Among the many ways the Laavaan have been understood, I have been drawn to one that follows the movement of Guru Ram Das's own words.

The first step is parvirti—a turning homeward, a rooting in wisdom, remembrance, and dharam that prepares the soul for what is to come. The second is milaya, meeting. Through the meeting with the True Guru, fear and ego begin to fall away. The eyes are transformed. The Divine is seen everywhere, and the unstruck Song begins to resound within. The third step is chao—the awakening of longing. This is not the desire to possess, but the desire to know, to grow, and to remain in the presence of the Beloved. Love ripens into yearning. The fourth step is getting to eternal love in sahaj—through intuitive ease. The restless search begins to quiet. The heart's deepest longing is fulfilled not through striving, but through trust, presence, and an undying rest.

What does this have to do with us now?

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.

I am reading a poem by Faiz today. He was in prison when he wrote this, and this poem has the fragrance of freedom. Guru Nanak talks about freedom at the end of Japji Sahib. Those who remember the name walk around with resplendent faces and they are also the ones who have found freedom, despite being imprisoned in this body on this earth. 

Let me introduce the poem, then let's read it and talk about it as well. 

This is a poem that moves like evening itself—slowly folding, dissolving, turning the visible world into something inward. It belongs to that tradition in Urdu-Hindi poetry where twilight is not just a time of day but a state of being: a threshold between separation and union, ظلم (oppression) and possibility, memory and presence. The language is lush with Persianized compounds—पेच-ओ-ख़म, दामन-ए-आसमाँ, दर्द-ए-फ़िराक़—and yet what it gestures toward is deeply intimate: the feeling that even in a wounded world, beauty keeps quietly assembling itself.

What makes this poem powerful is that it never argues hope—it renders it. The sky, the prison courtyard, the trees, the light, the shadows—all of them participate in a kind of silent resistance. By the time we reach the final lines, the poem has shifted from observation to defiance, but so gently that we hardly notice when seeing becomes believing.

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Original Poem by Faiz

शाम के पेच-ओ-ख़म सितारों से
ज़ीना ज़ीना उतर रही है रात

यूँ सबा पास से गुज़रती है
जैसे कह दी किसी ने प्यार की बात

सेहन-ए-ज़िंदाँ के बे-वतन अश्जार
सर-निगूँ महव हैं बनाने में

दामन-ए-आसमाँ पे नक़्श-ओ-निगार
शाना-ए-बाम पर दमकता है

मेहरबाँ चाँदनी का दस्त-ए-जमील
ख़ाक में घुल गई है आब-ए-नुजूम

नूर में घुल गया है अर्श का नील
सब्ज़ गोशों में नील-गूँ साए

लहलहाते हैं जिस तरह दिल में
मौज-ए-दर्द-ए-फ़िराक़-ए-यार आए

दिल से पैहम ख़याल कहता है
इतनी शीरीं है ज़िंदगी इस पल

ज़ुल्म का ज़हर घोलने वाले
कामराँ हो सकेंगे आज न कल

जल्वा-गाह-ए-विसाल की शमएँ
वो बुझा भी चुके अगर तो क्या

चाँद को गुल करें तो हम जानें

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Translation

The tangled curves of evening—
night descends, step by step,
from the stars.

The breeze passes close by
as if someone has just
whispered love.

In the prison courtyard, the rootless trees
bow their heads, absorbed
in becoming.

Across the sky’s hem, patterns emerge,
and along the rooftop’s edge
something glimmers.

The gentle hand of moonlight—
the water of stars dissolves
into dust.

The blue of the heavens melts into light,
and in green corners, bluish shadows
begin to sway—

the way, inside the heart,
waves of the pain of separation
rise and tremble.

From within, a thought repeats:
life is so sweet
in this very moment—

those who stir poison into oppression
will not prevail,
not today, not ever.

Even if they have extinguished
the lamps of union—
what of it?

Let them try
to put out the moon.

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The Best Lines — and Why They Stay

The opening: “शाम के पेच-ओ-ख़म सितारों से / ज़ीना ज़ीना उतर रही है रात” is extraordinary because it refuses a flat description of evening. “पेच-ओ-ख़म” (twists and turns) gives dusk a physical, almost calligraphic texture, and “ज़ीना ज़ीना” (step by step) turns night into a descent you can feel. It is not a sky changing color—it is something arriving, deliberately, like a quiet procession. The line teaches us how to look.

