Shivpreet Singh
Shivpreet Singh
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By Walt Whitman:

PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.



The story of Scheherazade 

The story goes that every day Shahryar (Persian: شهریار‎, "king") would marry a new virgin, and every day he would send yesterday's wife to be beheaded. This was done in anger, having found out that his first wife was unfaithful to him. He had killed one thousand such women by the time he was introduced to Scheherazade, the vizier's daughter.
In Sir Richard Burton's translation of The Nights, Scheherazade was described in this way:
"[Scheherazade] had perused the books, annals and legends of preceding Kings, and the stories, examples and instances of bygone men and things; indeed it was said that she had collected a thousand books of histories relating to antique races and departed rulers. She had perused the works of the poets and knew them by heart; she had studied philosophy and the sciences, arts and accomplishments; and she was pleasant and polite, wise and witty, well read and well bred."
Against her father's wishes, Scheherazade volunteered to spend one night with the King. Once in the King's chambers, Scheherazade asked if she might bid one last farewell to her beloved sister, Dinazade, who had secretly been prepared to ask Scheherazade to tell a story during the long night. The King lay awake and listened with awe as Scheherazade told her first story. The night passed by, and Scheherazade stopped in the middle of the story. The King asked her to finish, but Scheherazade said there was not time, as dawn was breaking. So, the King spared her life for one day to finish the story the next night. So the next night, Scheherazade finished the story, and then began a second, even more exciting tale which she again stopped halfway through, at dawn. So the King again spared her life for one day to finish the second story.
And so the King kept Scheherazade alive day by day, as he eagerly anticipated the finishing of last night's story. At the end of one thousand and one nights, and one thousand stories, Scheherazade told the King that she had no more tales to tell him. During these one thousand and one nights, the King had fallen in love with Scheherazade, and had three sons with her. So, having been made a wiser and kinder man by Scheherazade and her tales, he spared her life, and made her his Queen.

My take:
We are going to die one day. But before we go we have to make a positive impact on the world.  We cannot prevent our death, but we can make a positive impact before we die.  We can sing before we die.  We can save lives of others before we die like Scheherazade did.  We have to use what we know best like Scheherazade did.  We can change the most obnoxious people if we make a determined effort.  We can change the world if we sing.



Dante was born in Florence, Italy in a family of low aristocracy (high stature but small wealth).   By his early fifties, he had been exiled from his hometown (for political reason), wrestled with the top authorities of the church, and taken up arms against his fellow countrymen. He had made plenty of enemies, and he was not pleased. So he did with his enemies what many have wished to do: he sent them all, even the pope, to hell—literarily, that is. But his damnatory writing was no screed; it is regarded as one of the finest poem of the Middle Ages, a summation of classical and medieval beliefs so profound that its critics labeled it "divine": The Divine Comedy.

After wandering from town to town, the exiled Dante had finally settled in Ravenna in about 1317, where he set about completing this masterpiece, La Commedia, begun a decade earlier. In essence, it is an epic poem chronicling an allegorical journey through the afterlife, divided into three parts: Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso. The purpose, Dante wrote, was to convert a corrupt society to righteousness, "to remove those living in this life from a state of misery and lead them to a state of felicity."

Here is the story of Dante's Inferno:


Inferno opens on the evening of Good Friday in the year 1300. Traveling through a dark wood, Dante Alighieri has lost his path and now wanders fearfully through the forest. The sun shines down on a mountain above him, and he attempts to climb up to it but finds his way blocked by three beasts—a leopard, a lion, and a she-wolf. Frightened and helpless, Dante returns to the dark wood. Here he encounters the ghost of Virgil, the great Roman poet, who has come to guide Dante back to his path, to the top of the mountain. Virgil says that their path will take them through Hell and that they will eventually reach Heaven, where Dante’s beloved Beatrice awaits. He adds that it was Beatrice, along with two other holy women, who, seeing Dante lost in the wood, sent Virgil to guide him.

