Are you getting Bulleh Shah’s point, O mind?

From here he turns and looks me in the face. Why haul cartloads of books if the heart stays unmoved? Why polish the tongue if the mind runs errands elsewhere? In his sharpest line he warns that piety without surrender can harden into the face of an executioner. He is not scolding study. He is reordering it: begin where all letters rise, and let every discipline serve that beginning. Otherwise knowledge inflates the self and the road grows heavy.

He closes with a parable tight as a seed. “Bullah planted a banyan.” It grew vast, as banyans do, then passed into dust. What remained was the letter, the seed-shape that started it all. Forms rise high, institutions spread shade; in time they fall. The seed endures. The lesson is not to despise the tree, but to keep faith with the seed.

Whitman’s Multitudes on a Single Spine

This is where Walt Whitman arrives like a neighbor at dusk. In Song of Myself (section 51) he writes, “Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)” Notice how Walt is having this conversation with Bulleh Shah. The issue is not having many selves, voices, demands; the trouble is being had by them. Whitman’s largeness is not a swollen ego; it is a capacious self anchored enough to welcome contradictions without shattering. He even gives us a posture for practice: “I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.” He listens before he speaks. The door-slab is a threshold image—precisely the place where Bulleh’s alif stands upright inside us.

Bulleh’s point, Whitman’s posture: stand the vertical line within, then let the multitudes arrive. Oneness does not erase the many; it steadies them. The “I” that contains multitudes is the same “I” aligned on the One—an alif running through the center so the crowd within becomes a choir rather than a quarrel.

The Seed and the Field: Krishna on Beeja

In the battlefield of Kurukshretra, Arjuna’s will trembled. He didn’t want to fight. In a chapter meant to steady Arjuna’s will, Krishna moves from metaphysics to sensation: “I am the taste of water, the light of sun and moon, the sound in space, the ability in humans.” Then he brings the alif kernel: bījaṁ māṁ sarva-bhūtānāṁ viddhi Pārtha sanātanam—“Know Me, O Arjun, as the eternal seed of all beings.” When Arjuna wants a map, Krishna gives him a seed. The seed is hidden and generative, tiny and total.

Later in the Bhagwad Gita, Krishna paints the cosmos as an upside-down aśvattha (banyan), root above and branches below. Know it, he says, and cut entanglement with a sharp insight; then seek the Root. Bulleh’s banyan echoes here: vastness can stun us; fidelity to origin frees us. The seed is not less than the tree—it is the cause held in living smallness. This upside down tree reminds me of the ultabhashi Kabir poems where the Arabian Sea is flowing into the Ganges, instead of the other way round. The ocean is flowing into the river. The multitudes feed the seed, and the seed feeds the multitudes.

A Single Twig, Saas-Saas: Sukhmani Sahib

One of my favorite line from Guru Arjan’s Sukhmani carries the same teaching into the house and garden:

ਕਿਨਕਾ ਏਕ ਜਿਸੁ ਜੀਅ ਬਸਾਵੈ / ਤਾ ਕੀ ਮਹਿਮਾ ਗਨੀ ਨ ਆਵੈ।
The one who settles even a single twig (kinkā ek) in the heart—his praise cannot be counted.

The Ashtapadi begins with a triple call—“Simrau, simar, simar”—remember, remember, remember, and find peace; it names the One Word behind scriptures (“Ram Naam ik ākhṛ”), then gives the smallest, kindest task: plant one living twig of remembrance and keep it. Bulleh would smile: the alif stood upright inside, the seed set in soil, the twig drinking breath by breath. Later in the last ashtapadi of Sukhmani, he repeats the message in saas-saas, remember through each breath. Plant one twig and, paradoxically, you move beyond counting—“ਗਨੀ ਨ ਆਵੈ.” The arithmetic flips: the tiny becomes inexhaustible.

Two Other Echoes: Laozi and T. S. Eliot

Long before and far away, Laozi says: “The nameless is the origin of heaven and earth; the named is the mother of the ten thousand things.” The nameless origin is Bulleh’s alif; the ten thousand things are our crores of details. We need both, but we need the origin first. Another Laozi image clarifies the practice: we shape clay into a pot, but it is the empty space that holds what we need. The emptied center is not nothing—it is hospitality. Bulleh’s alif is that interior space where the Name rests, the quiet capacity to receive multitudes without cracking.

