It was the same ‘S’ design on the ironwork that he had seen in his flashes. He was feeling faint with excitement and anticipation. He felt the sweat running down his back. He felt compelled to go in and find out more about this place.
In the reception area there was a help desk for visitors, and a lounge with some comfortable chairs arranged around a low-level coffee table. He noticed a few glossy brochures on the coffee table and casually picked one up. It was about the Royal College of Psychiatry. He quickly leafed through the sections about the college’s courses, career options for students, publications, college events, faculty, and fees, until he finally reached the section on the history of the college. It read:
The district of London known today as Belgravia was developed in the 1820s. Previously it was called Five Fields and was a rural area between London, as it was then, and the village of Knightsbridge.
In the early 19th century the landowners, the Grosvenor family, began developing the area. The name ‘Belgrave’ comes from their property of that name in either Cheshire or Leicestershire.
The square is ten acres in size. Belgrave Square was laid out in 1826. The corners of the square are on the points of the compass and number 18 is part of the south-west terrace line, the last to be completed.
The development was a success from the start, probably helped by George IV’s decision to convert nearby Buckingham House into a palace for his residence. Later, Queen Victoria rented number 36 for her mother and this was considered to be a royal seal of approval for the square.
Many of the tenants were members of the aristocracy and people of political importance. The first tenant of number 18 was Sir Ralph Howard, who was himself MP for Wicklow, with extensive property in Ireland . . .
The next tenant was Clementine, Lady Sossoon. She too had overseas connections; her husband’s family, the Sossoons, came originally from Baghdad and India. She lived here from 1929 until 1942 and kept open house for the troops during the Second World War. She is said to have had parties here for soldiers during the war; also, part of the property was used as a Red Cross supply depot during this war. Lady Clementine left in 1942 but retained the tenancy until she died, aged over 90, in 1955.
Number 18 was taken over by the Institute of Metals in 1956 and the College came in 1974.60
Vincent quickly consulted his notes from Central Park: Blood. Wounded soldiers. Bandages. Greek cross. Red. Bassano portrait. Stately house. Number 18. London street. Iron fencing with an “S” logo. Indian antiques. Parties. Food. Musicians. 1940s’ La Salle ambulance. Buckingham Palace. Bell. Grave. So soon?’
Well, this place was very close to Buckingham Palace. It was in Belgrave Square. It certainly was a stately house, with all the elements of Victorian architecture. It did bear the number 18. The ‘S’ was definitely a part of its grillwork. Coincidence? Imagination?
The lightbulb flashed inside Vincent’s head . . . Bell . . . Grave . . . so soon. Sossoon! The house in Belgrave Square had been occupied by Lady Sossoon. It wasn’t ‘so soon’. It was Sossoon! That also explained the ‘S’ in the iron grills! Vincent was now sweating profusely. He went over the bit about Lady Sossoon again:
The next tenant was Clementine, Lady Sossoon . . . kept open house for the troops during the Second World War . . . said to have had parties here for soldiers during the war . . . also part of the property was used as a Red Cross supply depot during this war.
‘What is wrong with you, Vincent?’ he said to himself irritably. ‘Don’t you realise that every cross is not a cross of Jesus? An equal-armed cross is not only a Greek cross, it’s also the symbol of the International Red Cross!’
Vincent stepped outside the house at 18, Belgrave Square. His mobile phone had run out of power. Looking around, he located a phone booth and managed to get through to Martha. Before she could get a word in, Vincent said, ‘Listen, Nana. I need to talk to you very urgently. There’s a pub quite close by. I saw it this morning while getting here. It’s called the Star Tavern, I think. It’s on the mews adjoining Belgrave Square. Can you meet me there ASAP?’ Vincent then quickly made his way to the rendezvous.
The pub was located at the end of the secluded cobbled mews that was just off Belgrave Square. The pub had probably been built sometime in the early part of the nineteenth century to meet the needs of the domestics who served in the aristocratic homes of Belgravia. The mews, quite obviously, had been created to provide horse stables as well as accommodation for coachmen. Of course, in the present day, the mews housed neither stables nor servants’ quarters, merely millionaires’ homes. The pub was furnished with comfortable benches and scrubbed pine tables, and Vincent also noticed a friendly-looking room upstairs, which seemed to be a dining area. Vincent sat down and ordered himself a Fuller’s London Pride and waited for Martha.
The table next to his was occupied by an unkempt but handsome man. Professor Terry Acton had just finished his morning sessions with his patients at the Spiritualist Association and had wandered over to the pub for a relaxed lunch of fish and chips washed down with a pint of Chiswick Bitter.
About fifteen minutes later, Martha walked in. Vincent waved to her to let her know where he was seated. Martha walked over, took off her coat, folded it over the back of her chair and sat down. ‘So, Vincent, what’s this about?’ she began.
‘Martha, is that you?’ came the incredulous voice from the next table.
Martha looked sideways at the occupant of the table next to theirs and saw the smiling face of Terry Acton. It took a few seconds to sink in. ‘Terry!’ she exclaimed.
‘Martha, sweetheart! It’s great to see you after so many years! You’re looking great. Where on earth have you been?’ asked Terry.
‘It’s been almost ten years since we went to the Igatpuri silent zone, hasn’t it?’ said Martha jokingly. Terry and Martha had visited India around the same time after their regression sessions in London but for different reasons. While Martha had been interested in brushing up on advanced yoga techniques, Terry had enrolled in the Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan—a university of ancient sciences in Mumbai which taught astrology and a few other occult sciences. During their Indian sojourns, both had independently decided to enrol for a course in Vipassana meditation at Igatpuri, a sprawling but serene Buddhist meditation centre located five hours away from Mumbai.61
Igatpuri had certainly not been for the faint-hearted. The school had required them to sign a solemn oath that they would not leave mid-course, the course itself being twelve days long. Each day, they would meditate for ten hours on an average and live the life of Buddhist monks. They would maintain perfect silence and were allowed the luxury of talking only on the twelfth day of the course.
Terry and Martha had, by pure chance, been allotted sleeping quarters that were next to each other. Ironically, they would be unable to talk to one another at all for the next eleven days. On the twelfth day, when they had eventually been given permission to talk, talk they did—starved as they’d been of conversation for the previous 264 hours! They had driven back to Mumbai together after the course and continued to remain in touch while pursuing different vocations in India. Six months later, Martha had left India to return home to New York, while Terry returned to London, to the Spiritualist Association and his university research. They had lost contact completely thereafter. It was truly a wonderful surprise for both to meet like this, by sheer luck.
Martha continued, ‘By the way, Vincent, this is one of my closest friends, Professor Terry Acton.’
‘Nice to meet you, Professor,’ said Vincent. ‘I am Father Vincent Sinclair. I have heard a lot about you from my aunt, who talks about you very fondly.’
After a few pleasantries, Terry asked, ‘Martha, I always thought you were going to settle down in India permanently. What happened?’
Martha replied, ‘I moved back to New York. I now teach yoga at my own centre in Manhattan. How about you?’
Terry responded. ‘I owe my life to you, Martha. Without you, I would
never have overcome the grief of losing Susan. My degree in psychology from Yale would have been worthless if it weren’t for your introduction to the Spiritualist Association. I not only practise my art at the Association here in Belgrave Square, I also use it as the basis of psychiatric therapy. I also teach and research in the fields of spirituality and religion at the University of London. To that extent, I’m more theoretical than you.’
Vincent couldn’t hold himself back. ‘Mediums? Please don’t think I’m being rude, but what exactly do you people do, Nana?’
Martha hesitated. She had deliberately kept her Spiritualist Association connections concealed from Vincent because of his possible reaction. She reluctantly spoke up. ‘Well, as you probably know, the concept of reincarnation tells us that when we die, we shed our mortal bodies but the soul lives on. This soul generally finds another body and another life from which it can continue to learn. Once a soul has completely learned everything there is to learn about life, it reunites with the Supreme Being in a state of Nirvana or bliss. In between the various lives that it takes rebirth in, the soul also takes rest. It is possible to tap into this spiritual energy through a spiritual medium and contact one’s lost loved ones who may no longer be present in the flesh but certainly are in spirit.’
Terry suddenly spoke up. ‘I never believed in this stuff till I lost my wife many years ago. Your aunt, Martha, helped me reach out to my wife’s spirit. I now help people reach out to their loved ones. Besides being spiritual mediums, your aunt and I are also certified regression therapists; we help people who want to know more about their previous lives so that it can help them understand and deal with their present ones a little better.’
Vincent had many questions to ask. He was reluctant to ask all of them for fear of seeming rude. Martha cut short his mental debate by telling Terry, ‘Vincent obviously doesn’t believe in reincarnation since he’s a priest in the Roman Catholic Church.’
‘Ah. Then I had better be careful about what I say,’ said Terry light-heartedly, ‘I wouldn’t want to get into a theological debate with the clergy!’
Quite unexpectedly, Vincent turned to Terry and said, ‘Please help me. Maybe God has guided me to you by providence! I want to know more.’
Vincent, Martha, and Terry were sitting in St James’s Park, probably the most beautiful park in London. The tourists and locals were out in full force, strolling through the green, feeding the ducks, watching the pelicans, viewing Buckingham Palace from the bridge, supervising their kids in the playground, or enjoying refreshments in the park’s café.
The three of them had eaten a quick lunch at the pub and then walked over to the park so they could discuss the issues surrounding the concept of reincarnation and regression. Martha had attempted to fill Terry in on the broad details of what Vincent had been going through since the death of his parents six years earlier, as well as the flashes and visions that he had been experiencing.
Terry took over. ‘Listen to me, Vincent. Even if the entire idea of reincarnation is anathema to Catholicism, it doesn’t mean that you can’t believe in it. There are indeed many Christians who believe that reincarnation is not incompatible with Christianity. Consider this: homosexuality is not approved by the Roman Catholic Church, but does that mean there aren’t any gays who continue to be Roman Catholic, culturally at least?’
Terry continued. ‘The Roman Catholic Church tried Galileo in 1633 and held that his view of the planets revolving around the sun were rubbish. Can you be certain that the present view on reincarnation will not change at some time in the near future? There are several non-canonical texts in the Nag Hammadi finds, the Dead Sea Scrolls, as well as the Gnostic gospels, that do, in fact, support reincarnation.’
Vincent listened to Terry patiently and then spoke. ‘The fact is that for the first time in my life, I find some parts of myself in conflict with my faith.’
Martha suddenly cut in. ‘Can I suggest something? You are obviously familiar with the concept of gnosis, or personally experienced knowledge. If someone is born blind and we ask him to describe the colour red, he will be unable to do so. He has not experienced red, green, blue, or any other colour, for that matter. Reincarnation, as a theory can be debated endlessly. Instead, if you were to experience some part of the theory yourself, maybe through a regression session, your ability to accept or reject a certain point of view may become much easier.’
Vincent was in his hotel room, semi-reclining on the bed with several pillows propping him up. Terry had pulled up a chair next to him and had sat down. Martha was downstairs in the hotel lounge.
‘Okay, I’m going to try to take you into a state of deep relaxation. I want you to make yourself comfortable, settle back and relax . . . if you find that any limb or muscle is uncomfortable, just move it into the most comfortable position and then relax it.’
Vincent settled in and Terry continued. ‘I now want you to focus on your breathing. Feel your breath going in . . . and out . . . in . . . and out . . . imagine that with every exhalation you are breathing out all your toxins, your stress, your worries and your fears. With every inhalation, you are breathing in life-giving energy. Now visualise a beautiful light . . . it is just above you . . . it’s entering your body and healing you . . . all that’s important to you is my voice . . . a peaceful, easy feeling is settling over you like a wonderfully soft blanket . . . I will now count backwards from five down to one. You will feel yourself floating into a deeper and deeper trance with each number. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.’