Virgil leads Dante through the gates of Hell, marked by the haunting inscription “abandon all hope, you who enter here” (III.7). They enter the outlying region of Hell, the Ante-Inferno, where the souls who in life could not commit to either good or evil now must run in a futile chase after a blank banner, day after day, while hornets bite them and worms lap their blood. Dante witnesses their suffering with repugnance and pity. The ferryman Charon then takes him and his guide across the river Acheron, the real border of Hell. The First Circle of Hell, Limbo, houses pagans, including Virgil and many of the other great writers and poets of antiquity, who died without knowing of Christ. After meeting Horace, Ovid, and Lucan, Dante continues into the Second Circle of Hell, reserved for the sin of Lust. At the border of the Second Circle, the monster Minos lurks, assigning condemned souls to their punishments. He curls his tail around himself a certain number of times, indicating the number of the circle to which the soul must go. Inside the Second Circle, Dante watches as the souls of the Lustful swirl about in a terrible storm; Dante meets Francesca, who tells him the story of her doomed love affair with Paolo da Rimini, her husband’s brother; the relationship has landed both in Hell.

In the Third Circle of Hell, the Gluttonous must lie in mud and endure a rain of filth and excrement. In the Fourth Circle, the Avaricious and the Prodigal are made to charge at one another with giant boulders. The Fifth Circle of Hell contains the river Styx, a swampy, fetid cesspool in which the Wrathful spend eternity struggling with one another; the Sullen lie bound beneath the Styx’s waters, choking on the mud. Dante glimpses Filippo Argenti, a former political enemy of his, and watches in delight as other souls tear the man to pieces.

Virgil and Dante next proceed to the walls of the city of Dis, a city contained within the larger region of Hell. The demons who guard the gates refuse to open them for Virgil, and an angelic messenger arrives from Heaven to force the gates open before Dante. The Sixth Circle of Hell houses the Heretics, and there Dante encounters a rival political leader named Farinata. A deep valley leads into the First Ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell, where those who were violent toward others spend eternity in a river of boiling blood. Virgil and Dante meet a group of Centaurs, creatures who are half man, half horse. One of them, Nessus, takes them into the Second Ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell, where they encounter those who were violent toward themselves (the Suicides). These souls must endure eternity in the form of trees. Dante there speaks with Pier della Vigna. Going deeper into the Seventh Circle of Hell, the travelers find those who were violent toward God (the Blasphemers); Dante meets his old patron, Brunetto Latini, walking among the souls of those who were violent toward Nature (the Sodomites) on a desert of burning sand. They also encounter the Usurers, those who were violent toward Art.

The monster Geryon transports Virgil and Dante across a great abyss to the Eighth Circle of Hell, known as Malebolge, or “evil pockets” (or “pouches”); the term refers to the circle’s division into various pockets separated by great folds of earth. In the First Pouch, the Panderers and the Seducers receive lashings from whips; in the second, the Flatterers must lie in a river of human feces. The Simoniacs in the Third Pouch hang upside down in baptismal fonts while their feet burn with fire. In the Fourth Pouch are the Astrologists or Diviners, forced to walk with their heads on backward, a sight that moves Dante to great pity. In the Fifth Pouch, the Barrators (those who accepted bribes) steep in pitch while demons tear them apart. The Hypocrites in the Sixth Pouch must forever walk in circles, wearing heavy robes made of lead. Caiphas, the priest who confirmed Jesus’ death sentence, lies crucified on the ground; the other sinners tread on him as they walk. In the horrifying Seventh Pouch, the Thieves sit trapped in a pit of vipers, becoming vipers themselves when bitten; to regain their form, they must bite another thief in turn.

In the Eighth Pouch of the Eighth Circle of Hell, Dante speaks to Ulysses, the great hero of Homer’s epics, now doomed to an eternity among those guilty of Spiritual Theft (the False Counselors) for his role in executing the ruse of the Trojan Horse. In the Ninth Pouch, the souls of Sowers of Scandal and Schism walk in a circle, constantly afflicted by wounds that open and close repeatedly. In the Tenth Pouch, the Falsifiers suffer from horrible plagues and diseases.

