Why do we try to translate or even understand Gurbani?

Why do we try to understand Gurbani knowing that it is an ocean beyond intellect? Yet we still dive—as if it were a task we must complete, as if the sun will refuse to rise if we fail, as if some ilaichi-flavored chai will appear from the microwave when we finish.

But Gurbani is not a roti-maker. It is not even a puzzle. It asks for no logic and offers no solution. You cannot diagram the breath of God by tracing Omkar. You cannot clean its surface enough to see your own reflection.

It is storm. It is cave. It is an ocean hidden beneath the earth. On its surface, only mist.

We call it understanding, but this kind doesn't sit in chairs or take notes. It abandons its instruments and forgets how to breathe. It wanders into darkness guided only by the shimmer of a passing fish. Somewhere a jellyfish pulses—translucent, drifting, lost. Somewhere a blue whale turns, shifting the weight of the entire sea.

We are deep now, past the edge of thought. Here words grow strange limbs, meanings glow briefly, then vanish. Maybe we'll find pearls. Maybe not. Maybe there's nothing to find. Still, we dive deeper—not to explain, not to tame, not to name.

Then something lets go. Something ends. This is why we dive. We dive to die.

The process of understanding Gurbani is suicide. It is truly putting your body and mind in a slow cooker. The temperature rises so high, all that remains is steam. Pavan Guru. If we are successful, all that remains is the shabad. You can taste it with your tongue but cannot speak it. Soon, there is no tongue, no language left. And we are no longer on a planet or in time.