“यूँ सबा पास से गुज़रती है / जैसे कह दी किसी ने प्यार की बात” is deceptively simple, but this is where the poem softens the world. The breeze becomes intimate speech. Nothing dramatic happens, and yet everything changes: the external world is suddenly capable of carrying affection. This is classic subcontinental poetics—turning atmosphere into emotion without announcing it.

The image of “सेहन-ए-ज़िंदाँ के बे-वतन अश्जार”—rootless trees in a prison courtyard—is one of the most layered moments. These are trees that belong nowhere, yet they are “महव हैं बनाने में”—absorbed in becoming, in making themselves. Even in confinement, life is not static. There is a quiet metaphysics here: growth does not ask permission.

Then comes the heart of the poem:
“लहलहाते हैं जिस तरह दिल में / मौज-ए-दर्द-ए-फ़िराक़-ए-यार आए”.
The pain of separation is not described as heaviness, but as waves, even as something that sways or ripples. Pain is alive, moving, almost fertile. This is where the poem turns inward—everything we saw outside (shadows, movement, dissolving light) now mirrors the interior landscape.

The philosophical pivot happens in:
“इतनी शीरीं है ज़िंदगी इस पल”.
This is not naïve optimism. It arrives after images of prison, exile, and separation. The sweetness is not because suffering is absent—it is because life persists despite it. That distinction is everything.

And then the ending—quiet, almost playful defiance:
“चाँद को गुल करें तो हम जानें”
—Let them try to extinguish the moon.

This is one of those rare lines that does not raise its voice but still feels like resistance. It does not deny ظلم; it simply places it in proportion. You can put out lamps, perhaps even erase moments of union—but the moon? That is beyond you. The line expands the scale of hope from the human to the cosmic.

Eid Mubarak folks! This morning I woke up and read new poetry from Rattle and this poem was very moving. Here is the original on Rattle: https://rattle.com/dua-for-dervishes-by-michael-cirelli/

I have come to see the phrase Ghar Ghar Baba—from the writings of Bhai Gurdas—as remarkably expansive. On the surface, it simply means “Baba in every house.” But both Ghar (house) and Baba open into far richer territory.

The word ghar has always carried a deeper resonance. A house is not just a structure; it is a dwelling, a chamber, a place where something lives. If we follow this idea inward, the human body itself becomes a city of houses—trillions of cells, each a small room pulsing with life. And here, modern science offers an astonishing insight: these cells remember. Here is the article I was reading today: https://www.popularmechanics.com/science/a70578341/memory-cells-consciousness/ - Your Cells Can ‘Remember’—Meaning Your Entire Body Could Be Conscious, Some Researchers Suggest,

Research now shows that memory is not confined to the brain. Throughout the body, cells store traces of past experiences through changes in gene activity—a phenomenon known as epigenetic memory. Immune cells, for instance, “remember” previous pathogens, enabling faster responses to future threats. Memory, it turns out, is not centralized. It is distributed. The body itself is a field of remembering.

Seen through this lens, Ghar Ghar Baba becomes more than a spiritual ideal—it becomes a biological truth. Wisdom is not seated only in the mind. It is woven into every living unit of the body. Each cell carries the story of what has come before: its lineage, its adaptations, its encounters with the world.

Bhai Nandlal captures this beautifully:

“Bas buzurgi hast andar yaad-e oo.”
Greatness lies in remembering.

But here, memory is more than recollection. It is continuity. A cell remembers how to remain a skin cell rather than becoming something else. A body remembers how to heal. A culture remembers how to sing. And the human spirit remembers the presence that the saints call Baba.

So Ghar Ghar Baba can be heard anew: in every house of the body, in every cell of life, there is a remembrance. Wisdom is memory awakened. And when memory deepens, identity clarifies. When identity clarifies, service becomes natural.

The ancient bards understood this intuitively, long before molecular biology began to explain it: greatness is not something we accumulate. It is something we remember. And remembrance is already alive—in every house of the body.