T. S. Eliot calls it “the still point of the turning world.” There, he says, is the dance, though there is no movement; the axis that allows every motion to be meaningful. The world turns; the still point gives it shape. That is Bulleh’s method in one image: stand up the vertical line and you can travel without being torn.

Returning to Bulleh—and Ending with Freedom

When Bulleh asks us to read one letter, he is not shrinking the world; he is teaching us how to carry it. He has seen how piety can make an executioner and how scholarship can become a hall of mirrors. He offers a discipline that refuses both vanity and drift: learn the One first. Then learn all you like.

The banyan will grow again—families, institutions, work, poems. It will be beautiful and hard. It may even outlast us. But the pledge we make is to the seed. When forms thin and projects fail, when applause fades and plans change, the seed is what remains. If we have tended it in secret, it will meet us like a friend.

At that point the arithmetic is reversed. We do not fear the countless anymore. We receive them. In Guru Arjan’s words, the 86 million lifeforms are here to serve us. We can say with Whitman that multitudes arrive; with Laozi that the ten thousand things are mothered; with Eliot that the dance is real at the still point; with Krishna that the Seed is present in everything; with Guru Arjan that a single twig in the heart moves us beyond counting. And with Bulleh Shah that one letter, honestly read, is enough.

In the end we come to freedom — like we end the Japji with “keti chhutti naal — many are freed if one is freed, Bulleh Shah says chhutkara - freedom! Freedom is not escape from the world’s many; it is the capacity to move among them without losing the One. It is not flight from duty but a way to do it with a light step and a soft face. It is what happens when the vertical line stands up inside you and the breath learns its quiet Name. Then millions of details begin to harmonize, and the heart—no longer numbered—answers to a single call.

May I continue to grow into his pace. May I continue to harmonize. May I continue to be veparvaah, the word Guru Nanak uses in Japji. I thought it was for God. But no. It is for me. Carefree!

Ik alaf parho chutkara ae
Read one alif and there is freedom.

---

Ik alfon do tin char hoye
From one alif came two, three, four;
Phir lakh karorr hazar hoye
then hundreds of thousands and millions;
Phir othon baajh shumar hoye
from there the counting goes beyond count;
Hik alaf da nukta niyara aye
the point (nuqta) of that single alif is unique.

Ik alaf parho chutkara ae
Read one alif and there is freedom.

---

Kyon parhna ein gadd kitaban di
Why read this cartload of books?
Sir chana ein pandd azaban di
Why batter your head with pundits’ punishments?
Hun hoyan shakal jaladan di
Our faces have now taken on the look of executioners;
Agge paindda mushkil bhara ae
the road ahead grows difficult and heavy.

Ik alaf parho chutkara ae
Read one alif and there is freedom.

---

Ban hafiz hifz quran karein
They become ḥāfiẓ, memorizing the Qur’an;
Parh parh ke saaf zuban karein
reading and reading, they polish their speech;
Par naimat wich dheyan karein
yet they fix their attention on the favors/benefits;
Mann phirda jiyonහලਕਾਰਾ ae
the mind keeps wandering like an errand-runner.

Ik alaf parho chutkara ae
Read one alif and there is freedom.

---

Bullah bi borh da hoya si
Bullah had sown a banyan;
Oh birch wadda ja hoya si
that tree grew vast;
Jad birch oh fani hoya si
when that tree proved mortal and passed;
Phir reh gya hi akara ae
then only the letter—the seed-form—remained.

Ik alaf parho chutkara ae
Read one alif and there is freedom.

Sir te topi, te niyat khoti
Lena ki topi sir dhar ke.

Tasbi pheri par dil na phireya,
Lena ki phir tasbi hath phar ke.

Chille kitte par rab na mileya,
Lena ki Chillyan wich warh ke.

Bulleya, Jaag bina dudh naeo karhda
Bhanwen lal huve karh karh ke.


