Archive for 2025

An email arrived this morning with lake-effect cheer: one of my favorite contemporary poets, George Bilgere, will visit our Seekers group in January 2026. At that very moment I happened to be rereading Carl Phillips’s We Love in the Only Ways We Can—a poem about what to do when joy and sorrow both knock: turn toward attention. It felt like one of those small alignments the day sometimes offers, a reminder that learning itself can be a way of loving.

WE LOVE IN THE ONLY WAYS WE CAN
Carl Phillips

What’s the point, now,
of crying, when you’ve cried
already, he said, as if he’d
never thought, or been told—
and perhaps he hadn’t—
Write down something
that doesn’t have to matter,
that still matters,
to you. Though I didn’t
know it then, those indeed
were the days. Random
corners, around one of which,
on that particular day,
a colony of bees, bound
by instinct, swarmed low
to the ground, so as
not to abandon the wounded
queen, trying to rise,
not rising, from the strip of
dirt where nothing had
ever thrived, really, except
in clumps the grass here
and there that we used to call
cowboy grass, I guess for its
toughness: stubborn,
almost, steadfast, though that’s
a word I learned early, each
time the hard way, not to use
too easily.

So Carl stages a quiet moral drama in this poem. It begins with a familiar deflection in the presence of tears: What’s the point, now, of crying, when you’ve cried already? The speaker declines that impatience and offers a counter-practice: write down something that doesn’t have to matter, that still matters, to you. The advice is small enough to be missed and large enough to reorient a life. Instead of managing another person’s sorrow, turn toward attention. Let noticing—careful, unhurried, particular—become a form of love. Writing, in this frame, is not display but accompaniment: a way of staying near what hurts until it can be held. (this is the same reason why music works as meditation; it separates us from our ego).

The poem then moves from counsel to parable. On a random city corner, a colony of bees circles low so as not to abandon their wounded queen, who keeps trying—“not rising”—from a ribbon of dirt where almost nothing thrives. The image hums with instruction: when love cannot lift, it lowers itself. It keeps company. It remains within reach and watch, bearing witness rather than solutions. Phillips refuses to varnish this stance with heroism. In the bareness where only “cowboy grass” endures, he hesitates over words like steadfast, a term he learned “the hard way” not to use easily. Presence can be devotion; it can also be stubbornness, fantasy, or self-regard. The poem’s ethics are precise: love asks discernment as much as fervor.

Read this way, the title becomes both blessing and boundary: we love in the only ways we can. Sometimes that means saying less and staying longer. Sometimes it means making a record—assembling a few truthful lines—when fixing is impossible. Sometimes it is neither speech nor text but a rescue scaled to the moment.

History and literature offer a chorus of such ways. One is song: Guru Nanak turns love into remembrance by singing, and in So Kyon Visre—“How could I ever forget You?”—the act of voicing the Beloved steadies the heart. The music is devotion, but it is also attention: naming, again and again, what we refuse to forget. Another is vocation sustained through loss: John Milton, losing his sight, composes the sonnet now known as On His Blindness and discovers that “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Love, there, becomes the patience to keep faith with one’s gift when the usual avenues close. And then there is the smallest and most ordinary rescue: Jane Hirshfield, finding an ant walking on her sofa cushion, lifts it out and reflects in We Think We Are Saving Ants on how such minor salvations are the only kind sometimes available to us. Each example is a different instrument in the same repertoire.

Phillips’s bees belong to that repertoire. Their hovering loyalty suggests that compassion is not a single performance but a practice adapted to the real. Sometimes you lower your flight and keep watch. Sometimes you sing the name that aligns the heart. Sometimes you write down what “doesn’t have to matter” and discover that it does—because it keeps another life present in yours. Sometimes you lift a life no larger than an ant and call the day redeemed. None of these gestures is grand. All of them are exact.

Returning to the happiness of George Bilgere’s yes to our Seekers group, I found myself smiling at how coy I am. I want to learn poetry from those who do it so well, and I’ve made the Seekers group my excuse to invite them. I guess learning is a love. The learning has already begun, because every time George writes to me he includes something not strictly related to logistics that tells me where he is and what’s happening. Last time it was tucked into his signature: “Yours from Cleveland, George.” He didn’t have to mention Cleveland, but he did.

Today he wrote, “Let me check the calendar and see which of the dates might work best. I’ll just be hanging around in frozen Cleveland, enjoying the Christmas break from teaching,” and he closed with, “Meanwhile, glorious fall approaches! Best, George.” Here is a poet who situates himself—place and season—and takes pleasure in it. Here and now. Even in a mundane email, he’s steadfast in the practice of paying attention to where he is, and how glorious it is. Stay steadfast in love, my mind! How can I forget? Easy to say, hard to accomplish. Stay steadfast.

I went to a reading of Ada Limón at Trinity Church in Menlo Park with my cousin yesterday. The church itself is a beautiful space, a reminder of how the earth can feel like a welcoming home. By the time we arrived it was already full, but just then the ushers opened the first two rows, and somehow I found myself in the front row—close enough to take a picture of Ada Limón with Reverend Jude Harmon.

Ada’s reading was intimate and luminous, her voice grounding the packed room in quiet attention. I was also struck by Reverend Jude Harmon, who gave me a glimpse of what Jesus’ love might look like. Even in his brief role, simply through attentive questions and gentle comments, he showed what it means to listen with care. The congregation, too, was warm and inviting, the whole evening carrying a spirit of welcome. At one point, the folks sitting in the row behind us leaned forward and said that because I was a poet, I deserved the front row seat. And I believed them—for a moment words made me feel worthy, which is magical in itself. Later that evening, I even had the chance to speak with her and have a couple of my books signed, including Startlement, released that very day.

I have not studied Ada Limón’s poetry in depth. I’ve written a little about Instructions on Not Giving Up, which carries a Krishna-like message from the title onward and has become one of her most beloved poems. I’ve also reflected on Dream of the Raven and connected it to Guru Nanak’s teaching that suffering itself can be a medicine. But I’ve never truly sat with her work—certainly not from the front row of a church filled with readers. After this luminous evening, and now with two of her books in my hands, I know I want to spend more time with her poems.

