Days of My Lives
Some people will try and tell you that the Hindu doctrine of reincarnation is incompatible with mainstream Christian theology. Well, I say those people are defeatists and are just not trying hard enough. Shoehorning a particular philosophy into your own chosen belief system is not as hard as it seems and indeed gets easier the more you do it. I’ll show you how.
Shortly after I was born again – which was twelve years after I was born the first time – my parents took me to a certain Dr Bombay, who was renowned in the field of retrieving repressed memories. He was recommended to my parents by family friends Darren and Samantha, who I’m fairly certain were repressed memories themselves. My parents were disgusted by my new-found evangelical bent and decided that the best way to excise it was with a healthy dose of new age mumbo-jumbo, which is a little-known offshoot of new age philosophy. I distinctly remember Dr Bombay hovering over me while I lay on a leather couch and showing me some inkblot pictures which I told him were very good but really not my style (I was heavily influenced by neo-deconstructivism and Dada at the time). The next thing I remember I was remembering some memories which I don’t recall remembering before. I don’t know exactly what he did or how he did it, but pretty soon a whole new strange and scary world opened up to me and I was recalling my past lives in lurid detail. What I saw that day in Dr Bombay’s office shocked and unsettled me, and it wasn’t all to do with the Rubens on his wall. The session ended with the good doctor capping my molars and giving me a sample tube of Mr Men toothpaste. Then, after booking my six-monthly checkup, he snapped his fingers. I left the trance-like state that I was in (Queensland), returned home and was left to ponder my new-found enlightenment and fillings.
I have to admit, though, that my repressed memory is not what it once was and I’m a bit vague on the details of my first life, although I have the indelible impression that I was some kind of primordial slug. That my ex-girlfriend Tania uses the same description of me is, I’m hoping, just a coincidence. I am quite certain, however, that my next few transmutations were as insects of one sort or another. I distinctly remember being a snail and sitting on a rhododendron leaf having a coffee with Bernard the aphid when suddenly he was gone, eaten whole by a magpie. I barely had time to mourn before I too was dead, killed in a cruel twist of irony by the salt of my own tears.
I then went through a painful period of animal incarnations. I say painful because animals have this nasty habit of tearing each other to bits (yes, humans do this too, but at least we’re civilized enough to do it with high-tech weaponry) and until you battle your way through many different lives and struggle your way to the top of the food chain, living your life as quarry is really not much fun at all. Once, as a Thomson’s gazelle, I didn’t even have the chance to squirm my way out of my birth sack before I was greedily consumed by a hyena with questionable scruples. His friends simply watched and laughed, which is what hyenas do, I guess, but that knowledge only faintly diminished the humiliation. I can only hope he choked on my antlers, although I can’t remember if he ate my head or not, it was a long time ago. I’ll check my journal.
When I finally took on human form (thank Ganesh) I spent quite a few millennia as a hunter-gatherer, and these were undoubtedly the most peaceful and satisfying years of my lives. In fact, if I could go back there right now, I would. But I would take underwear, probably. And my cappuccino maker. And my Powerbook. Okay, it sucked. But at the time I thought it was wonderful and I learned a lot about outback survival techniques. For instance, I learned how to throw a spear at a log with a crude target painted on it whilst riding a jetski down a river, towing my semi-naked fellow tribe members on a fluorescent pink banana. Or was that last week’s Survivor episode? Wait, I remember now. It was around twenty-five thousand years ago and our tribal homeland in the Pilbara region of Western Australia was plentiful in bush tucker. Maybe even a little too plentiful. I was the only person in the history of our tribe to be referred to a medicine-man for liposuction. Those honey-pot ants were just too more-ish. Even now, if I see a helpless invertebrate scurrying along the ground I can’t help but pick it up and suck out its innards. This never fails to amuse the other parents at soccer on Saturday mornings. Anyway, most of my lives in this region somehow seemed to end in much the same fashion; mistaking the Southern red-tipped scorpion, which is safe to eat and quite delectable, for the Northern red-tipped scorpion, the eating of which invariably causes all your internal organs (and external) to rupture spectacularly.
One particular life of note was that of Alexander the Great. It wasn’t mine, but I’ve heard that it had some interesting high points.
My 137th life was the closest I ever got to actually being a famous figure in history. I was the man who sold the talking donkey to the prophet Balaam in Numbers chapter 22. He offered me ten shekels but I wouldn’t budge and demanded fifteen, although I did offer to throw in a pile of fresh goat manure to sweeten the deal. He then pointed to an indeterminate spot on the horizon and said, ‘Look, a rock in the shape of Mephibosheth’. I stupidly turned to look, repeatedly asking “Where?” for ten minutes. When I eventually turned around he said to just forget about the damn rock and would I accept twelve shekels? I said yeah, okay.
I also briefly dated Cleopatra, which sounds impressive, but really isn’t. On our first (and last) dinner date she mispronounced Hatshetsup, which made me laugh so hard I spat taco sauce all over her face. She immediately summoned the waiter and requested my decapitation and the cheque.
Of course, many of my lives have ended tragically, at least for me. A particularly gruesome fate befell me in my 259th life in the east end of London in 1888. It was the evening of Sunday, September 30, and a thick, pea-soup fog had rolled into Whitechapel as I alighted from the omnibus and strode through the eery streets towards my tenement on Goulston Street. Suddenly I heard a piercing shriek emanating from a nearby alleyway. Running into the narrow lane, I saw through the mist the vague silhouettes of two persons embroiled in a mortal struggle. As I drew nearer, it became apparent that the assailant’s victim was a woman and was in considerable distress. I acted swiftly. Tapping my ebony-tipped cane with some force upon the brigand’s shoulder, I enquired as to whether he could see fit to cease his assault forthwith and provide me a light for my Hoyo de Monterrey Short Panatella cigar. Not only did the rapscallion refuse my request, but he then proceeded to slash my face to ribbons with a scalpel. The temerity! Of course, with 20/20 hindsight, the entrails in his left hand should’ve alerted me to his identity as Jack the Ripper, although in my defence I thought at the time that he was simply a connoisseur of Scottish cuisine. I’ve since been informed there is no such thing.
All of which brings me to my present life, which no doubt will end the same way as all my others have – in an ignoble demise. This is not something which exactly fills me with anticipation, in fact the constant spectre of my own death and inevitable rebirth in unknown circumstances is becoming increasingly tiring and I decided after my 63 years of hard labour in the mud mines of seventeenth century Turkmenistan that I would endeavour to find a way to break the cycle of reincarnation. That’s where my newfound Christian faith comes in. My theory is that all people live multiple lives, one after the other until they find God, who is the ultimate purpose of existence and the key to ending the cycle. Of course, many will recognize this as basic Christian doctrine, except cunningly twisted to suit my own agenda. On the other hand, I could be completely wrong, the cycle will continue and I will be born into my next life as a podiatrist in Guatemala. I hope not, because when I was nine my cousin Greg showed me his ingrown toenail and I vomited copiously.
If I do turn out to be wrong, though, at least now I shouldn’t be too far off my zenith of enlightenment. I have a blog.