Translation

You wear a prayer cap, but still you harbour ill intent
So what good is wearing a cap on your head?

You spend time in recitation over prayer beads,but don't feel it in Your heart,
So what do you get out of holding prayer beads in your hands?

You performed all your rituals, but didn't find god
What good will observing such rituals do?

You can't curdle milk without rennet,
Even if you make it red by trying.

Jaag here can be "Guru" or "Love"

I have recently heard this Bulleh Shah song and it has really touched my heart. Several people have sung it, but I love the original composition and performance by Tufail Niazi. The original composition is in Raag Tilak Kamod but most others do it in Raag Des and don't follow the originally beautiful melody. Below you'll find my translation of this  

Ve Mahiya Tere Vaikhan Nu Chook Charkha - Fareed Ayaz & Abu Muhammad Qawwal

Nazar aane se pehle kyaa tha

husne bemisaal aakhir

ijaazat ho to main keh doon

khayaal avval khayaal aakhir

nahin hai arsh to kuchh arsh se kam bhi nahin hai dil

yahaan naazir hui hain teri aayate-jamaal aakhir

I tire, set charka aside in shade, the music of Thy memory still rings in my heart.
Humming slowly, slowly, I spin gently and dwell on the joy of meeting Thee.

Vasan ni de rahe saure peke, mainu tere pain pulekhe.
Ve hoon mainu das mahiya, tere baaju kidhar main jayiyaan.

Kin let not me rest in ease, but I feel Thou art come close.
Beloved, I ask this: If I don't go to Thee then where do I go?

Ho Eid aayi, mera yaar na aaya, tera ve khair hove ove tamd.
Haar singar change nai lagde, ho kisi cheez pe nazar na jamdi.
Sukha waalian needra mangne, yaar mile to main eid manva.

The festive day (Eid) has come, but my Beloved hasn't returned.
Jewelry and colors seem dull, nothing around catches my eye.
I only pray for sleep, let my Love come then I'll celebrate Eid.

बंसी काहन अचरज बजाई
(from )

Uth gaye gawandon yaar
Rabba hun ki kariye
There goes my Love!
What do I do, my Lord?

Uth chaley hun rahinde nahin
Hoya saath tiyar
Rabba hun ki kariye
He’s already made a move
His staying back is hard
With his wayfarers all packed
What do I do, my Lord?

Daad kaleje bal bal uthdi
Bhadke Birhon Naar
Rabba hun ki kariye
My heart is afire
Like half-backed shard
What do I do, my Lord?

Bulle Shah piyare bajhon
Rahe uraar na paar
Rabba hun ki kariye
My love having gone
I am in midstream hauled
What do I do, my Lord?

Aao saiyo ral deyo ni vadhaai

Men var paaya raanjha maahi

Ajj taan roz mubaarak chaddeya

Raanjha saade vedde vaddeya.

Hath khundi, modde kambal dhareya,

Chaakaan vaali shakal banayi.

Aao saiyo ral deyo ni vadhai

Mukat gauwaan de vich rulda

Jangal juuhaan de vich rulda

Hai koi allah de val bhulda,

Asal haqiqat khabar na kai.

Aao saiyo ral deyo ni vadhai

Bulle shah ik sauda keeta

Peeta zehar piyaala peeta,

Na kujh laha tota leeta.

Dard dukhaan di gathari chaahi

Aao saiyo ral deyo ni vadhai

Bulleh Shah the celebrated sufi poet of Punjab asks the question:

Bulleh Shah is trying to say that he is more than what he seems - his true essence is his soul.  It is interesting the way he answers the question is by telling us what he is not.  For instance he starts with "I am not a believer, I am not the pagan." Bulleh Shah is implying that he is just not the believer or the pagan, he is something bigger.  He is beyond labels and distinctions.  It is a sufi's way of Adi Shankara saying Neti Neti. 

Bulleh Shah mentions Guru Tegh Bahadur as a martyr in this five line poem.  The point he is trying to make is that God is everywhere and doing everything.  Here is my translation:

Hindi Translation: