I don’t believe in reincarnation—not in the literal sense of souls transmigrating into other bodies after death. But I believe deeply in how we are reborn in every moment—through our thoughts, attachments, habits, and memory. So when I read this powerful shabad by Bhagat Trilochan, which seems at first glance to be about literal reincarnation into snakes, pigs, prostitutes, and ghosts, I read it differently.

Here’s the shabad:

At first, these lines may sound like definitive punishments in the afterlife; and it is possible that Bhagat Tarlochan and seekers in general believe this. But I believe this shabad is not about the next world. It is about this one. It is about what we become, again and again, based on what we repeatedly love, attach to, or obsess over.

The phrase "ant kaal"—meaning “final moment”—doesn’t have to refer to the moment of physical death. It can refer to any critical moment, any turning point, any inner reckoning. In Gurbani, time is rarely linear—it breathes. The final moment is also now. No wonder Guru Nanak says, Hum Aadmi Haan Ik Dami - I am a human of one moment. Dam is Breath.  The end of this breath, the pause before a new thought, a silence in the song. This is where we are made. 

What do you remember in that moment? What fills your inner atmosphere? If it is wealth, the shabad says you become like a serpent—slithering, hoarding, defensive. If it is lust, you become a prostitute—always selling, never home. If it is children, perhaps representing attachment or legacy, you become a pig—mired in caretaking, unable to rise above instinct. If it is your house or property, you become a ghost—a presence bound to a place, unable to move on.

To me, these images are not punishments. They are portraits. They show how our mental preoccupations shape us. How we live determines what we become. Again and again. Even in this life.

What all seekers should agree on is the luminous rahao - the pause line:

"Aree bai, Gobind naam mat visrai"—O sister, let essence not be forgotten.

This line is the heart of the poem. It reminds us that the only lasting company at the end of everything is the presence of the Divine—Naam, the One Being pulsing through breath, sound, and silence. If at the end of each breath there is remembrance (Saas Saas Simro Gobind), then you are already free. No more becoming this or that. You are with the One who does not change.

So for those of us who don’t take reincarnation literally, this shabad still speaks, perhaps even more sharply.

It asks:

What are you practicing to become?
What state are you dying into—right now?
And what would it mean to live in a way
that leaves nothing left to become?

For me, the answer isn’t in fearing hellish forms. It’s in cultivating a mind that returns—again and again—not to the world’s distractions, but to the Name. To the Stillness. To the One.

This is an example of how shabad contemplation (in this case literally the contemplation on ant-kaal) can get us to paths that we are confident on walking upon.

hast mehmān-khāneh in tan ey javān
har sabāḥi zeyf-e now āyad davān
hīn magū ke īn mānad andar gardanam
ke ham-aknūn bāzparad dar 'adam
har che āyad az jahān-e ghayb-vash
dar delet zeyf ast, ū-rā dār khvosh

Reynold Nicholson's translation:

There are distractions all the way. And that’s one of the reasons we can’t listen to the Guru. The question is: how do you stay away from distractions? If you’re truly meditating, your Shabad Guru will keep calling you back. It will keep haunting you. 

I’ve been meditating on the line: Tera Sadra Suneejai Bhai. Even though I sing other shabads, I keep returning to this. I was focusing on the word suneejai — listening — and then my mind wandered to suni pukaar, the first line of Bhai Gurdas’s Vaar 23. It literally means “listening to the cry.”

That cry becomes clearer if you read the previous pauri, Pauri 22: “Dharam dhaul pukaarai talai khaRoaa” — the bull of dharam cries out from below. It’s a beautiful continuation of Guru Nanak’s metaphor from Japji Sahib: “Dhaul dharam daya ka poot” — the world is balanced on dharam, the child of kindness. But Bhai Gurdas adds a twist — when kindness falters, the bull wobbles and cries. That cry reaches the divine, and in response, Guru Nanak is sent to Earth.

I used to brush over suni pukaar in Bhai Gurdas’s vaar. But this time, it stood out. Gurbani and Bhai Gurdas are so deeply interconnected. You understand one better by reading the other. You read Bhai Gurdas, and suddenly Gurbani opens up. You read Gurbani, and Bhai Gurdas starts to glow.

Actually, you can go back even further. Pauris 21 and 22 are perfect lead-ins to Pauri 23, where Guru Nanak arrives. So I sang all three pauris this time. You can listen to Pauris 21–22 here and Pauri 23 here.

Now here comes what might be called a distraction — but maybe it isn’t.

In Pauri 22, there’s a line: “Chaare jaage chahu jugee panchain prabh aape hoa.” I looked up the phrase chaare jaage chahu jugee. It shows up four times — three in Bhai Gurdas’s vaars, and once in the Guru Granth Sahib, in Satta and Balvand’s Vaar in Raag Ramkali, ang 968.

There’s a subtle difference in how the line appears:

• Guru Granth Sahib: chaare jaage chahu jugee panchain aape hoaa

• Bhai Gurdas: chaare jaage chahu jugee panchain prabh aape hoa

Bhai Gurdas adds the word prabh. You can’t add prabh to the line in the Guru Granth Sahib — it would break the meter. There’s an extra syllable. It doesn’t flow as naturally. Bhai Gurdas wrote his line with a slightly different rhythm, with an extra beat.

This happens elsewhere too. For example:

• GGS: aape paTee kalam aap aap likhanahaaraa hoaa

• Bhai Gurdas: aape paTee kalam aap aape likhanihaaraa hoaa

Again — one extra beat. Bhai Gurdas was doing something deliberate with meter. I see this again and again in Gurbani. The beauty of the line isn’t just in the words, but in the rhythm. The meditation becomes more powerful when the meter is precise. Bhai Gurdas wasn’t just writing — he was singing. He was testing every line. Ensuring the seeker would receive a line both deep in meaning and balanced in beat. That’s part of the gift.

While I was reflecting on all this, my phone buzzed with social media notifications. People were sharing Meetha Meetha for Guru Arjan’s Shaheedi Gurpurab. We had just sung this shabad with my dear flautist Rajesh Prasanna, who’s visiting California this month.

Then I noticed something else — in that same vaar by Satta and Balvand, there’s a line: “Takhat baithaa Arjan Guru.” The same vaar where we sing “Dhan Dhan Ramdas Gur.” I realized Dhan Dhan and Arjan have a kind of internal rhyme. That became my next meditative thread. I composed a new piece around that pauri — listen to it here.

For those who enjoy technical stuff — this composition is in 7 beats (one less than how I usually do Bhai Gurdas’s vaars). If you say “ta-kha” before beat one, then the ta of takhat and jan of arjan fall on beat one. So does “satgur ka.” It makes the internal rhythm even more beautiful. Repeating “Dhan Dhan Guru... Arjan Guru” becomes a chant. A kind of heartbeat.

It gave me a way to remember Guru Arjan on Gurpurab. But then I paused — wasn’t I meandering too far from my original meditation? What does a takhat (throne) have to do with listening?

But then it hit me. It means everything.

If you’re not seated — truly seated — if you’re not letting the Guru speak, letting the Guru’s wind hit you, you’re not really listening. Then I started thinking about all the shabads where the throne — the takhat — becomes central. A place for singing, for the Guru’s presence:

• Takhat baitha Arjan Guru

• Aape takhat rachayo aakas paataala

• So dar keha so ghar keha jit bahi sarab samale

• Jithe jaye bahe mera satguru so thaan

• Sa dharti bhayi hareyavali jithe mera satgur baitha aye

The takhat is where the Guru sits. The shining canopy of Oneness sways above. That’s where the singing happens.

And the heart — the heart is the real throne. That’s where we want the Guru to sit and sing. “Bas rahe hirdaye gur charan pyare.” Let the Guru’s feet rest here.

What better place than that throne? The Guru seated inside, showing us the way to sing — not with instructions, but through his own melodious footsteps.

And now, somewhere in the corner of my heart, Guru Nanak is singing:
“Deh bujhai” — Tell me, O Guru, how can I sing?

Because how would I ever know what singing is…
if the Guru hadn’t first sat down and begun to sing?

The Guru is my king and his feet are on the throne of my heart. Guru Nanak says: Sultan hovan mel lashkar takhat raakha pao.