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.
I have been contemplating the following mantra from Bhagat Ravidas, and wrote the following poem based on my thinking.
ਪੜੀਐ ਗੁਨੀਐ ਨਾਮੁ ਸਭੁ ਸੁਨੀਐ ਅਨਭਉ ਭਾਉ ਨ ਦਰਸੈ ॥
You can read, reflect, hear all the names on and on.
but it is the experience of love makes love dawn.
Being the Seed
I do not wish to read oneness,
or even to understand it.
I want to be the curve of Om.
I do not want to read truth,
or memorize all its names.
I want to live its pulse.
I don't want to read about the doings,
or analyze their ways.
I want to create myself whole.
I do not want to act brave,
or write poems about courage.
I want to be the space that scares fear.
I have already seen forgiveness.
I no longer wish to forgive.
I want to dwell where there is no other.
I do not long to conquer time.
I want to be the still point inside it,
not a clock, but the silence between ticks.
I do not seek escape from birth and death.
I want to know the place
where neither arrives.
I do not need proof of self-existence.
I want to be the light
that doesn’t have a switch.
I do not ask for the Guru’s gift
as something outside me.
I want to dissolve into blessing.
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 few modern poems as widely loved and quoted as Coleman Barks' version of Rumi's "The Guest House."
This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.
These two lines open a piece that has resonated deeply with readers across spiritual, therapeutic, and poetic spaces. But these lines, and the poem that follows, are not direct translations. They are radical renderings—interpretations, or rather, recreations. Because I have recently been learning Farsi, I thought it would be fun to compare this poem to the original. The hypothesis was that there is likely something to be learned about translations, which I have been honing for most of my life. I also did a Punjabi translation of the six line original poem (see end) -- that was fun!
First, lets look at Coleman Barks' Translation:
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
The Original Persian: Masnavi Book 5, Sections 154–156
Rumi’s famous guesthouse metaphor appears in his monumental Masnavi-ye Ma’navi, Book 5. The relevant verses are spread across sections 154, 155, and 156 of the Masnavi, which are viewable in full Persian on Ganjoor.net.
These verses unfold a subtle and profound teaching: the body is like a guesthouse, and the states that visit it—joy, sorrow, anxiety, insight—are guests from the unseen world (jahān-e ghayb). Rumi encourages us not to cling to these guests nor to fear them, but to honor them as carriers of divine meaning.
Transliterated Selections:
Section 155 (Opening Lines):
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
Rough English Translation:
This body is a guesthouse, O young one.
Every morning, a new guest comes running in.
Don’t say, “This one will stay upon my neck!”
For even now, it returns to non-being.
Whatever arrives from the unseen world
Is a guest in your heart—treat it well.
Expansions in Section 156
In the next section, Rumi expands the metaphor:
Sorrow is described not as a curse, but as a preparation for joy.
It "sweeps your house clean" so that new delight may enter.
It pulls out the rotten root to reveal something better underneath.
This depth is visible in translations by Reynold A. Nicholson and Kabir Helminski, both of whom stay closer to the original Persian phrasing.
The Other Translations: Nicholson and Helminski
Reynold Nicholson, a scholar of Persian literature, offers a more literal, academic translation:
This body, O youth, is a guest-house: every morning a new guest comes running (into it)...
His rendering includes:
Each day’s different thought as a guest
The idea that sorrow uproots joy to make room for something better
An explicit spiritual message about how sorrow brings benefit
Kabir Helminski brings a more lyrical and spiritually adaptive voice:
Darling, the body is a guest house; every morning someone new arrives...
Helminski introduces devotional tones (“Darling,” “my Creator”) and blends metaphors from other spiritual traditions, such as astrology and planetary transits.
Both of these versions are more extensive than Barks’, and in some ways, closer to Rumi’s structure and content. Yet they are also harder to absorb in a single sitting. They unfold slowly and ask for a reader’s patience.
Why Coleman Barks Works Better
Coleman Barks’ version is the shortest. He strips the poem down to its emotional and spiritual core:
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
This image—of sorrow as a violent but necessary cleaner—is Barks’ invention, but it is spiritually true to Rumi’s original message. There’s no mention of the Persian 'adam (non-being), nor the metaphysical journey of thoughts from the world of the unseen. But what Barks offers is something livable—something that can be memorized, carried, and returned to in moments of despair.
He omits the intellectual metaphors, avoids historical or Islamic references, and chooses instead a voice of contemporary clarity and warmth. In doing so, he models what inspired translation can be: not just the conveying of meaning, but the re-voicing of soul.