So why wait? This morning, wanting to linger a little longer in her voice, I opened her new book at random and landed on this beautiful poem:

On Earth As It Is On Earth

by Ada Limón (from Startlement)

Green and green and green, I speak

to the tree line, a booming body, trying

not to boom. I see myself as I once

was, hiding inside a manzanita outside

the ceramic studio, the mirrored rain-

drops hanging on urn-shaped blooms

and soon, too, my strands of hair. There was

always a line where the rain fell and where

it didn’t. It was the line between abandonment

and freedom, loneliness and imagination.

How I waited in there, composing in my mind

a life without rules, without money, cruelty,

clocks, or clothes, how still I am the same,

in the green, in the green, waiting out the rain.

At first glance, the poem is simple: green and green, a body under rain, a manzanita tree to hide in, mirrored drops. Then a hinge appears: the line where the rain fell and where it didn’t. Weather becomes philosophy. That skinny border is suddenly the place between abandonment and freedom, loneliness and imagination. The border between hard work and grace which Guru Nanak talks about in Japji. Limón plants us on that threshold and, crucially, leaves us there. She doesn’t tell us whether to step out and get soaked or stay tucked inside the leaves. She trusts the reader to choose.

That’s part of why the poem feels therapeutic. If you’re shy, you can read it as a permission slip to dance—go ahead, cross the line, let the water have your hair and your caution. If you tend to act too fast, the poem hands you a stool: sit here, watch the rain break the world into two clean halves, practice not rushing. Either way, you’re welcome. The poem does not close the door behind you; it keeps it open.

It’s also a sonnet—the kind that rhymes in thought. Fourteen lines, a turn at the weather-line, and a last chord that keeps ringing: “in the green, in the green,” while the rain hauntingly rhymes with same. And then there’s the title, which is a small stroke of mischief and devotion. “On Earth As It Is On Earth.” It echoes the Lord’s Prayer:

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us today our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one. For yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever. Amen

While it echoes this prayer that Jesus gave to his disciples, she tilts it -- as if the rain was slanted by wind. Not “as it is in heaven,” but here, now. The poem wagers that heaven is not elsewhere. It is this place, when we agree to notice it.

After I read it, I stayed put for a while, thinking about thresholds. Most of life happens there—on doorsteps, at trailheads, beside riverbanks, in hospital hallways, between emails we send and the replies that may or may not come. Limón’s line of rain gave me a field guide for those places. Stand on the seam. Look both ways. Decide, or don’t, but be alive to the choice.

And then a harder thought arrived. We aren’t just on the threshold of rain and not-rain. We are on the threshold of green and not green. Forests are thinning. Rivers stall. Summers burn longer. The line where the green once held is receding in too many places. Which makes the poem’s refrain feel less like description and more like a vow: “in the green, in the green.” Can we keep that line from slipping back? Can we be the kind of people who notice the change soon enough to help?

There’s a line from Gurbani I carry with me: Wherever my Guru sits, that place becomes green. I hear it as both faith and assignment. The teacher—however you understand that word: divine presence, wise friend, conscience, Shabad—brings greenness with them: attention, tenderness, repair. If that’s true, then greenness is not only a fact of rainfall; it’s a practice. We make places green by how we stand in them: by planting, by protecting, by speaking up, by stepping over the threshold when action is needed, and by waiting wisely when patience will do more good than noise.

Limón’s poem doesn’t tell us which move to make. It offers the stance: alert at the edge, bright to the world, capable of both restraint and courage. In personal life, that might mean letting a hard conversation ripen one more day—or finally walking into it. In civic life, it might mean learning the watershed you live in, calling a representative, planting a tree, or deciding that your backyard will be a little sanctuary of pollinators and shade. Small acts, yes, but that is how lines hold: one rooted choice at a time.

So I finish the poem and look out the window. I am just going to start the purpose of life class, where they think I am teaching them, but in fact they are teaching me. On the sidewalk there’s a thin wet stripe where the irrigation overshot the lawn and found the concrete. A miniature version of Limón’s border. I stand there for a minute, just looking—earth as it is on earth. Then I think about the larger stripe we’re all standing on together, the one between green and not green, and I wonder what today’s faithful act might be.

And here, now, I pass the ball to you. Stand on the line a moment. Think away. Then decide which side your next step will defend. In the green, in the green. Hopefully, with Ada, Reverend Jude and me in these lines:

Wherever my Guru sits, that place becomes green.

Whoever sees my guru, that person becomes green.

Behad Ramzā̃ Dasda Mera Dholan Māhī

Below I’ve shared the original kafī (Gurmukhi + transliteration), a fresh translation, followed by a short essay on the kafi, and then the extended NFAK lyrics with notes on the word-play. Read the kafī first—its simplicity is the key that unlocks the performance. Then let the qawwali carry the thought further, pal pal, glimpse by glimpse.

Original Kafi - Behad Ramzã Dasda

Before I translate the lines that were sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan Saab, let me just share the original Kafi by Bulleh Shah. It is a short 4-line kafi.

Behad ramzaan dassda nee, Dholan maahi.

My beloved keeps telling boundless secrets.

Meem de uhle vassda nee, Dholan maahi.
My beloved dwells beneath (the tree of) mīm (M).

Aulian Mansoor kahave, Ramaz Anlhak aap batave,
He gets himself named Mansūr, he himself says “I am the Truth.”

Aape aap noon sooli charhave, te kol khaloke hassda nee, Dholan maahi.
He hoists himself on the gallows, and laughs standing nearby himself, my beloved.

Translation of Kafi:

Tells Secrets of Beyond, my beloved.
Dwells beneath mīm (M), my beloved
He is named Mansūr, he says “I am the Truth.”
He himself hoist himself on the gallows
and he stands nearby himself, my beloved.
Tells boundless secrets, my beloved.
Dwells beneath mīm (M), my beloved

Short Interpretation of Behad Ramza Kafi

Bulleh Shah’s short kafī is a key to boundless hinting: the Beloved speaks in ramz—hints—and “dwells beneath the veil of mīm.” In a handful of lines Bulleh moves from letter-mysticism to fearless non-duality, invoking alif/mīm, Ahad/Ahmad, and the strange serenity of the gallows where doer, deed, and done-to resolve into one. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s qawwali stretches this seed into a living meditation, letting a single M gather meanings—Muhammad, Mansūr, and me/mā (self and the primal mothering mercy).

There’s another resonance: to Punjabi/Urdu ears mīm can echo neem, the bitter, cleansing tree. Picture the poet under that cool shade—the prophetic form as shelter that purifies the pests of ego so vision can ripen. “Mīm de ohle vasdā”—He really comes near in a name and face, yet remains veiled; revelation both shows and guards.

This is the threshold where Mansūr al-Hallāj stands. A ninth-century Persian mystic, Mansūr longed for a love that would not be negotiated. He prayed, fasted, traveled, and spoke publicly of an intimacy with God many Sufis kept veiled. In ecstatic states—what later teachers called shaṭḥiyāt (overflowing utterances)—he declared “Ana’l-Ḥaqq” (“I am the Truth”). To a sober jurist, that sounds like blasphemy. To a mystic, it means the small “I” has been burned away; only the Truth speaks through the human mouth. Mansūr was imprisoned for years in Baghdad and finally executed—flogged, mutilated, raised on a gallows. In Sufi memory he became Shah-e-Ishq, the martyr of love.

Bulleh does something audacious with this history. His Punjabi is causative: “Auliyā̃ Mansūr kahāve, ramz ana’l-Ḥaqq āp batāve; āpe āp nū̃ sūlī chaṛhāve, te kol khlo ke hassdā nī.” God has Mansūr be called a saint; God has him reveal the secret; God hoists Himself upon Himself on the gallows—and stands nearby smiling. The agency collapses. What courts call execution becomes Divine self-unmasking. Mansūr is not a rival “I”; he is a mirror in which the Beloved speaks Himself.

And still the song refuses finality. It circles back to the refrain—behad ramzā̃—boundless hints. Even after the blaze of non-duality, the pedagogy is humility. Sit in the neem-cool of mīm; honor the form and look through it. Let love’s alphabet—alif/mīm, Ahad/Ahmad—teach how the One takes a human face, how every unveiling is also a veil, and how a saint’s last breath can be heard as the Beloved telling yet another secret.

This kafi reminded me of who Bhai Nand Lal Goya threads the Mansūr motif through a startling seasonal image in a ghazal of his - B-hosh Bash Ki Hangaam-e-nau-bahaar aamad. He opens with an imperative—b-hosh bāsh (“stay awake”)—because nau-bahār (new spring) has arrived, bahār āmad-o, yār āmad-o, qarār āmad: spring, the Friend, and inner rest come together. Then he pivots: “khabar dihand ba-yārān-e mudda‘ī ki im-shab: ana’l-Ḥaqq zadah Mansūr, sū-ye dār āmad”—“tell my friends, the self-claimants, that tonight ‘I am the Truth’ has struck me as it struck Mansūr; I am on my way to the gallows.” Goya doesn’t cite Hallāj as a cautionary tale; he identifies with him. Spring and scaffold coincide: truth blossoms and the ego dies. The command to “stay awake” keeps sobriety inside ecstasy; the gallows (dār) becomes a threshold where doer, deed, and done-to collapse into One. Read beside Bulleh’s kafī, Goya’s move clarifies the arc: sit in the cool, purifying shade of mīm, then dare the Mansūr step—let the Beloved’s “I” speak through the human mouth, even if the path runs through the scaffold of the self.

ਬ-ਹੋਸ਼ ਬਾਸ਼ ਕਿ ਹੰਗਾਮਿ ਨੌ-ਬਹਾਰ ਆਮਦ।
B-Hosh Baash Ki Ha[n]gaam-e-Nau-Bahaar Aamadh
Stay alert! As the time of early spring has arrived
ਬਹਾਰ ਆਮਦੋ, ਯਾਰ ਆਮਦੋ, ਕਰਾਰ ਆਮਦ॥੧॥
Bahaar Aamdh-o, Yaar Aamadh-o, Karaar Aamadh
Spring has arrived and... the Friend has arrived and... Peace has arrived

ਖ਼ਬਰ ਦਿਹੰਦ ਬ-ਯਾਰਾਨਿ ਮੁਦੱਈ, ਕਿ ਇਮ-ਸ਼ਬ।
Khhabar Dhiha[n]dh B-Yaaraan-e-Mudh’aee Ki Eim-Shab
Give word to my Friends that I am hopeful tonight:
ਅਨਲਹੱਕ ਜ਼ਦਹ ਮਨਸੂਰ, ਸੂਏ ਦਾਰ ਆਮਦ॥੪॥
Analhaq Zadhah Mansoor, Soo-e-Dhaar Aamadh
‘Ana’al-Haq’ killed Mansur Al-Hallaj, towards the gallows I have come!

Lyrics and Translation of NFAK Qawwali -

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s qawwali turns the seed of this Kafi into a living meditation, playing with alif and mīm, Ahad/Ahmad, and letting a single M gather meanings—Muhammad, Mansūr, and me/mā, the primal mothering mercy.

Behad ramza dassda ni mera dholan māhī.
My beloved (dholan māhī) tells boundless secrets.

1

Vē dī “be” na dass, mullāh; oh alif sīdhā — kam khaṭ āyā.
O yār kalotni rāt vālā, bhes vatā ikk vār āyā.
Sohnā mīm dā ghunghat pā ke dekh, ināñ zulfan de ghunghral khaṛ āyā.
Ali Haiderā pehle Ahad sī, hun Ahmad ban ke vaḍ āyā.

Don’t talk to me of the letter be, O mullah; the straight alif has no bends—its work is complete.
The Lover of that fateful Night has returned in a new guise.
Look—he’s veiled in the letter mīm (م); his curls spill like rings.
Ali the Lion was Ahad (the One); now he arrives as Ahmad.

2

Kithē Shī‘a e, kithē Sunnī e;
kithē jaṭadhār, kithē munni e;
kithē Ka‘be dā bēṛā dassdā,
but-khāne vich kidhre vasdā.

Now Shia, now Sunni;
now matted-locks, now clean-shaven;
now he speaks of the Ka‘ba’s voyage,
now he dwells within the idol-house.

3

Āpe zāhir, āpe bātin, āpe luk-luk pehndā e;
āpe mullāh, āpe qāzī, āpe ‘ilm parhendā e;
zunnār-e kufr dā khat gal vich, but-khāne vich behndā e;
zātōñ ashrāf — yār Rañjhē dā — layān dī laj rakhendā e;
āpe lukdā, āpe dhisda, āpe dhūn machendā e;
Bulleh Shāh, Ināyat menū pal pal darshan dindā e.

He’s the manifest and the hidden, he himself puts on disguises;
he’s mullah and qazi and teacher of knowledge;
he wears the unbeliever’s sacred thread and sits inside the temple;
noble in essence, my friend Ranjha safeguards the lowly;
he hides, appears, and stirs the music himself;
Bulleh Shah—my guide Inayat gives me glimpses moment by moment.

4

“Lan tarānī,” das ke jānī — hun kyoñ mūkh chupāyā e?
Main dholan vich farq na pāi — “innamā” farmaiyā e.
Tan Sābir de kīṛe pāe — jo jharryā so pāyā e.
Mansūr ko jo kuch zāhir hoyā — sūlī pakaṛ charhāyā e.
Dassō nuqta-e zāt-e Ilāhī — sajda kis karvāyā e?
Bulleh Shāh dā hukam na māṇyā — shaitān khuār karāyā e.

“You shall not see Me,” You said—why veil Your face now?
Between lover and Beloved there is no difference—so says the Revelation.
You filled Sabir’s flesh with worms—he replaced each one that fell.
When a little was unveiled in Mansur, You sent him to the gallows.
Tell me—for whose sake did You command the angels to prostrate?
You ignored Bulleh’s plea and left the devil wretched.

5

Ik lāzim bāt adab dī e; sānū bāt malūmī sab dī e.
Har-har vich sūrat Rabb dī e — kithē zāhir, kithē chupdī e, o sohnā.

One thing is essential: adab (reverence). The rest we can learn.
The face of God is in every heart—now visible, now concealed.

6 (letter-play)

Asī vekh ke sūrat dilbar dī, āj be-sūrat nū jān gaye.
Binā ‘ain “Arab”, binā mīm “Ahmad” — assāñ yār nū khoob pahchān gaye.
Kithē Ṭūr de purdē chukdā e; kithē nāvāñ de vich lukdā e.
Jad ramz pachhāṇī yārāñ ne, oh sab sadqē qurbān gaye.

Seeing the Beloved’s face, we came to know the Faceless.
Remove ‘ain from Arab and mīm from Ahmad—and you find Rabb (Lord) and Ahad (One): so we recognized our Friend.
Here He lifts Sinai’s veil; there He hides behind names.
And when the friends caught the secret, they gave everything away.

7

Oh be-sūrat vich sūrat de bun — āp Muhammad āyā e;
rakh sāmnē shīsha-e wahdat dā — āj Rabb ne yār sajāyā e;
bin sūrat de Rabb nahīñ labdā — uhdī shakal nūrānī, mūkh Rabb dā;
je oh na hunda, na Rabb hunda — “law lāka,” Khudā farmaiyā e;
eh gal koi yār khaṭāvī nahīñ — je Khudā oh nahīñ, te judā vī nahīñ;
āpe Ahmad ban ke hamd karē, te Muhammad nām rakhāyā e.

The Formless took on form—He Himself came as Muhammad.
Hold the mirror of Oneness—today God has adorned the Friend.
Without a face you cannot find the Divine; His radiant face is the face of God.
“Were it not for you…”—so, it is said, did God address him.
This is no heresy among friends: if he is not God, he is not other than God.
He became Ahmad to praise Himself, and named Himself Muhammad.

8

Āpe tālib te matlūb āpe; āpe āp apnā mehboob āpe.
Āpe apṇe āp de milṇe dī tadbīr banāī jāndī e.
Jad shor-e muhabbat ne pāyā, be-sūrat sūrat ban āyā.
Āpe apṇe hijr-vichhoṛe dī taqrīr sunāī jāndī e.
Āpe mud qadīma kallā e — koi ghair nahīñ, Allāh-hī Allāh e.

He is the seeker and the sought—His own beloved.
He devises the meeting with Himself.
When Love thundered, the Faceless came with a face.
He even speaks His own story of separation.
Alone from the beginning—there is no “other”: only Allah, only Allah.

9

Zarā be-khud ho ke dekh mīāñ — jeṛhe bastī e, oh wasdā e;
binā murshid-e kāmil na e bhed khulē — eh kalma koyi na dasdā e.
Be-sūrat sūrat ban āyā — khud āp muhāfiz sūrat dā;
khud rūh-misāl te jism hoyā — āpe har-har de vich wasdā e.
Āpe kasrat de vich bandā e, ate ahadiyat vich Maulā e;
‘ilm apṇe dā āp ‘ālim e — kithē āzādī, kithē phasdā e.
Jadoñ akhiyān dittiyān murshad ne, har dekhiyā har-har shān andar;
kithē mūmin ho ke mandā e, kithē kāfir ho ke nasdā e.

Lose yourself and look—He dwells wherever there is a dwelling.
Without a perfect guide, the secret stays shut—no creed tells this.
The Faceless became a face—and guards that face Himself;
He is spirit and exemplar and body—He indwells every heart.
He is man in multiplicity, Lord in Oneness;
knower of His own knowledge—free in one place, captive in another.
When the guide gave me eyes, I saw only His splendor in all;
now a believer, now an unbeliever—He plays both roles.

