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The morning lecture on OM prompted a question about death and reincarnation for animals and humans. How does it work? Is it about dividing and reuniting at the level of sound vibration? What is the role of essence, ātmā, and the level of vibration? This is a topic even Swāmījī does not speak about often. The connection with the OM lecture was initially puzzling, as reincarnation fundamentally has little to do with OM. To clarify, we recall from the Upaniṣads that OM has four aspects. A-U-M are three, representing the three usual states of consciousness and the three guṇas. OM as a whole represents divine consciousness, the formless divine Self (nirguṇā ātmā). The A-U-M aspects represent the qualified reality (saguṇa), the origin of creation. To illustrate, think of three primary colors. From these three, all existing colors can be made. When all colors are combined, you get white—colorless light. This white represents the formless aspect of OM. The three primary colors represent the three guṇas from which all forms are created. By mixing them, you get countless shades—light red, dark red, and so on. These are color principles. But in reality, we don't see the principle of "red"; we see a red pullover. Everything in creation has color, arising from these principles. Reincarnation means a change of form. If a red pullover is cut into pieces, its form changes. It might later be replaced by a green pullover or a coat. When we think of reincarnation, we are on the level of these changing forms and appearances, not on the level of the original colors or their principles. Therefore, reincarnation has no direct connection to OM. The divine in us—the divine color or consciousness—is eternal, present in everything from a stone to a plant, and is untouched by any physical change. Considering reincarnation leads us to a different topic: karma. Reincarnation means that, according to our karmas, we undergo different experiences and take on different bodies. The ultimate aim is the development of spiritual awareness. The question specifically asked about the death and reincarnation of animals and humans. We seldom ponder this, as we are not animals and should be grateful for our human birth. To understand its preciousness, consider: What karma must a cow perform to be promoted? What bad karma could a cow commit to be demoted? The same applies to a lion. Can we blame a lion for hunting? Not at all. A lion is an animal. It lacks intellect and free will. In the strict sense, it cannot create karma. Plants also act; some even trap insects. Animals act solely according to their nature, bound by instinct, without choice or understanding of right and good. Try teaching a cat or a lion to be vegetarian. A lion incurs no bad karma for killing, and a cow earns no good karma for being vegetarian. The key point is the absence of free will and, consequently, responsibility. Only humans possess free will, intellect (buddhi), and discrimination (viveka). This is why Swāmījī constantly emphasizes the value of human life. From the karmic perspective, reincarnation pertains primarily to human life. As humans, we experience the results of past karmas and create new ones. Past karmas are done; we can only accept them. While our present actions can influence them, we cannot entirely erase them. Our fresh karma is crucial—it determines our direction based on our deepest desires and attachments, the essence of our life. Recall Arjuna's question to Lord Kṛṣṇa in the Bhagavad Gītā. Arjuna, as a yogī striving for liberation (mokṣa), asks about his fate. Lord Kṛṣṇa assures him that nothing is lost. Every step counts. If you have cultivated consciousness to a certain level, you will reincarnate in circumstances favorable to that development. That level of consciousness will reawaken, allowing you to continue from where you left off. Every yoga teacher observes this. In a class of beginners, one person often shows deeper interest and understanding, swearing they have no prior knowledge. This is the saṃskāra—the latent impression—carried from a past life, easily reawakened. The same applies to a divine incarnation, an avatāra. What does God need to learn? Take the example of Mahāprabhujī—he brought everything with him. Avatāras may practice to set an example through their sādhanā, but upon starting, everything awakens swiftly, as seen with Swāmījī. Reincarnation is a matter of karma and desire. The decisive moment is death, shaped by our final thoughts. If one is lifelong attached to wealth, the last thought may be, "Who will get my money?" If attached to family, the thought is, "I don't want to leave them." In that moment, it is as if we file an application to God: "Please, I want my money back," or "I want to see my loved ones again." God says, "Approved." How can you receive wealth or meet souls without a physical body? Thus, we apply to reincarnate. It is our doing, not God's fault. If our final thought is solely on the Guru and God, that desire arises at life's end. God sees this different application and directs the soul accordingly. We humans have significant control over our direction, dictated by our awareness and desires. Yet, we must be cautious; life is tricky. Reincarnation into non-human forms can occur for various reasons, chiefly our qualities. Swāmījī often says some humans lack human qualities. We must strive to live with human qualities. Otherwise, engaging in cruelty, such as meat-eating, may lead to lessons like experiencing what it means to be killed as an animal. Hence, the first principle upon taking a mantra is vegetarianism. Swāmījī once offered reassurance to those overly worried about returning in animal form. While