In May, 2026 we released a new shabad. It is in collaboration with Anshmeet Singh, a budding videographer from India who made a beautiful video to go along with this shabad which I have been working on for the past year.

In the great epic of the Mahabharata, a simple yet piercing moment unfolds. Krishna arrives in the kingdom where Duryodhana rules with power, wealth, and unquestioned authority. The palace is prepared, the finest arrangements are made, and the expectation is clear: the Divine will surely come where greatness has been assembled. Yet Krishna does not go there. Instead, he walks quietly to the humble dwelling of Vidura, a man without status or display, whose home is small but whose heart is open. When Duryodhan hears of this, he is unsettled, even offended. How could the Divine leave grandeur for simplicity? How could a hut be chosen over a palace?

This shabad by Bhai Gurdas teaches us how to invite divinity home. Lets take one line at a time:

ਆਇਆ ਸੁਣਿਆ ਬਿਦਰ ਦੇ ਬੋਲੈ ਦੁਰਜੋਧਨੁ ਹੋਇ ਰੁਖਾ।

Duryodhan hears that the Divine has gone to Vidur’s home, but his hearing is dry, sharp, and reactive. This is the first fracture: hearing without bhaav. In bhagati, listening is not the movement of the ear but the softening of the mind. The “ghar” here is already being tested—what kind of house is it if it cannot receive without comparison? A house without love becomes a place of noise, even if filled with knowledge.

ਘਰਿ ਅਸਾਡੇ ਛਡਿ ਕੈ ਗੋਲੇ ਦੇ ਘਰਿ ਜਾਹਿ ਕਿ ਸੁਖਾ।

He questions why the Divine would leave a palace for a servant’s hut. Here, “ghar” becomes externalized—measured in size, wealth, comfort. But bhagati reverses this. The true house is not built of walls but of bhaav. Where love resides, that is the dwelling. A palace without love is empty; a hut with love becomes vast. The Divine does not move toward luxury—it moves toward warmth.

ਭੀਖਮੁ ਦੋਣਾ ਕਰਣ ਤਜਿ ਸਭਾ ਸੀਗਾਰ ਵਡੇ ਮਾਨੁਖਾ।

Duryodhan lists the great names—Bhishma, Drona, Karna—men adorned in courts, recognized, accomplished. This is the house of reputation, the architecture of recognition. But bhagati does not gather around greatness as the world defines it. It gathers where humility allows listening. The more a house fills itself with status, the less space remains for bhaav.

ਝੁੰਗੀ ਜਾਇ ਵਲਾਇਓਨੁ ਸਭਨਾ ਦੇ ਜੀਅ ਅੰਦਰਿ ਧੁਖਾ।

He says they are pained that the Divine chose a hut. Yet this pain is not the dissolving pain of bhagati—it is the tightening pain of ego. True bhagati, as we saw, sends pain away and brings sukh into the house. But here, the house produces more suffering because it is built on comparison and pride. A house without bhaav cannot hold peace.

ਹਸਿ ਬੋਲੇ ਭਗਵਾਨ ਜੀ ਸੁਣਿਹੋ ਰਾਜਾ ਹੋਇ ਸਨਮੁਖਾ।

The Divine smiles and invites the king to come closer and listen. This is always the gesture: come near, not in position, but in awareness. The house of bhagati begins here—not in argument, but in listening. To come “sanmukh” is to turn inward, to face what is true. The Guru’s path always begins by asking us to listen again, but this time with love.

ਤੇਰੇ ਭਾਉ ਨ ਦਿਸਈ ਮੇਰੇ ਨਾਹੀ ਅਪਦਾ ਦੁਖਾ।

“I do not see bhaav in you.” This is not condemnation—it is clarity. Without bhaav, there is no meeting. The Divine is not absent out of refusal, but because there is no space to dwell. The house is closed. Bhagatī is not technique; it is the opening of the inner house. Where there is no love, the doors remain shut, even if rituals are performed inside.

ਭਾਉ ਜਿਵੇਹਾ ਬਿਦਰ ਦੇ ਹੋਰੀ ਦੇ ਚਿਤਿ ਚਾਉ ਨ ਚੁਖਾ।

“No one holds love like Vidur.” Now the contrast becomes luminous. Vidur’s house is small, but his heart is expansive. His ghar is made of attention, humility, and welcome. This is bhaav bhagat: not singing alone, but singing that listens; not offering things, but offering oneself. His house does not try to impress—it simply receives.

ਗੋਬਿੰਦ ਭਾਉ ਭਗਤਿ ਦਾ ਭੁਖਾ ॥੭॥

Gobind is hungry—for bhaav bhagati. This hunger is not for food, not for wealth, not for performance. It is for that state where singing, listening, and loving become one movement. The true house is wherever this happens. When you give your time, when you listen with love, when you dissolve comparison—that is where the Divine arrives, because that is where it is already welcome.

Not Just a Story

In the end, these figures are not just from story—they are within us. Krishna represents the living presence of the Divine, always moving toward love. Vidura is the part of us that is humble, open, and quietly devoted—the inner house prepared with bhaav. Duryodhana is the part that seeks recognition, compares, and tries to host the Divine through status rather than sincerity. Bhagati, as revealed through Guru Nanak, is the movement from Duryodhan to Vidur—from outer house to inner house, from performance to presence, from singing alone to singing, listening, and holding love. That is the house where Gobind dwells.

Lyrics - Chalo Man Vrindavan 

English Translation 

More on Narayan Das

According to Hindustan Times from 2011:

Kavi 'Das Narayan' Agrawal has hit one of the sweetest spots in the Indian music industry. By placing himself on the hyphen between the Nathpanth-influenced Kabir and the Nathpanth-inspired Sufis, the poet has claimed prime property in what's perhaps the industry's fastest growing sector. The two new albums of Agrawal's compositions state upfront the 'rich' lineages he claims to follow. Lending their voices are two graduates of Pune's Gandharva Mahavidyalaya.

The Service without Hope—
Is tenderest, I think—
Because ’tis unsustained
By stint—Rewarded Work— 

Has impetus of Gain—
And impetus of Goal—
There is no Diligence like that
That knows not an Until—

Work Without Hope by Cooleridge
1825

ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
And WINTER, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,
And HOPE without an OBJECT cannot live.

Written in 1825, Coleridge’s “Work Without Hope” is a sonnet relating nature to the emotions of the speaker. The imagery used throughout the poem is both a reflection of the natural world and a reference to the speaker’s mental state. Seasons are used in the poem to relate what the speaker is feeling, and how it affects his life. Described as “lines composed on a day in February,” or during the beginning of spring, we realize that the speaker is truly contemplating the ideas presented throughout the poem.

“Work Without Hope” is a sonnet, although it is not written in traditional sonnet form. The development of the poem is presented the same way as in a sonnet; the poem develops in the first 12 lines. The last two lines then present the overall theme of the poem to the reader. Throughout this poem the speaker observes nature at work, and uses the activity to set up a contrast between himself and a busy natural world. This is illustrated throughout the first six lines of the poem, which discuss the beauty of nature using classic terms – "slugs leave their lair/ the bees are stirring – birds are on the wing". The contrast is made quite apparent here: “And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,/ Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.” We learn that the speaker has come to the realization that while nature is beautiful, he struggles to identify himself within this world of purpose and business. Instead, we see him as an observer, not a participant. These are personal themes throughout Coleridge's life; he often battled with feelings of failure due to a variety of life events. Please refer to the Biography of S.T.C. for more information on this topic. Although Coleridge’s phrase, “WINTER slumbering in the open air/ Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring” appears trite and unconvincing, this contrived sentence sets up this idyllic setting as a foil for what the speaker has to say about his own purposelessness.

The speaker then develops his conscious thought in the next six lines. Although aware of the beauty that surrounds him, he is also conscious of the unsuccessful picture he presents to such a scene. This is clear when the speaker addressed the world around him, saying, “Bloom, O ye Amaranths! Bloom for whom ye may/ For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!” The speaker recognizes that this beauty does not exist for him, and he sees himself as a poor recipient for the natural world. This parallel between nature and man is a prevalent theme throughout Romantic literature, often elaborated upon by Percy Bysshe Shelley, among others. Amaranths, coincidentally, are unfading flowers, and exist as yet another contrast to a speaker who is fading as we speak. He is well aware that he possesses a lack of success: “With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll” illustrates his deficiency as compared to this productive natural scene. The speaker is full of despair; he realizes that he has contributed nothing. He is as sterile as the winter that preceded this productive spring season.

The final theme is illustrated and interpreted in the last two lines of the poem. “WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve/And HOPE without an OBJECT cannot live” ends Coleridge’s poem and summarizes the overall point. Drawing nectar, the sugary-sweet juice of poetic fame, through a sieve is impossible, as is performing any work without hope. For without hope, there can never be success. This idea is expanded with the statement that hope cannot live without an object, or a point. For if there is nothing to hope for, then where does hope go? It simply drains away. The speaker is isolated in this world of spring beauty, the contrast felt all the more because of the life and production that surrounds him.

"Pray as though everything depended on God. Work as though everything depended on you" St Augustine