Vincent seemed to be semi-comatose so Terry went on. ‘Now visualise that you are walking down a flight of stairs . . . with every step you take, you go deeper and deeper into a relaxed state . . . at the bottom of the stairs is a peaceful, tranquil oasis filled with energy, happiness, love, peace, joy, contentment . . . your mind is now so relaxed that it can allow itself to open up and remember almost everything.’
Terry paused before continuing, ‘Now think back to a childhood memory . . . it could be anything . . . something nice and happy . . . just be a neutral observer of the memory . . . it doesn’t matter if your mind wanders a little . . . just experience the sensation of the memory . . . I will now count backwards from five down to one and you will become a child once again . . . Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in the backyard of my parents’ home in New York. There’s a slight chill, but it isn’t cold . . . it’s probably autumn.’
‘What are you wearing?’
‘It’s a baseball jacket and cap—New York Yankees. My father and I both love the Yankees.’
‘Who are you with?’
‘My dad and I are playing catch in the backyard. My mom is barbequing hot dogs in the corner. I love the smell of hot dogs. She puts on extra mustard, relish, ketchup, chopped onions and sauerkraut for me!’
‘Are you enjoying yourself?’
‘Oh, I love the days that my dad doesn’t have to go to work. We play catch and my mom barbeques. I love every minute of it. My parents are the most wonderful parents in the world. They take me to the movies, to the zoo and buy me cotton candy.’
‘Okay, just enjoy the love and warmth you are experiencing. Just relish the memory, savour it. I now want you to float above it a little and when I count backwards from five, I want you to go back deeper beyond the womb . . . think you can go deeper? Okay . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . where are you now?’
‘It’s a lovely Victorian house. It’s definitely London. But the street is a mess. There’s tension all around . . . I think there’s a war going on.’
‘Are you fighting in the war?’
‘No. I’m a doctor. I make trips back and forth between the supply depots and the hospitals. The hospitals are overflowing with wounded soldiers and civilians. The Germans have been bombing London incessantly. I also drive the ambulance.’
‘Really? What sort of an ambul
ance is it?’
‘It’s a sturdy 1940s’ Chevy . . . it’s been modified . . . I think it’s a La Salle. It’s seen a great deal of action. The front fender is badly bent, but we have no time to fix it.’
‘So why are you in this Victorian home?’
‘Oh, it’s a Red Cross supply depot. The house belongs to a wealthy Jewish lady who has allowed part of it to be used by the Red Cross. She is very kind and generous. She often hosts parties for the soldiers. I have attended some of them. Music and some food, whatever is possible, what with the war rationing.’
‘Do you know her personally?’
‘I have met her many times. She’s very elegant. Her portrait is in the lounge downstairs, done by a famous artist. Bassano, I think. The lounge opens into a beautiful square. The front door and grilles have the family crest emblazoned on them . . . “S”, I think.’
‘Do you remember her name?’
‘Sossoon, I think.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes. Sossoon. The house is on Belgrave Square. I have to pick up my Red Cross supplies from there. I often go past Buckingham Palace to the hospitals, where I unload the stuff. Their family is quite famous. They made their wealth in Baghdad and then India.’
Sossoon Ben Saleh was born in 1745 and around thirty years later was appointed Sheikh of Baghdad. Since the lion’s share of Baghdad’s earnings was derived from Jewish business, the Governor of Baghdad used to always appoint a Jewish finance minister.
In 1821, a new anti-Semitic Governor of Baghdad caused the departure of many Jewish families, including the Sossoons, who would eventually settle down in the Indian port of Mumbai, or Bombay, as it was then known.
Sossoon Ben Saleh’s son, Matthew, was born in 1791. Matthew acquired British citizenship and set up Matthew Sossoon & Co. in Bombay, one of the most profitable firms exporting Indian opium to China.