
I asked her to look at another possibility. Her son was also a member of that family. He was his uncle’s nephew, not a stranger entering someone else’s business. Farming was not a lesser profession, and a prosperous agricultural enterprise could offer a meaningful livelihood. In a shared family business, people often contribute their work and meet their needs from a common income.
But for her, the question was no longer only about a profession. Her son had told her that even if she returned to the city, he would not go with her. He wanted to stay in the village. She felt that the two people closest to her—her husband and her son—were being drawn into a family arrangement in which her own voice had little weight.
As I continued asking where she saw harmful intention, she began to explain something she had not fully opened up about at the start. Beneath the arguments about money and property was another fear, one that made even the space around her feel unsafe.
She said she suspected that her brother-in-law and his wife had been arranging tantra-mantra against her for years. At different times, she would become very unwell. To her, those episodes were connected to their hostility. I asked whether her existing opinion of them might be influencing the way she understood these experiences. She responded that her fear was not based on a feeling alone; there were things she had found.
Sometimes, she explained, the relatives would visit their city home. A few days after they had left, she would discover small packets tied with black thread near her bed or the place where she slept. She believed those objects had been deliberately left there to affect her. She carried the memory of those discoveries into the village with her.
There, another object began to disturb her. Above the entrance to the room where she was staying hung a small doll made from straw or twigs. She said it had not been there before she moved into the room. Whenever she looked up at it, she felt an oppressive heaviness, as though something were pressing down on her.
I asked whether she had spoken to the family about it. She had. Their explanation, she said, was that the doll was a protective measure to keep the evil eye away from the household. Yet that explanation had not eased what she experienced when she saw it. What they described as protection had become, for her, an object of dread.
She also described episodes in which she felt that an entity entered her and attacked her. In telling the story, she used the word dev. Here, she was not speaking of a divine being; she was using a fearful, deferential name for the presence she felt was troubling her.
By this point, her reason for seeking a session was much clearer. She felt that the relatives wanted her husband and son near them, while directing a different kind of hostility toward her. Why her? What enmity, she wanted to understand, could explain a relationship that had felt so painful for so many years?
That was the question with which we began the exploration. She hoped to see the root of the conflict. What happened next was not the kind of past-life journey either of us had expected.
A regression does not begin with an instruction to immediately see another lifetime. There is a gradual process of preparation and induction. In the video, I describe how this can take around forty-five minutes to an hour as the person moves into a deeply absorbed state. On this occasion, I was using guided imagery in which she experienced her consciousness moving beyond the body and toward the subtle realm.
A sphere of light formed part of that visualisation. She was guided to imagine a luminous space, made of light and power, which would carry her onward. The earlier instructions had not produced any difficulty. We reached the point at which she was to enter that sphere.
I began counting down. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. The instructions continued toward the moment of transition. At the end of the count, I snapped my fingers and asked her to sit within the sphere.
The response changed abruptly. The voice I had been hearing was no longer speaking in the same way. It began crying out, asking to be left alone, insisting that it must not be bound, that it had done nothing wrong and must be allowed to go.
For a few seconds, I too was taken aback. The process had moved from guided exploration into an urgent protest. Within the session, I understood this as another soul speaking through her. But the immediate need was not to argue with the protest. It was to respond to the fear within it.
I reassured the soul that the sphere was not a prison. We were not placing it there to trap or bind it. It was part of the journey toward the space where the woman could explore her past life. If the soul itself was bound to her in some way, we could also try to help it.
The response settled. The cries stopped, and the process could continue. Yet the words about being bound would acquire a deeper meaning before the session was over.
We moved onward toward the spiritual guide. Ordinarily, this would be the point at which the client’s concern was presented and guidance sought about the path into a relevant past-life experience. But here, the other soul took over the conversation.
Its request was startling. It wanted to be allowed to continue tormenting the woman. Neither the guide nor I, it insisted, should interfere. What had first sounded like a plea for release was now a demand to keep hold of someone else.
The woman herself did not go on to see a past life. This is an important part of the account: the story that followed did not emerge as scenes she personally watched. It came through the conversation with the soul that was speaking during the process. Her planned regression had changed direction, but the central question she had brought had not disappeared.
Instead of trying to push past the interruption and continue the original procedure, I decided to address the conflict that had come before us. Two souls were caught in something neither appeared able to put down. If there was an opportunity to understand that bond, perhaps the session could still serve the purpose for which she had come.
I asked what this woman had done. Why was the soul so angry with her? It resisted the offer of release and maintained that it had a right to take revenge. I brought the conversation back to the same point: if it wanted us to understand why we should not interfere, it would have to tell us what had happened.
Eventually, the account began to open. Its beginning lay roughly a hundred years earlier, in a household where a robbery had turned into a tragedy.
In the story the soul told, the woman had then been a man. He had been away from home when members of a band whose livelihood included robbery entered his house. His elderly parents were there. They resisted the intruders. Violence followed, and both parents lost their lives.
The son was left with a loss that could not be undone. But the account did not end with that first act of violence. He gathered companions, captured nine people from the same group and decided that they would answer for what had happened to his parents.
Nine people stood on one side of that decision. On the other stood a bereaved son who had stopped distinguishing between membership of the group and responsibility for the attack. According to the speaking soul, it had not participated in the robbery. Most of the captives, it said, had not taken part either.
They tried to explain. He would not listen. The fact that they belonged to the same group had become enough. Their individual accounts no longer had a place in his judgment.
This was not described as a swift killing in the heat of a single moment. The soul recounted prolonged torture. The captives were made to suffer piece by piece; when some lost consciousness, they were brought back so the torment could continue. All nine eventually died.
The horror of that scene lies not only in its cruelty but in the opportunities to stop. Each plea could have been heard. Each distinction between those who had attacked the house and those who had not could have mattered. Instead, one terrible loss became the justification for inflicting further suffering.
Now the anger in the session had a history within the account. The soul was not speaking of an irritation it had carried for a few days. It was speaking from the memory of an agonising death, convinced that the person responsible must continue to pay.
The story had turned around. The woman who arrived asking why she was treated as an enemy was being connected, in this earlier-life account, with a man whose revenge had created nine more wounds. Yet the question before us was still not how to punish someone. It was how this chain could finally stop.
I asked about the others. If nine people had died in that way, where were the remaining souls? The answer brought the story back toward the family with whom the woman was now living.
The soul said that some had taken birth again, while others remained in the spirit state. It identified the woman’s present brother-in-law and his wife as two of those nine people. Another, it said, had become the tantric practitioner who was binding spirits and directing them toward her.
That third connection added an unexpected complication. The practitioner was not described as someone who consciously remembered the old event. In this account, he too was acting within a connection he did not fully understand. And the spirits he was binding included souls who had once belonged to his own group.
I asked why someone from the same group would bind and use his former companions. The explanation given was that there was another karmic account between them. The conflict was not presented as a simple line running from one offender to one victim. Different bonds had become entangled.
The woman had spoken of recurring attacks without knowing how many presences were involved. Now the speaking soul described a number of the remaining souls continuing the old retaliation. For the woman, this offered a way of understanding why the hostility had felt both persistent and larger than the arguments she could see in daily life.
But something else was becoming clear. The soul demanding the right to torment her was not free either. It was bound to the woman through revenge, and bound to the practitioner through the control it described. The one asking to continue the punishment was also asking, at the very beginning, not to be imprisoned again.
This became the centre of our conversation. The soul wanted the woman to suffer. Yet what was happening to its own journey while it remained occupied with her? It was still connected to the old violence, still caught in a state of unrest, and still vulnerable to being bound and used.
Whatever power it felt in causing pain had not brought it freedom. The punishment continued, but so did its own confinement. The person it wanted to leave suffering remained the person around whom its own existence revolved.
I spoke with it at length. The invitation was not to declare that the torture had been acceptable. Nor was it to pretend that the soul’s suffering did not matter. The conversation was about whether continuing the revenge was giving it what it actually needed—or keeping it tied to the very experience from which it wanted release.
Gradually, the possibility of moving on became something it was willing to consider. Through the light-guiding process described in the video, the soul was helped toward release and onward in its journey. The session that began with a frightened demand not to be bound ended with an opening beyond the bond.
Looking back at the encounter, I described two forms of release: from the attachment of revenge toward the woman, and from the binding associated with the tantric practitioner. That is why the opening protest matters. Beneath the anger was also a wish to be free.
The shift did not come from winning an argument about who had suffered more. It came from recognising that keeping another person in pain could also keep one’s own life centred on pain.
The woman had not experienced the past-life scenes in the way she had expected. Nevertheless, the session had brought forward an account connected to the question that had drawn her there. She now had something to work with beyond repeating the same fear and hostility.
Afterwards, I describe her continuing with Bandhan evam Kshama Mukti Yog—a practice focused on release from bonds and forgiveness. The work was not limited to the soul that had spoken. It also concerned the other relationships and unresolved connections described in the session.
The follow-up in the video is a gradual one. I report that the intensity of the problems troubling her had reduced as this work continued. The ending is not that every relationship was suddenly harmonious, every difficulty vanished or every remaining bond was settled in one sitting. It is that the situation had become less intense, and a process of moving forward was underway.
For me, that is where the purpose of this past life story about revenge becomes most meaningful. An unusual account can capture our attention. But its value cannot rest only in how extraordinary it sounds. What matters is whether the person begins to relate differently to the pain, the conflict and the choices still available in the present.
The story begins with a woman who wants to know why others will not leave her in peace. It takes us to a grieving man who refuses to listen, to nine deaths, and to a soul that demands the right to continue punishing. It ends with a different possibility: that the chain need not receive another link.
Freedom is not one-sided. Sometimes the life we want to reclaim is still fastened to the person we cannot stop punishing. Letting go does not change what happened. It can change what we choose to carry into what happens next.