10 (question-qawwali)

Ki karda nī, ki karda — dilbar, ki karda?
Ikke ghar vich wasdeāñ, rasdeāñ — naīñ hunda vich purdā.
Vich masīt namāz guzāre, but-khāne jā varda.
Āp ikkoñ kai laakh gharān de mālik — sab ghar-ghar dā.
Jit wal vekhāñ, ut wal oh ho — har dī sangat karda.
Mūsā te Pherōn banā ke — do ho ke kyoñ laṛdā?
Hāzir-nāzir har thāñ oho — kehṛā kis nū kharda?
Kithē Rūmī e, kithē Shāmī e; kithē sāhib, kithē ghulāmī e;
kithē khāsāñ vich, kithē ‘āmī e — oh āpe āp tamāmī e.

“What is the Beloved doing—what is he doing?”
We live in one house together—no veils between us.
He prays in the mosque; he walks into the idol-house.
One and the same—yet Lord of a hundred thousand homes.
Wherever I look, there He is—keeping company with everyone.
He becomes Moses and Pharaoh—why split into two and clash?
Present, watching, everywhere—who is leading whom?
Now Rumi, now Shams; now master, now slave;
among nobles and commoners—He is His own completeness.

11 (mīm / creation)

Meem de ohle wasdā — merā dholan māhī.
Kun kehā, fayakūn kahāyā; be-chūnī se “chūn” banāyā;
Ahad de vich mīm ralāyā — hun main lakhyā sohnā yār;
jisdē husn dā garam bāzār — mīm de ohle wasdā merā dholan māhī.

He lives beneath the letter mīm, my beloved.
He said “Be!” and it was; from No-how He made somehow;
He mingled mīm into Ahad—and I beheld the Beautiful Friend,
whose loveliness sets the marketplace aflame—my beloved lives beneath mīm.

12

Pyārā pehn pushāka āyā; Ādam apṇā nām dharāyā;
Ahad toñ ban Ahmad āyā — nabiyāñ dā sardār.

The Beloved donned garments and came; He called Himself Adam;
from Ahad He came as Ahmad—chief of the prophets.

13

Kāran preet nīt ban āyā; mīm dā ghunghat mukh te pāyā;
Ahad toñ Ahmad nām dharāyā — merā dholan māhī wasdā mīm de ohle.

As Love and Purpose He appears again and again;
He draws the veil of mīm over His face;
from Ahad He takes the name Ahmad—my beloved dwells beneath mīm.

14

Āp ahdiyat de vich Ahad; āpe vich wahdat rūp yār dā e;
āpe nūr, wujūd, shahūd āpe; āpe sare rūp dhar dā e;
oh mehboob āpe, āpe ho ‘āshiq; āpe apṇe tōñ jind vardā e;
o dīwāniyā — mīm-e Muhammadi choñ, piyā alif chamkā mār dā e.

In the realm of Unicity He is Ahad; in the realm of Unity He appears as Friend;
He is Light, Existence, Witness—He assumes every form;
He is Beloved and He is Lover—He grants life from Himself;
O ecstatic one!—from Muhammad’s mīm, the alif flashes forth.

15

Karan kī behad ta‘rīf usdī — uthe laṅg be-had choñ had āyā;
hoyā bārī be-had dī qaid vichoñ — āj had de vich be-had āyā;
Bībī Āminah de ghar houn idan — dekho kufr te shirk dā radd āyā;
o dīwāniyā — mīm dā kuṇḍ pā ke — sūrat vich Allāh Hu al-Ṣamad āyā.

How can one praise Him without limit?—
The Limitless crossed into limit;
freed from the prison of limitlessness, today the boundless entered the bound.
In Bibi Aminah’s house—behold, the refutation of unbelief and partnering.
O enraptured one!—wearing the veil of mīm, Allah, the Self-Sufficient, shone in a face.

16 (Mansur)

Auliyā Shāh Mansūr kahāve; ramz “anal Ḥaqq” āp sunāve;
āpe āp nū sūlī charhāve — kol khaloke hass dā, merā dholan māhī.

He named Mansur “king of saints” and made him utter “I am the Truth”;
He Himself mounted Himself upon the gallows,
and stood by smiling—my beloved of boundless secrets.

Notes on word-play & references

alif / mīm / ‘ain: letters of Arabic—alif (ا) = the straight One; mīm (م) marks Muhammad/Ahmad; removing ‘ain (ع) from ‘Arab leaves Rabb (رّب, Lord).
Ahad / Ahmad: Ahad = The One (Divine); Ahmad/Muhammad = the prophetic manifestation; the poem turns this into mystical punning.
kun / fayakūn: “Be—and it is.”
Lan tarānī: “You shall not see Me” (Moses on Sinai). Ṭūr = Sinai.
Mansūr (al-Hallāj): Sufi martyred for Ana’l Ḥaqq (“I am the Truth”).
Wahdat / Ahdiyat: unity / oneness beyond multiplicity.
Bulleh Shah / Inayat: poet and his pir (guide).
pal pal: “moment by moment” (fixed here).

The Other Place: Listening - the First Step Towards Bliss

Listening is often praised in passing—as a virtue, a skill, a kindness—but only rarely is it treated as a path. A way of living. A way of becoming.

Today I am reading William Stafford’s poem Listening, in which the poet remembers his father’s gift of hearing: not just footsteps or moths, but the world itself—speaking from its edges. A kind of listening that invited the soft wild night closer, that widened the world and made even silence luminous.

Stafford’s poem reminds me how listening, when done deeply, becomes more than passive reception. It becomes a kind of migration—out of the self and into a broader field. His father did not just hear more than the others; he became more by listening. We too, Stafford says, can be touched “from that other place.” If we turn our faces toward quiet long enough, it might find us.

In spiritual traditions, this kind of listening is not unfamiliar. Guru Nanak, in the Japji Sahib, dedicates an entire set of four verses—known as the Suniye pauris—to explore what true listening does to the soul. Not just hearing words or concepts, but Suniye—a listening that transforms. A listening that opens the doors to divine perception.

By listening, Nanak says, the earth and sky revolve. By listening, death cannot touch you. By listening, you attain contentment, truth, and wisdom. Even the gods, even the scriptures, arise from listening. This is not the listening of noise but the listening of Naam—the Word, the pulse of existence.

Suniye is not merely a function of the ears. The ears are always open. But the heart? The attention? The self? These must be quieted. This is what makes Suniye so difficult and so profound. It asks us not to be doers but receivers. To set down our own noise. To enter, as the mystics say, the cave of the heart.

In everyday life, most of us rarely listen. We wait to speak. We scan for familiar patterns. We filter reality through what we already believe. Guru Nanak names this—the ego’s noise—as the barrier to bliss. But listening, true listening, allows us to become sangat—in association with the divine Word. Over time, he says, this transforms your very being. Misery and sin lose their grip.

This is not unlike what happens in poetry. Naomi Shihab Nye’s short lines invite us to listen to the trees, to the birds, to the delicate thrum of the living world. Shel Silverstein, in his childlike wisdom, urges us to “listen to the mustn’ts,” to the invisible constraints that surround possibility—and then, beyond them, to a voice that whispers: Anything can happen, child. Langston Hughes listens in the still of the night—not for sound, but for presence. And Paul Simon’s famous line, “The sound of silence,” gestures toward that same paradox of inwardness: that what matters most is often what’s unspoken, or unspeakable.

But what is shared by all these poems is not a content—but a posture. A state of alert stillness. A readiness to be changed.

William Stafford’s father was not a mystic, perhaps, nor a saint. But in the poem, he stands like one: attuned to other dimensions. A quiet seer on the porch. And Stafford, like Nanak, like us, waits to be touched from that other place.

That “other place” might be the soul. Or the silence between two people. Or the voice of a Guru. Or the stillness that follows a chant. Or the moment when a child, long asleep, says something that startles you awake. It could even be the wind through the leaves or the twitch of a squirrel’s tail. The world speaks. The divine speaks. But only when we stop speaking ourselves.

In a world that prizes noise, listening is a quiet rebellion. It is the practice of surrendering the illusion of control. Of receiving, not conquering. Guru Nanak and William Stafford have me convinced. Listening is the first true step toward bliss.

Here is Stafford’s poem.

Listening - William Stafford

My father could hear a little animal step,

or a moth in the dark against the screen,

and every far sound called the listening out

into places where the rest of us had never been.

More spoke to him from the soft wild night

than came to our porch for us on the wind;

we would watch him look up and his face go keen

till the walls of the world flared, widened.

My father heard so much that we still stand

inviting the quiet by turning the face,

waiting for a time when something in the night

will touch us too from that other place.

"Listening" by William Stafford, from West of Your City. © Talisman Press, 1960.

Some More Poems on Listening

"Listening" by Naomi Shihab Nye:

Listen,

the trees are moving

in their leaves.

Listen,

the birds are singing.

"Listen" by Shel Silverstein:

Listen to the mustn'ts, child.

Listen to the don'ts.

Listen to the shouldn'ts,

The impossibles, the won'ts.

Listen to the never haves,

Then listen close to me...

Anything can happen, child.

Anything can be.

"In the Still of the Night" by Langston Hughes:

In the still of the night,

While the world is in slumber,

I listen, I listen,

To hear your soft voice.

"The Sound of Silence" by Paul Simon:

Hello darkness, my old friend

I've come to talk with you again

Because a vision softly creeping

Left its seeds while I was sleeping

And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains

Within the sound of silence.

Guru Nanak's Suniye - By Rajesh Krishnan

Guru Nanak’s Japji Sahib – V

Pauri – 8

Suniye Sidh Peer Sur Naath

Suniye Dharat Dhaval Akas

Suniye Deep Loa Paataal

Suniye Pohi Na Sakey Kaal

Nanak Bhagtan Sada Vigaas

Suniye Dukh Paap Ka Naas

By listening

one rises to become perfect and venerable

By listening, the earth and sky above revolve

By listening, the isles and nether worlds are stable

By listening, Death does not strike

Says Nanak,

Through listening

the devotee is always blissful

thus, all miseries and sins are annihilated

Guru Nanak in this Pauri reveals the art of listening and the benefits one can obtain by it.

Guru Nanak says that by listening, one can become a Siddha (person with occult powers), a Pir (saint), Sur (devta or a celestial being) and Nath (Lord like a king). Next he says that the Earth, the Sky also operate by listening (i.e. by following the Divine Order) and that the entire existence functions on this basis. By listening even death (Kaal) cannot touch. By listening, one is always in a state of bliss, thereby all miseries and sins are destroyed.

Sounds very simple! Just listen and everything is attained! To a layman this appears to be just overstated.

So a little more understanding is required on the meaning of Suniye.

Suniye distinctively involves listening or hearing (shravana) leading to “contemplation” (manana) and “imbibing” (nidhyasan); the initial steps for inculcating spiritual discipline. Suniye does not mean a chat or a dialogue. It simply means to listen.

Let us look at our everyday lives. When do we listen and what do we listen? Don’t we hear mostly what we want to hear, not what the other person is trying to convey? The moment something is communicated to us that does not synchronize with our habituated patterns, we start arguing and debating. Resultantly, we enter into conflicts by totally rejecting the other’s point of view without applying any logic. Shravana – the art of listening – is simply blown away to winds.

Suniye or shravana means to listen attentively and then reflect on it, followed by inference or contemplation leading to realization of the true meaning of what has been heard.

Suniye from spiritual and religious standpoint thus implies to visit the Guru – the Master – with an empty mind and fill it up to the brim with the holy Word and be constantly associated with it. The importance of association is well known. In fact, the word “Sangat” (association) is of extreme importance to remember. It is by our associating with things, both subjective and objective, that we tend to get influenced and these influences manifest in our actions. Repetitive actions form our habits and the sum total of our habits is our character, the gateway to our ultimate destiny.

This aspect has been well known to all our ancestors and Guru Nanak emphasizes and explains this phenomenon by using the word Suniye very logically and purposefully throughout this Pauri and the next three Pauris. Finally, the last two lines of this Pauri are repeated exactly the same way in all the four Pauris.

At the end of the Pauri, Guru Nanak simply guarantees that by listening, when one becomes constantly associated with the name of God, then the holy Word pervades the very being of that person and becomes like an armor to ward off and annihilate all miseries and sins.

Pauri - 9

Suniye Isar Barma Ind

Suniye Mukh Salahan Mand

Suniye Jog Jugat Tan Bhed

Suniye Sasat Simrat Ved

Nanak Bhagtan Sada Vigaas

Suniye Dukh Paap Ka Naas

By Listening, exists the trinity of

Shiva, Brahma and Indra

By listening

even the ignorant praise the name of God

By listening one learns

the mysteries of Yoga and the bodily humors

By listening

all the scriptural knowledge is known

Says Nanak,

Through listening

the devotee is always blissful

thus, all miseries and sins are annihilated

The famous Hindu trinity is Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, the Lords of Creation, Preservation and Destruction. However, in this Pauri, instead of Vishnu, the name used is that of Indra. If one follows Hindu mythology, Indra many a time represents the same powers as that of Vishnu.

Guru Nanak used the trinity earlier in Pauri # 5 and it is again referenced in Pauri # 30.

What exactly is this trinity?

While inferring Pauri # 5 it was stated that the Hindu trinity of Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh – the “Gods” of Creation, Operation and Destruction – are conceptual symbols and stand for the three gunas (traits or tendencies) which serve as the fundamental operating principles of Prakriti – universal nature – which are called: sattva, rajas and tamas - the forces engaged in the process of creation, preservation, and destruction respectively. These Gunas are seen to manifest in all creations at all times, though not in equal measure.

Now Guru Nanak in this Pauri declares that these gunas came into being by listening. One needs to reflect on “Ik Onkar Satnam” the mulmantra which means ‘One primordial energy’ the only Truth and the Cause of all creation. Scientifically, the first manifestation of energy is sound and all further manifestations occur later. Wouldn’t it then mean that when the first manifestation i.e. the sound is first heard and only then subsequent materializations take place? Hence, Guru Nanak proclaims here that the trinity came into being only by listening.

Next Guru Nanak says that by listening even “mand” the ignorant (some translate this as sinners) start praising God. Ignorance arises when we are connected with our ego – hence we become the doers of our actions. Actions result in reactions and an unstoppable flow of thoughts which bind or trap us. By listening, what Guru Nanak is saying is that we disconnect from our ego, the state of being a doer and instead become a witness. Once the sense of being a witness is established, then all ignorance vanishes on its own.

By listening one learns the secrets of Yoga and the mystery of bodily humors. Yoga is the art of understanding the energy within and giving it the right direction. We have to remind ourselves again and again that “by listening” implies the state of silence or solitude. When one is silent, one becomes automatically relaxed; and with restlessness diminished the breathing becomes peaceful. There is a different kind of glow and feeling of tranquility. In such a state, one then listens from within and acquires knowledge of yoga and the mystery of bodily humors.

Another point to note is that to see, one has to open one’s eyelids i.e. to carry out an action, but to hear one does not have to “open” one’s ears. They are always open to listen. Thus listening is a passive action. Yet can one listen in a chaotic, noisy or cacophonous environment? Hence shravana – the art of listening – warrants an undisturbed serenity – so that one may hear, contemplate and absorb.

Similarly, says Guru Nanak, the knowledge and wisdom of the scriptures (Shastras, Vedas, et al) is acquired by suniye or listening.

Pauri – 10

Suniye Sat Santokh Gyan

Suniye Athsath Ka Ishnan

Suniye Par Par Pave Maan

Suniye Lage Sahaj Dhyan

Nanak Bhagtan Sada Vigaas

Suniye Dukh Paap Ka Naas

By listening

Truth and contentment are attained

By listening

The advantage of spiritual baths

in the sixty-eight holy places is gained

By listening and reading again and again

honor is merited

By listening

Meditation transpires spontaneously

Says Nanak,

with the Word pervading always in the devotee

All miseries and sins are annihilated.

Continuing on the glory of Suniye (Shravana – the art of listening) Guru Nanak, in this Pauri explains that just by listening, awareness of all truth and contentment is attained.

Sat again in this Pauri is used for Sat as absolute existence and Truth.

The idea of discontent or dissatisfaction occurs when we relate our material wealth or egocentric thoughts compare our material wealth with what and how much the “other” has and this concept and feeling of the “other” exists so long as the idea of “I” exists.

Santokh or contentment means to express gratitude for what one has and bear no remorse for what one does not have. Only with this kind of attitude and perspective can one be in a state of Santokh or real contentment. Only then one can remain in a blissful state.

Thus the word “gyan” (wisdom, awareness, and understanding) is the key that unlocks all confusion that is caused by the feeling of “discontent” and this “gyan” – the awareness – comes from listening.

Next is ‘Athsath ka Ishnan’ or bathing in sixty-eight holy places. The prevailing ritualistic belief amongst the Hindus is that by bathing in the 68 holy places, one will be absolved of all sins and become virtuous.

However, in Raja Yoga (Kundalini Yoga), the Yoga Sutras explain about the seven major chakras or energy centers within the body. The word chakra in Sanskrit means ‘wheel’ or ‘disk’. Each of the seven main chakras has its own distinct character and relates to a unique aspect of our being. The chakras correlate to levels of consciousness, body functions, colors, elements, sounds, and much more. The blockage or energetic dysfunction in the chakras is believed to give rise to emotional, physiological, psychological and spiritual disorders. Similarly, the body also contains sixty-eight points which in the Yogic exercises are used to channelize the energy to attain virtue.