What Translators Can Learn
Coleman Barks didn’t know Persian. His work is based on renderings by scholars like Nicholson. Yet what makes his versions so resonant is that he isn’t merely a translator—he’s a collaborator in the poem’s rebirth. He listens for Rumi’s spirit more than his syllables. He dares to change structure, add imagery, and speak to our time.
This is what translation must become if it wants to live. Literal fidelity is not always the highest virtue. Rumi, the great lover of the unseen, would likely smile to see how Barks helped his words arrive in new hearts—each morning, like a guest.
Reynold Nicholson's translation:
This body, O youth, is a guest-house: every morning a new
guest comes running (into it).
Beware, do not say, “The (guest) is a burden to me,” for
presently he will fly back into non-existence.
Whatsoever comes into thy heart from the invisible world is
thy guest: entertain it well!
Every day, too, at every moment a (different) thought comes,
like an honoured guest, into thy bosom.
O (dear) soul, regard thought as a person, since (every) person
derives his worth from thought and spirit.
If the thought of sorrow is waylaying (spoiling) joy, (yet) it
is making preparations for joy.
It violently sweeps thy house clear of (all) else, in order that
new joy from the source of good may enter in.
It scatters the yellow leaves from the bough of the heart, in
order that incessant green leaves may grow.
It uproots the old joy, in order the new delight may march
in from the Beyond.
Sorrow pulls up the crooked rotten (root), in order that it may
disclose the root that is veiled from sight.
Whatsoever (things) sorrow may cause to be shed from the
heart or may take away (from it), assuredly it will bring better
in exchange.
(Whenever) the thought (of sorrow) comes into thy breast
anew, go to meet it with smiles and laughter.
Kabir Helminski's translation
Darling, the body is a guest house;
every morning someone new arrives.
Don’t say, “O, another weight around my neck!”
or your guest will fly back to nothingness.
Whatever enters your heart is a guest
from the invisible world: entertain it well.
Every day, and every moment, a thought comes
like an honored guest into your heart.
My soul, regard each thought as a person,
for every person’s value is in the thought they hold.
If a sorrowful thought stands in the way,
it is also preparing the way for joy.
It furiously sweeps your house clean,
in order that some new joy may appear from the Source.
It scatters the withered leaves from the bough of the heart,
in order that fresh green leaves might grow.
It uproots the old joy so that
a new joy may enter from Beyond.
Sorrow pulls up the rotten root
that was veiled from sight.
Whatever sorrow takes away or causes the heart to shed,
it puts something better in its place-
especially for one who is certain
that sorrow is the servant of the intuitive.
Without the frown of clouds and lightning,
the vines would be burned by the smiling sun.
Both good and bad luck become guests in your heart:
like planets traveling from sign to sign.
When something transits your sign, adapt yourself,
and be as harmonious as its ruling sign,
so that when it rejoins the Moon,
it will speak kindly to the Lord of the heart.
Whenever sorrow comes again,
meet it with smiles and laughter,
saying, “O my Creator, save me from its harm,
and do not deprive me of its good.
Lord, remind me to be thankful,
let me feel no regret if its benefit passes away."
Punjabi Translation (Shivpreet Singh)
ਇਹ ਤਨ ਹੈ ਇਕ ਮਹਿਮਾਨਖ਼ਾਨਾ ਐ ਜਵਾਂ
ਹਰ ਸਵੇਰ ਭੱਜ ਕੇ ਆਉਂਦਾ ਏ ਮਹਿਮਾਨ ਨਵਾਂ
ਇਹ ਨਾ ਬੋਲ — ਇਹ ਮੇਰੇ ਗਲੇ ਪੈ ਜਾਣਾ ਏ
ਇਸਨੇ ਜਲਦੀ ਹੀ ਇਥੋਂ ਚਲੇ ਜਾਣਾ ਏ
ਜੋ ਵੀ ਸ਼ੈ ਇਸ ਜਹਾਨ ਵਿਚ ਉਥੋਂ ਆਉਂਦੀ ਏ
ਓਹ ਦਿਲ ਦੀ ਮਹਿਮਾਨ ਕੁਝ ਨ ਕੁਝ ਦੇ ਜਾਂਦੀ ਏ
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.