This article retells Hitesh Chhabra’s narrated spiritual-session account. References to souls, past lives, guides and karmic bonds describe the experience and its interpretation within that account; they are not independently verified historical or medical findings. The woman’s concerns about relatives and occult harm are reported allegations, not established facts about those individuals. No reader should use this story to accuse another person, diagnose an illness or conclude that someone deserves suffering. Spiritual exploration is not a substitute for appropriate medical or psychological care. The follow-up is the narrator’s report of reduced difficulty, not a guaranteed outcome. Dialogue is paraphrased in English and pacing is expanded without adding material events. Images are symbolic AI-created illustrations.
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.
At first, the woman’s concern sounded like a dispute about money and family influence. It was only through patient questions that she explained the experiences that frightened her most. If the conversation had stopped at the first complaint, the real reason she sought a session would have remained partly hidden.
The lesson is to make room for both listening and clarification. Ask what happened, what the person felt, and what meaning they gave it. A thoughtful question need not dismiss someone’s pain. It can help them describe that pain more clearly—and help both people understand what actually needs attention.
The mother had pictured her son building a career in the city. His wish to farm with his uncle felt to her like losing both that future and his closeness. The discussion about farming was therefore also a discussion about expectation, belonging and her place in his life.
We can care deeply about a loved one’s future without assuming our preferred path is the only worthwhile one. A more useful conversation asks about choice, fair working arrangements, financial independence and opportunity. Those practical questions give the relationship more room than a struggle over whose dream must prevail.
In the earlier-life account, the man’s loss was devastating: both parents had died after a robbery. Yet what followed was a separate choice. His grief did not make every person he captured responsible, and it did not make prolonged cruelty an act of justice.
This distinction matters whenever we have been hurt. Acknowledging our wound is necessary; using it to excuse whatever we do next is something else. We may not control the loss that arrives in our lives, but we can seek support and pause before allowing pain to decide how we treat another person.
The nine captives were treated as a single guilty group. According to the soul’s account, most had not participated in the robbery. Their connection to those who had was enough for the grieving man to stop listening to them as individuals.
In everyday life, a similar mistake can turn one painful experience into distrust of an entire family, profession or community. Specific wrongdoing deserves a specific response. When we allow each person’s actions to be considered separately, we interrupt the habit of passing an injury onward to people who did not cause it.
The speaking soul wanted the woman to suffer, but its own journey remained organised around her. The revenge had not ended the connection. It had become a reason to keep returning to it. That is the central contradiction the conversation brought into view.
Ask what an unresolved grievance is taking from the present: attention, rest, relationships, or the ability to build something new. Choosing not to spend the future on retaliation does not mean the harm was small. It means the harm will no longer receive an unlimited claim on everything that comes after it.
The account describes two bonds affecting the soul: the practitioner’s binding and the attachment to revenge. One was experienced as control by another; the other was sustained by the refusal to leave the grievance behind. Addressing only one would miss part of the conflict.
This offers a useful question for reflection: what requires protection from someone else’s behaviour, and what response of my own keeps the experience active within me? These are different responsibilities. Boundaries can address external pressure, while inner work can address the repeated emotional return to a wound. Neither needs to cancel the other.
The soul was demanding permission to torment the woman. Rather than agreeing to that demand or treating it only as an obstacle, I asked what lay behind it. The story of the nine deaths emerged because there was room for the anger to explain itself.
Compassion and accountability can exist together. We can recognise that someone is in pain while still refusing to support their harmful actions. Understanding is valuable when it opens another way forward—not when it becomes a reason to excuse abuse, abandon a boundary or insist that the injured person must endure more.
The invitation to release revenge did not turn the torture in the account into something harmless. Its cruelty remained part of the story. What changed was the possibility that the soul did not have to keep living in relation to that cruelty through further retaliation.
Forgiveness, when freely chosen, can be about loosening the hold of a grievance rather than approving an offender. It need not involve renewed contact, reconciliation or giving up protection. The practical question is whether there is a way to carry the memory without allowing it to direct every new choice.
The woman came expecting to see a past life herself. That did not happen. The process shifted toward a conversation about the conflict that had emerged, and the original concern was explored through a different route. The distinction should remain clear rather than rewriting the session to fit an ideal outcome.
More broadly, meaningful work is not always identical to the experience we imagined beforehand. It helps to stay honest about what occurred, what did not, and what remains unresolved. Flexibility is useful when it serves the person’s actual concern; it should never become pressure to manufacture a result.
The account does not close with the conversation alone. It includes the woman’s continued forgiveness-and-release practice and a reported reduction in the intensity of her difficulties. That quieter follow-through belongs in the story as much as its dramatic turning point.
A new understanding asks something of daily life: a different response, a necessary boundary, a willingness to listen, or a decision not to renew an old battle. The purpose of looking into the past is to live the present more wisely. The most useful ending is not simply knowing another story; it is beginning to make different choices.
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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.