translating the bhajan "Abhīṣaṅpāda," a verse originally said, "If I come back as a human" (using "yadi"—"if"). Swāmījī insisted on changing it to "Jabā Jabā"—"whenever I come back." He emphasized that a human devotee (bhakta) should not doubt they will return at least in human form if liberation is not attained in this life. A true devotee is on the safe side, though it can still be tricky. I recall a story of a yogī who had practiced for many lives. Meditating in the Himalayas, nearing his final liberation, he found an injured deer. Compassion arose, he cared for it, and it recovered but stayed with him. When his time for samādhi came, his last thought was not on God but on the deer. As a result, he reincarnated as a deer. Yet, the spiritual longing (jijñāsu) persisted even in that form; the deer was drawn to prayer bells, churches, and ashrams. But what karma can a deer perform to attain mokṣa? It cannot. The animal birth is a result of past human karma. The deer lived its life, passed away, and the good saṃskāras resurfaced, leading to rebirth as a yogī, which then became his final liberation. Returning to the question, the mechanics of animal reincarnation are not truly within our need to understand. Lord Buddha addressed such queries by saying he taught only what is necessary for liberation; what he did not teach is not needed. It is that simple. Rāṃś. We need not ponder it deeply. What we must contemplate intensely is that we are not in animal form now. We are this yogī. I hope that answers the question. Sorry, Gajanandjī's mention of the deer got me thinking. It's not a deer story but a horse story from Jādan. Whatever karma one of our horses brought to the ashram, and whatever transpired, listening to this story will clarify what was to happen next for that horse. It also reveals the beauty of ashram life. We had a horse named Rādhā, large, black, and gentle by nature. She fell ill with colic, a painful condition where gas traps in the stomach. We battled it for four days, keeping her moving, administering medicine, but she worsened. In extreme pain, she could no longer stand, lying outside the workshop. As her end neared, she suddenly stood and began walking forcefully toward the Talāb (pond), pulling the boy holding her rope. She walked from the Talāb around the workshop to the other side, making her way to the Śiva Mandir—a journey of about 200 meters, a great distance for her condition. She walked directly to the temple steps, placed her head on them for 10-15 seconds, then walked back to the workshop and passed away. One can imagine her next birth. Such a connection to the ashram was unmistakable. It was no accident; she went directly, offered her praṇām, and returned. We later held satsaṅg there. Although it was an animal birth, that experience alone showed something from the past drove her to the ashram to re-establish that connection. That final moment was clearly the purpose of her being there. There's an interesting story in the Mahābhārata. A natural question arises: if animals do not create karma in their birth, what decides their next life? Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the blind king, asked Lord Kṛṣṇa what karma caused his blindness. Kṛṣṇa granted him a blessing to look back through his lives. Dhṛtarāṣṭra looked back a hundred lives but found no reason. Kṛṣṇa asked how far he had looked. Upon hearing "a hundred lives," Kṛṣṇa said it was not far enough. Dhṛtarāṣṭra looked further and, in his 104th past life, found that as a boy he had put out the eye of an insect with a thorn. That was the reason for his current blindness. We cannot change what happened a hundred lives ago. But consider the relationship between our physical incarnation and our ātmā. Imagine a castle and a karma yogī staying there. The castle is your ātmā; the karma yogī is the physical body. The castle existed before the karma yogī and will remain after. What can the karma yogī give the castle? They can leave it in better condition—maintained, cleaned, purified, repaired, developed. Similarly, in this birth through which our ātmā travels, carrying karmic luggage, we should aim to leave that luggage in better condition than we found it. We should accumulate good from this life. The first aim is realization. The Īśāvāsya Upaniṣad states that if you cannot achieve that, at least aim for a long life—live a hundred years, performing as many selfless good deeds as possible so that karma does not bind you. Keep progressing on the path. That is the best we can do. I have an image for the experience of death, the relationship between ātmā and this birth. For some, dying is painful; for others, it is easy. Imagine an olive and a cherry. Both have a seed inside, like our ātmā. In an olive, the seed is tightly connected to the flesh. In a ripe cherry, if you squeeze it, the seed pops out easily. With an olive, you must peel it off. Similarly, the more we are aware that our ātmā is not fundamentally attached to the physical world—though it resides within it like the seed within the fruit—the easier the transition at death. Through practice, we cultivate this relationship with the seed, realizing that the peace, energy, love, and everything within the ātmā, though housed in the body, is not rooted to it. The physical body is special, but the ātmā is more special. Therefore, practice non-attachment. Some notes just can't let go. Kīrtan. Karmic dust. Perhaps that's the problem, the last word that came to mind. Regarding reincarnation, in Jādan we sometimes have many flies. I remember Swāmījī once said, "These are all my previous disciples" who made a minor mistake. Currently, we have many bees here. Perhaps they also wish to attend satsaṅg, so be gentle with them.