Yoga is by and large used by common people as an exercise for body fitness, the study of the chakras and channelizing of the energy through various points from the lower chakra to the highest is done by Siddhas to acquire occult powers.

To explain, the sixty eight points within the body, to common people, various pilgrimage spots became symbols through mythological tales and as it always happens, these symbols were and are mistaken for reality.

Rituals are the by-products of this explanation and people even today believe that by taking a baths at such pilgrimages, the sins will be absolved and the person will become virtuous or even attain salvation! Millions take such bath religiously (read blind ritualism) and find themselves in the same condition as before, because, in majority of the cases, what was supposed to have been drowned – “I” the mundane ego – returns inflated manifold.

It is in this context that Guru Nanak says that whatever the virtue that one can attain through bathing in “these” sixty eight holy places can be gained simply by listening.

Now, “Suniye Lage Sahaj Dhyan” comes as a revelation. Meditation means to awaken inside and listen to the sound of silence – and it is possible to meditate only when the mind is not engaged in the debates of internal dialogues. Hence, Guru Nanak says that by simply listening, meditation happens on its own accord, naturally.

Pauri - 11

Suniye Saran Guna Ke Gah

Suniye Sheikh Peer Patshah

Suniye Andhe Pave Rah

Suniye Hath Hove Asgah

Nanak Bhagtan Sada Vigaas

Suniye Dukh Paap Ka Naas

By listening

one becomes virtuous like deep oceans

By listening

sages, saints and Kings come into being

By listening

the blind (ignorant) finds the way

By listening

the Unfathomable is close at hand

Says Nanak,

with the Word pervading always in the devotee

All miseries and sins are annihilated.

The art of listening is further exalted in this Pauri. Guru Nanak says that by listening alone, the highest virtues can be acquired and one can fathom the depths of oceans. By listening, one can acquire the wisdom of the sages, the virtues of the saints and the sovereignty of the kings. Likewise, the blind (ignorant) discover the path by listening. What is generally known is the surface, but by listening, one can fathom the depths of boundless.

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:

ਗੂਜਰੀ ॥
goojaree ||
Goojaree:

ਅੰਤਿ ਕਾਲਿ ਜੋ ਲਛਮੀ ਸਿਮਰੈ ਐਸੀ ਚਿੰਤਾ ਮਹਿ ਜੇ ਮਰੈ ॥
a(n)t kaal jo lachhamee simarai aaisee chi(n)taa meh je marai ||
At the very last moment, one who thinks of wealth, and dies in such thoughts,

ਸਰਪ ਜੋਨਿ ਵਲਿ ਵਲਿ ਅਉਤਰੈ ॥੧॥
sarap jon val val aautarai ||1||
shall be reincarnated over and over again, in the form of serpents. ||1||

ਅਰੀ ਬਾਈ ਗੋਬਿਦ ਨਾਮੁ ਮਤਿ ਬੀਸਰੈ ॥ ਰਹਾਉ ॥
aree baiee gobidh naam mat beesarai || rahaau ||
O sister, do not forget the Name of the Lord of the Universe. ||Pause||

ਅੰਤਿ ਕਾਲਿ ਜੋ ਇਸਤ੍ਰੀ ਸਿਮਰੈ ਐਸੀ ਚਿੰਤਾ ਮਹਿ ਜੇ ਮਰੈ ॥
a(n)t kaal jo isatree simarai aaisee chi(n)taa meh je marai ||
At the very last moment, he who thinks of women, and dies in such thoughts,
ਬੇਸਵਾ ਜੋਨਿ ਵਲਿ ਵਲਿ ਅਉਤਰੈ ॥੨॥
besavaa jon val val aautarai ||2||
shall be reincarnated over and over again as a prostitute. ||2||

ਅੰਤਿ ਕਾਲਿ ਜੋ ਲੜਿਕੇ ਸਿਮਰੈ ਐਸੀ ਚਿੰਤਾ ਮਹਿ ਜੇ ਮਰੈ ॥
a(n)t kaal jo laRike simarai aaisee chi(n)taa meh je marai ||
At the very last moment, one who thinks of his children, and dies in such thoughts,
ਸੂਕਰ ਜੋਨਿ ਵਲਿ ਵਲਿ ਅਉਤਰੈ ॥੩॥
sookar jon val val aautarai ||3||
shall be reincarnated over and over again as a pig. ||3||

ਅੰਤਿ ਕਾਲਿ ਜੋ ਮੰਦਰ ਸਿਮਰੈ ਐਸੀ ਚਿੰਤਾ ਮਹਿ ਜੇ ਮਰੈ ॥
a(n)t kaal jo ma(n)dhar simarai aaisee chi(n)taa meh je marai ||
At the very last moment, one who thinks of mansions, and dies in such thoughts,
ਪ੍ਰੇਤ ਜੋਨਿ ਵਲਿ ਵਲਿ ਅਉਤਰੈ ॥੪॥
pret jon val val aautarai ||4||
shall be reincarnated over and over again as a goblin. ||4||

ਅੰਤਿ ਕਾਲਿ ਨਾਰਾਇਣੁ ਸਿਮਰੈ ਐਸੀ ਚਿੰਤਾ ਮਹਿ ਜੇ ਮਰੈ ॥
a(n)t kaal naarain simarai aaisee chi(n)taa meh je marai ||
At the very last moment, one who thinks of the Lord, and dies in such thoughts,
ਬਦਤਿ ਤਿਲੋਚਨੁ ਤੇ ਨਰ ਮੁਕਤਾ ਪੀਤੰਬਰੁ ਵਾ ਕੇ ਰਿਦੈ ਬਸੈ ॥੫॥੨॥
badhat tilochan te nar mukataa peeta(n)bar vaa ke ridhai basai ||5||2||
says Trilochan, that man shall be liberated; the Lord shall abide in his heart. ||5||2||

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.

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.

Guru Nanak's Tera Sadra

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.

Listening to this today today, and working on a translation: