Recently, in certain circles it has become fashionable to talk about their previous incarnations. You can often hear from a visitor of a mannered salon a proud phrase about how amazing a person he was in a past life somewhere in England, or France, or in the XII, or in the XVII century ...

Since I really remember my incarnations, I can definitely say that I was not a stunning person. The last incarnation, which I discovered, belonged to the XVI century - then I was a Tibetan monk - a writing bag that delivered the important messages of the abbot Tharpa-Chhoi Lin to the outside.

And here I am again here - on Earth, in Russia, at the turn of the XXth and XXIth centuries. But what happened between my current incarnation and that monk was hidden by some kind of veil with the flickering of obscure images and feelings.

I was tormented all the time by the question - why? Why, having risen so high up the spiritual ladder, I could not rise even higher, why were I again returned to Earth, and even to the impure body of a woman? ...

And once I understood ...

To be born on this planet as a woman after being visited by a Tibetan monk, it was necessary to do something, for which punishment had to follow through an imperfect incarnation. And that big break in four centuries, covered from awareness by the flickering veil, could mean only one thing: that although there were incarnations, it was not in human form, as in Vysotsky’s song: "... was born a baobab ...". It means that something has been accomplished that required for redemption as much as four centuries of incarnations in the lowest forms, until I got to the human, and that was the female one.

The one who was not in himself, to go to a higher incarnation, and then to exit from their circulation, requires repentance. But repentance is unavailable to a person in a “by-me-not-me” state. Only after returning and realizing himself, a person can repent, that is, realizing himself, be responsible for his actions.

I want to know what a monk did in the mountains of Tibet in the XVI century and for which he was punished by the whirlwind of lower incarnations.

Dorje was in a hurry. The path was not close, and the sun was already approaching a dangerous line. Despite the sandals, hot stones burned his tired feet. The saffron dhoti was soaked with caustic sweat and dusted. The unshaven nape of my head has long been itching and itching from a sprouting hedgehog of hair.

He had already been on the road for seven days and soon there would have to be a majestic view of the fifth monastery, where for several years he had been delivering messages from the abbot of Tharp-Chhoi Lin Monastery.

Having directed a look at the pass towering ahead, behind which the Baghten monastery was hidden, Dorje in the usual rhythm rearranged his strained legs. There, beyond the pass, a short rest awaited him before he moved on to the monastery of Sir, the last in his route.

From the rocky road leading to the pass, rising along the edge of a steep slope, a view of the tire-nag - forest thickets, covered the valley with a green carpet.

Dorje looked up again at the top of the pass, trembling in the distant haze, when suddenly his foot caught on something on the road.

Looking down, Dorje was surprised to see a linen bag lying in the dust. Looking around in bewilderment, Dorje thought, who could drop it? Lifting the bag, he untied the ribbons and looked inside: there was a change of women's clothing, a comb, a wooden flask with water, and bread wrapped in a motley cloth.

Two hours ago, he missed the caravan of merchants hurrying about their business; perhaps they lost the bag, although he did not notice the women among them.

Thoroughly dusting the bag from the dust, Dorje put it on a large stone by the road — maybe he would come back for it, or it would be useful to someone else ...

Gathering to go further, Dorje threw one last look around and suddenly something stopped him - on the right, not far from the roadside, almost hidden in the grass lay a straw hat for women.

The monk cautiously approached her, but did not lift her, and only examined her. The hat was almost new, and hardly anyone just threw it ...

With an unkind premonition, Dorje spread the thick bushes growing nearby, and carefully peered through the gloom into the space hidden behind them ...

There is something white. And this “something” in its outlines very much resembled a human body ...

Ignoring the branches clinging to dhoti, Dorje began to wade through the bushes until he reached the naked body lying on the ground.

Stopping over him, Dorje saw that it was a woman, or rather, almost a girl, on whose young, battered face blood was dried and his eyes were swollen with purple-black bruises. Her long black braids were wrapped around a boxwood trunk, and nearby was torn clothing. Everything indicated that they had brutally abused the unfortunate.

Picking up the scraps of clothing, Dorje carefully covered the victim's body with them, casting a quick glance at her small breasts that were bitten to the bruise and thighs, which were already covered with brown spots.

“Who could have done this ?! - thought Dorje, kneeling next to the girl and freeing her braids. He was shocked by the picture of atrocious atrocities, he first had to face this side of life. “And now what to do with the body?”

Suddenly a moan came from the ground.

Dorje recoiled in surprise, because he was sure that the girl was dead. But she stirred and slowly opened her eyes. Seeing Dorje leaning over her, she screamed hoarsely and huddled all over, trying to crawl away from him.

Holding her shoulders, he tried to calm her down.

- Quiet, quiet, I will not touch you, do not be afraid!

The girl shrank under his hands and looked at him with a look full of horror.

- Do not be afraid! He repeated, and letting go of her shoulders, he sat down beside her.

Looking at her with sympathy, he asked:

- Who did this to you?

The girl did not answer.

- You can stand up? - He patiently turned to her again. - There is a spring nearby, I will take you there, you can ... - he hesitated, choosing what to call what she needed to do, and added with relief: - ... wash off the dirt.

The girl looked down at her body, barely covered with scraps of clothing and tried to sit down, but immediately screamed, leaning back on the ground. Her face was contorted with a grimace of pain, and tears flowed from her tightly clenched eyes down her cheeks.

“Let me help you,” Dorje said, leaning toward the girl and slipping his hand under her shoulders.

“No, Holy Father,” she moaned, trying to push his hand away from her. - I can not hurt me ...

“I understand, but you can’t stay here either,” Dorje replied, carefully lifting her.

She moaned again.

“If it hurts you to sit, come on, I will lift you to your feet,” he suggested.

“Everything is spinning before my eyes, I cannot stand,” she answered.

“Do not be afraid, I will support you,” Dorje reassured her.

Embracing her waist, he helped her to her feet, and was embarrassed when he felt that her back was bare - he covered her with scraps of clothing only in front. Perplexedly frozen and feeling her hot skin at hand, he did not know what to do. But then the girl began to suddenly hang on his arms, apparently losing consciousness again, and he barely managed to catch her.

“Light as a bird of paradise feather,” thought Dorje, walking towards the spring, and pushing back the bushes with his back so as not to injure the girl in his arms. For the first time he had to carry such a load, and although he was tired of the long road between the monasteries, he carried her without much effort.

- What is your name? - He asked, seeing that the girl opened her eyes.

“Chodez ...” she answered faintly.