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:
Lyrics
Tere ishq ne dera mere andar keeta
Bhar ke zehar pyala, main taan aape peeta
Jhabde wahundi tabiba, nahi te main mar gayaan
Tere ishq nachaaiyaan, kar ke thaiyaa thaiyaa
Chup gaye ve sooraj, bahar reh gayi laali
Ve main sadqe hova, devein murjey vikhali
Peera main bhul gayaan, tere naal na gaiyaan
Tere ishq nachaaiyaan, kar ke thaiyaa thaiyaa
Ais ishq de kolon mainu hatak na maaye
Laahu jaandey berrey, kehrram mor laya
Meri akal jun bhulli, naal mhaniyaan dey gaiyaan
Tere ishq nachaaiyaan, kar ke thaiyaa thaiyaa
Ais ishq di jhangi vich mor bulenda
Sanu qibla ton kaaba, sohna yaar disenda
Saanu ghayal karke, phir khabar na laaiyaan
Tere ishq nachaaiyaan, kar ke thaiyaa thaiyaa
Bullah Shah, na aounda mainu inayat de buhe
Jisne mainu awaye, chole saave te suhe
Jaan main maari aye, addi mil paya hai vahaiya
Tere ishq nachaaiyaan, kar ke thaiyaa thaiyaa
Translation:
Your love has taken up residence within me,
I drank the poisoned chalice with my own hands.
O wandering healer, if you do not come, I will perish—
Your love has spun me into a frenzied dance.
The sun has slipped away, leaving only its crimson glow.
I would give my life for one more glimpse of you.
My wounds were forgotten, but I did not follow when you called—
Your love has spun me into a frenzied dance.
Do not try to turn me away from this path of love.
Can you halt the boats that drift upon the tides?
Foolish, I cast aside my wisdom and followed the boatman—
Your love has spun me into a frenzied dance.
A peacock cries in the wild grove of passion,
For me, my beloved is both Qibla and Kaaba.
You wounded me and never turned back to see—
Your love has spun me into a frenzied dance.
Bulleh Shah lingers at the door of Inayat,
Who clothed me in robes of green and red.
I leaped, but he caught me before I could fly—
Your love has spun me into a frenzied dance.
Poem -
Counting Notes at Baba Bulleh Shah’s
The singer at Baba Bulleh Shah’s shrine
counts notes in one hand,
sings of love and longing with the other.
It is a delicate balancing act,
like patting your head while rubbing your stomach,
or reading a love letter
while checking the price of wheat.
I wonder if the words—
Tere Ishq nachaaiyaan, kar ke thaiyaa thaiyaa—
are so deeply etched in his heart
that they spill out effortlessly,
the way breath continues
even when we forget to inhale,
or if they are nothing more
than a familiar refrain,
a worn path in the brain,
something to be sung
while the real work of life
is done in the margins.
And at the edge of the night sky,
no stars appear—
or perhaps I cannot count
while desire still flickers.
Kinka Ek
When we begin reading Sukhmani Sahib, Guru Arjan reminds us that all we need to attain the pearl of bliss is Kinka Ek - just one little sliver of oneness in the heart.
That one kinka each time can be one word, one phrase, one couplet, one pada or one ashtapadi. Even a sliver will get you to peace. But we forget. So we repeat. Sliver after sliver after sliver. Until it becomes a whole.
In the journey of the soul, there comes a time when the endless wandering must cease. The search for meaning, for belonging, for something that finally stills the restless mind—it all leads to the same sanctuary: the refuge of the Naam.
In this meditation, Sanctuary of the Naam, we ground ourselves in the wisdom of Sukhmani Sahib, specifically Shlok 20 and the first stanza of the 20th Ashtapadi. If you let it, this meditation reveals how the act of asking—of surrendering—opens the door to the most precious gift: the remembrance of Hari’s Name.
Throughout this practice, I reflect on the following shabads, each of which deepens our understanding of what it means to return, to surrender, and to rest in the shelter of the Divine.
Shabads for Reflection:
Phirat Phirat Prabh Aaya – After wandering and wandering, one comes to the sanctuary of the Divine. Read here
Haun Aaya Dooron Chal Kai – I have traveled from afar, seeking to merge into You. Read here
Jaachak Jan Jaachai Prabh Daan – Like a beggar, I ask for the gift of Your Name. Read here
Thakur Tum Sarnai Aaya – I have come to Your sanctuary, O Master. Read here
Sukhmani Sukh Amrit Prabh Naam – The Name of the Divine is the nectar of peace. Read here
Kirat Karam Ke Veechhare - I am separated from you because of my actions. Please show Your Mercy, and unite us with Yourself, Lord. Read here.
Chaar Padaarath Jeko Mange - If you desire all the four things, serve the saints. Read here.
A couple of additional shabads that I was thinking about but didn't remember to talk about them during the meditation:
Kat Jaiyeh Re – Where shall I go? My home is already here. Read here
Tu Sun Harna Kaleya – O restless mind, listen: the Divine is calling you home. Read here
Each of these sacred verses offers a path back to stillness, a way to center the heart in the sweetness of Naam. Through our meditation, we step into this sanctuary together—letting go of our wandering, our searching, and simply resting in the One who has been waiting for us all along.
In the journey of the soul, there comes a time when the endless wandering must cease. The search for meaning, for belonging, for something that finally stills the restless mind—it all leads to the same sanctuary: the refuge of the Naam.
In this meditation, Sanctuary of the Naam, we ground ourselves in the wisdom of Sukhmani Sahib, specifically Shlok 20 and the first stanza of the 20th Ashtapadi. If you let it, this meditation reveals how the act of asking—of surrendering—opens the door to the most precious gift: the remembrance of Hari’s Name.
Throughout this practice, I reflect on the following shabads, each of which deepens our understanding of what it means to return, to surrender, and to rest in the shelter of the Divine.
Shabads for Reflection:
Phirat Phirat Prabh Aaya – After wandering and wandering, one comes to the sanctuary of the Divine. Read here
Haun Aaya Dooron Chal Kai – I have traveled from afar, seeking to merge into You. Read here
Jaachak Jan Jaachai Prabh Daan – Like a beggar, I ask for the gift of Your Name. Read here
Thakur Tum Sarnai Aaya – I have come to Your sanctuary, O Master. Read here
Sukhmani Sukh Amrit Prabh Naam – The Name of the Divine is the nectar of peace. Read here
Kirat Karam Ke Veechhare - I am separated from you because of my actions. Please show Your Mercy, and unite us with Yourself, Lord. Read here.
Chaar Padaarath Jeko Mange - If you desire all the four things, serve the saints. Read here.
A couple of additional shabads that I was thinking about but didn't remember to talk about them during the meditation:
Kat Jaiyeh Re – Where shall I go? My home is already here. Read here
Tu Sun Harna Kaleya – O restless mind, listen: the Divine is calling you home. Read here
Each of these sacred verses offers a path back to stillness, a way to center the heart in the sweetness of Naam. Through our meditation, we step into this sanctuary together—letting go of our wandering, our searching, and simply resting in the One who has been waiting for us all along.
New Composition in Raag Basant: Mai Mai Dhan Payo Har Naam -
In this shabad, Guru Tegh Bahadur expresses the ultimate fulfillment found in the wealth of the Hari's Name. The restless mind, once chasing worldly desires, now sits in stillness, having found true rest (bisram). In the composition I tried to reflect the running and resting in the music.
Guru Sahib explains that attachment to Maya—illusion and possessiveness—has vanished, replaced by the clarity of divine wisdom. This transformation leads to an inner state where greed and attachment cannot even approach. Instead, the soul clings to the path of devotion, discovering a priceless jewel—the Naam.
The Guru presents this journey as the dissolution of doubt and desire, allowing one to merge into nij sukh—the pure bliss of one's own inner being. But such a state is not achieved through effort alone; it is the result of divine grace. The closing lines emphasize that only the Gurmukh—one who turns towards the Guru—gathers this wealth of realization.
Why is this Shabad in Raag Basant?
The choice of Basant amplifies the theme of transformation. Raag Basant is traditionally associated with the rejuvenation of spring, the melting away of winter’s cold, and the blossoming of new life. In the context of this shabad, Basant symbolizes an inner spring—the renewal of the soul upon realizing the Naam. Just as nature sheds the barrenness of winter, the seeker in this shabad sheds attachments, cynicism, and desire, stepping into a state of spiritual awakening. The joy of divine wisdom is not just intellectual but experiential, much like the vibrant bloom of springtime.
ਬਸੰਤੁ ਮਹਲਾ ੯ ॥
basa(n)t mahalaa nauvaa ||
बसंतु महला ९ ॥
Basant, Ninth Mehla:
ਮਾਈ ਮੈ ਧਨੁ ਪਾਇਓ ਹਰਿ ਨਾਮੁ ॥
maiee mai dhan paio har naam ||
माई मै धनु पाइओ हरि नामु ॥
O mother, I have gathered the wealth of the Lord's Name.
Singing oneness!