Virgil and Dante proceed to the Ninth Circle of Hell through the Giants’ Well, which leads to a massive drop to Cocytus, a great frozen lake. The giant Antaeus picks Virgil and Dante up and sets them down at the bottom of the well, in the lowest region of Hell. In Caina, the First Ring of the Ninth Circle of Hell, those who betrayed their kin stand frozen up to their necks in the lake’s ice. In Antenora, the Second Ring, those who betrayed their country and party stand frozen up to their heads; here Dante meets Count Ugolino, who spends eternity gnawing on the head of the man who imprisoned him in life. In Ptolomea, the Third Ring, those who betrayed their guests spend eternity lying on their backs in the frozen lake, their tears making blocks of ice over their eyes. Dante next follows Virgil into Judecca, the Fourth Ring of the Ninth Circle of Hell and the lowest depth. Here, those who betrayed their benefactors spend eternity in complete icy submersion.

A huge, mist-shrouded form lurks ahead, and Dante approaches it. It is the three-headed giant Lucifer, plunged waist-deep into the ice. His body pierces the center of the Earth, where he fell when God hurled him down from Heaven. Each of Lucifer’s mouths chews one of history’s three greatest sinners: Judas, the betrayer of Christ, and Cassius and Brutus, the betrayers of Julius Caesar. Virgil leads Dante on a climb down Lucifer’s massive form, holding on to his frozen tufts of hair. Eventually, the poets reach the Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, and travel from there out of Hell and back onto Earth. They emerge from Hell on Easter morning, just before sunrise.

I was reading Allan Ginsberg poem, The Lion For Real today. And just wrote this as a stream of consciousness.  The poem is below!

A Roaring Truth: Embracing the Lion Within Us


I carry within me a lion, a fearsome and relentless beast. This lion, it seems, is my silent companion throughout my journey in life. It is the embodiment of my mortality, the inevitability of my own demise. We all have this lion, lurking in the shadows of our existence, patiently awaiting its moment to pounce. When that moment arrives, it will consume us, leaving nothing but memories and echoes of our existence.

But this lion is not one we can predict or control. It moves at its own pace, adhering to its enigmatic timetable. There's a certain futility in trying to warn others about it. People tend to dismiss such notions, thinking us mad or obsessed with the morbid. They'll shake their heads and say, "You're crazy," as if denial were the shield that could protect them from the truth.

Even those we hold dearest, the ones we believe will understand our fears, often turn a blind eye to this impending doom. They, too, have their own lions to contend with, lurking in the recesses of their minds. It's as though we all exist in a collective state of denial, preferring not to acknowledge the savage reality that accompanies our fragile existence.

The secret, it seems, lies not in trying to convince others of the lion's presence but in our ability to accept it ourselves. Embrace the knowledge that this lion is an integral part of our lives, an ever-present reminder of our impermanence. Instead of dwelling on its impending arrival, we must focus on living the best lives we can.

We must continue to sing the songs that are uniquely ours, to carve our own paths through the wilderness of existence. To love deeply, to dream wildly, to create passionately, and to savor every moment as if it were our last. For in doing so, we defy the lion's intentions. We wrestle control from its grasp, choosing to live our lives on our terms, regardless of the looming shadow it casts.

So, I carry my lion with me, acknowledging its existence but refusing to let it dictate the course of my life. I sing my song, loud and clear, for as long as I can, for it is in the face of the inevitable that our true strength and resilience are revealed. This lion may be for real, but so is the indomitable spirit within us that continues to soar, undeterred by the specter of mortality.

The Lion For Real

- Allen Ginsberg



I came home and found a lion in my living room
Rushed out on the fire escape screaming Lion! Lion!
Two stenographers pulled their brunnette hair and banged the window shut
I hurried home to Patterson and stayed two days

Called up old Reichian analyst
who'd kicked me out of therapy for smoking marijuana
'It's happened' I panted 'There's a Lion in my living room'
'I'm afraid any discussion would have no value' he hung up

I went to my old boyfriend we got drunk with his girlfriend
I kissed him and announced I had a lion with a mad gleam in my eye
We wound up fighting on the floor I bit his eyebrow he kicked me out
I ended up masturbating in his jeep parked in the street moaning 'Lion.'

Found Joey my novelist friend and roared at him 'Lion!'
He looked at me interested and read me his spontaneous ignu high poetries
I listened for lions all I heard was Elephant Tiglon Hippogriff Unicorn
Ants
But figured he really understood me when we made it in Ignaz Wisdom's
bathroom.

But next day he sent me a leaf from his Smoky Mountain retreat
'I love you little Bo-Bo with your delicate golden lions
But there being no Self and No Bars therefore the Zoo of your dear Father
hath no lion
You said your mother was mad don't expect me to produce the Monster for
your Bridegroom.'

Confused dazed and exalted bethought me of real lion starved in his stink
in Harlem
Opened the door the room was filled with the bomb blast of his anger
He roaring hungrily at the plaster walls but nobody could hear outside
thru the window
My eye caught the edge of the red neighbor apartment building standing in
deafening stillness
We gazed at each other his implacable yellow eye in the red halo of fur
Waxed rhuemy on my own but he stopped roaring and bared a fang
greeting.
I turned my back and cooked broccoli for supper on an iron gas stove
boilt water and took a hot bath in the old tup under the sink board.

He didn't eat me, tho I regretted him starving in my presence.
Next week he wasted away a sick rug full of bones wheaten hair falling out
enraged and reddening eye as he lay aching huge hairy head on his paws
by the egg-crate bookcase filled up with thin volumes of Plato, & Buddha.

Sat by his side every night averting my eyes from his hungry motheaten
face
stopped eating myself he got weaker and roared at night while I had
nightmares
Eaten by lion in bookstore on Cosmic Campus, a lion myself starved by
Professor Kandisky, dying in a lion's flophouse circus,
I woke up mornings the lion still added dying on the floor--'Terrible
Presence!'I cried'Eat me or die!'

It got up that afternoon--walked to the door with its paw on the south wall to
steady its trembling body
Let out a soul-rending creak from the bottomless roof of his mouth
thundering from my floor to heaven heavier than a volcano at night in
Mexico
Pushed the door open and said in a gravelly voice "Not this time Baby--
but I will be back again."

Lion that eats my mind now for a decade knowing only your hunger
Not the bliss of your satisfaction O roar of the universe how am I chosen
In this life I have heard your promise I am ready to die I have served
Your starved and ancient Presence O Lord I wait in my room at your
Mercy.

Paris, March 1958

The Photograph
- Stevie Smith


They photographed me young upon a tiger skin
And now I do not care at all for kith and kin,
For oh the tiger nature works within.

Parents of England, not in smug
Fashion fancy set on rug
If animal fur the darling you would hug,

For lately born is not too young
To scent the savage he sits upon,
And tiger-possessed abandon on all things human.

My take:
The reason why I have become a rebellious artist is because of the upbringing I had.  You made me sit on the tiger skin rug to photograph me, just for that temporary reason.  But the tiger's savage nature, its scent, has seeped into me and now I don't care, like a tiger, about the near and dear ones.  Like a tiger I have abandoned all humanity, all civility.  Nothing stops me from my goal in life.  To satisfy my hunger.

Walt Whitman explains this kind of revolution in a poem written at the time of the civil war. In his "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking," the poet remembers himself as a boy hearing a male mockingbird call to its lost mate:

Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul,)
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have heard you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake,
And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to die.
O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me,
O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you,
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before
what there in the night, By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me.
Walt Whitman also talks about this transformation, from child to someone who is awake.  A child who now roars his song.  He is never again will be the peaceful child that he was before.  He has been transformed.  He has absorbed the savageness of a beast in the brief moment that his character was being developed.  The exposure to this bird singing away has changed Whitman for ever.  He has arisen to understand his own destiny to sing.


Guru Nanak's and Guru Gobind Singh's lions are no less. The imprints of the gurus' poems is on their hearts. And they are revolutionaries.  They are hungry for truth.  And nothing can stop them from achieving their goals.

Have the hunger for truth, Shiv, and then abandon all things human.
Maanas Ki Jaat Sabai Ekai Pehachaanbo - Recognize the human race as one.  - Guru Gobind Singh

A translation of this of this poem:

ਕੋਊ ਭਇਓ ਮੁੰਡੀਆ ਸੰਨਿਆਸੀ ਕੋਊ ਜੋਗੀ ਭਇਓ ਕੋਊ ਬ੍ਰਹਮਚਾਰੀ ਕੋਊ ਜਤੀ ਅਨੁਮਾਨਬੋ ॥
कोऊ भइओ मुंडीआ संनिआसी कोऊ जोगी भइओ कोऊ ब्रहमचारी कोऊ जती अनुमानबो ॥
Somebody became a Bairagi (recluse), somebody a Sannyasi (mendicant). Somebody a Yogi, somebody a Brahmchari (student observing celibacy) and someone is considered a celibate.

ਹਿੰਦੂ ਤੁਰਕ ਕੋਊ ਰਾਫਜੀ ਇਮਾਮ ਸਾਫੀ ਮਾਨਸ ਕੀ ਜਾਤਿ ਸਬੈ ਏਕੈ ਪਹਿਚਾਨਬੋ ॥
हिंदू तुरक कोऊ राफजी इमाम साफी मानस की जाति सबै एकै पहिचानबो ॥
Someone is Hindu and someone a Muslim, then someone is Shia, and someone a Sunni, but all the human beings are recognized as one and the same.

ਕਰਤਾ ਕਰੀਮ ਸੋਈ ਰਾਜਕ ਰਹੀਮ ਓਈ ਦੂਸਰੋ ਨ ਭੇਦ ਕੋਈ ਭੂਲਿ ਭ੍ਰਮ ਮਾਨਬੋ ॥
करता करीम सोई राजक रहीम ओई दूसरो न भेद कोई भूलि भ्रम मानबो ॥
Karta (The Creator) and Karim (Merciful) is the same Lord, Razak (The Sustainer) and Rahim (Compassionate) is the same Lord, there is no other second, therefore consider this verbal distinguishing feature of Hindusim and Islam as an error and an illusion.

ਏਕ ਹੀ ਕੀ ਸੇਵ ਸਭ ਹੀ ਕੋ ਗੁਰਦੇਵ ਏਕ ਏਕ ਹੀ ਸਰੂਪ ਸਬੈ ਏਕੈ ਜੋਤ ਜਾਨਬੋ ॥੧੫॥੮੫॥
एक ही की सेव सभ ही को गुरदेव एक एक ही सरूप सबै एकै जोत जानबो ॥१५॥८५॥
Thus worship the ONE LORD, who is the common enlightener of all; all have the same beautiful image, and all come from the same ONE LIGHT. 15.85.

- Guru Gobind Singh, Dasam Granth


I just saw this video from Professor Darshan Singh; he has been an eminent Sikh lecturer and musician. In more recent years he has thrown himself into some controversy on religious texts. It seems his mission in life has become to grow doubt in people's minds about the authenticity of the Dasam Granth, the name given to the collected works of Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth Sikh Guru. Many people have not agreed with his view over the years, and some have. His new argument is if people don't want to join him in denouncing this book, why not at least confirm that the Guru Granth Sahib (a collection of poems singing about oneness) is the ONE and ONLY superior holy book for the Sikhs.

Thats a problematic statement for anyone who understands the poems contained within the Guru Granth Sahib. These poems are about the absolute truth, and cannot be constrained for only the Sikhs. To me that is vehement attack on the very soul of Guru Nanak which sings of equality.

Although I have been personally touched by Professor Darshan Singh because he encouraged me to memorize the poems from the Guru Granth Sahib that I have grown to love, I have not really understood the vehement opposition to the Dasam Granth.  Professor Darshan Singh's position is that there are some parts of that book that were inserted by Hindus to propagate their religion -- or to cast a doubt on the authenticity of Guru Gobind Singh.

I claim no knowledge of Dasam Granth's authenticity, but I still don't like the professor's arguments.   My thinking is that even if one poem in the treatise was written by Guru Gobind Singh, it is fruitful to study every poem to find it. And once you have read any one poem from the Guru Granth Sahib (and all of them are really pointing to the same Ek Omkaar), you should not have any trouble deciphering which portion of the Dasam Granth has the soul of Guru Nanak. The same is true with the Old Testament or New Testament, or Koran.

In my opinion any claims of superiority of any religious doctrine, book or work cannot be made by the soul of Guru Nanak which believes only in Ek Omkaar.

There is a story where Guru Nanak once meets Mia Mittha a sufi poet who tells him to recite the kalma. Guru Nanak asks him what he wants him to say. Mia Mittha asks the Guru to repeat these words:

Pehla Naam Khudai ka, dooja naam rasool.
Nanak kalma je paden, taan dargeh paveh kabool.

Translated:
First name is God's, second is Prophet Muhammad
If you read this prayer, you will be accepted in heaven.

Guru Nanak abjectly refused to accept this. How can anyone who believes in equality or even one God not refuse this thinking? In Guru Nanak's view there are thousands of Muhammads lining at God's door. In a different poem, he reminds us that God's door is in our own heart. The idea of having a lineage -- God on top, messenger just below and the rest of the universe under them -- does not fit well with the teachings of Guru Nanak. Guru Nanak himself never claimed to be only second to God. In different poems he calls himself a slave or a dog.

The sikh supremists have created a Guru with a body and an ego. They treat the Guru Granth Sahib like a deity. They offer prayers to it and want to claim there is no other book or thing in this world that is as pious.

What is in the book that can revolutionize our thinking is largely ignored. What is really cool and different about the Guru Granth Sahib is the homogenous focus on Ek Omkaar and on equality for all. There is no claim of superiority and that these truths cannot be found elsewhere; there is no such ego here. This is what makes this book of poetry more beautiful than other self propagating religious texts.

What is the difference in the idiotic thinking of superiority of the Guru Granth Sahib and the equally idiotic thinking of God having only One son, or God having a last messenger.  Its quite idiotic. Our leaders today are taking us down an idiotic path and we keep feeding our and their egos.  Guru Nanak's essence is lost in such thinking.

Guru Nanak's word is not constrained by the Guru Granth; he didnt stop writing once he had finished the Japji Sahib. Guru Nanak continues to write and sing today. And I hear him all the time. He calls himself a dog. There is no air about him. No supremacy.

VIDEO 1:
 

 VIDEO 2:
Guru Gobind Singh gave all his disciples the last name Singh, or Lion.  Guru Gobind Singh's is a revolutionary and fierce path.  It stands for the truth and it is not shy in picking up arms in defense of the needy.  

What animal would you associate with Buddha, the teacher of peace?  It was interesting for me, a Singh, to hear today that even Buddha -- known for spreading a religion with primarily pacifist teachings -- was known to associate himself with the Lion.  According to Buddhist researchers, "when the Buddha has occasion to refer to himself, he chooses to represent himself as the stately lion and to describe his proclamation of the Dhamma, bold and thunderous, as a veritable lion's roar in the spiritual domain."

This is a beautiful way of describing the Lion

Among the hordes of animals that roam the wild, whether the jungle, the mountains or the plain, the lion is universally recognized to be their chief. The living embodiment of self-possessed power, he is the most regal in manner and deportment, the mightiest, the foremost with respect to speed, courage and dominion. The expression of the lion's supremacy is its roar — a roar which reduces to silence the cries, howls, bellows, shrieks, barks and growls of lesser creatures. When the lion steps forth from his den and sounds his roar, all the other animals stop and listen. On such an occasion none dares even to sound its own cry, let alone to come into the open and challenge the fearless, unsurpassable roar of the golden-maned king of beasts.

More:
http://www.accesstoinsight.org/lib/authors/nanamoli/wheel390.html
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SHIVPREET SINGH

Singing oneness!
- Shivpreet Singh

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  • Krishna's Cosmic Flute - Reflecting upon Bulleh Shah's Kafi, Bansi Kaanh Acharj Bajai
    Krishna's Cosmic Flute Playing Bulleh Shah in a kafi says, "You are playing a surprising, wondrous, flute O Krishna." Bulleh S...
  • Celebrating International Women's Day with Jane Hirshfield and Mirabai
    Shivoham - Pt. Rajendra Prasanna Two of my favorite women poets, Jane Hirshfield and Mirabai. And singing about the flute. Ah the love!  Now...
  • Digging into the 'kaar' of Ek Onkaar
    Exploring the Essence of "Kaar" in Ekonkaar In Sikh philosophy, the term "Ekonkaar" holds profound significance, encapsu...
  • Bajre Da Sitta - Lyrics and Translation
    Bajre Da Sitta is playful and evergreen Punjabi folk song.   The song is often sung during long Punjabi weddings. One can imagine that a wom...

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