Shivpreet Singh

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.

I realize this is very different from the translations you have seen. I have tried to focus on the etymologies of words in the laavan - parvirti for instance means a turning around, and not family (it is not related to the word parivar which means family, but par + vriti, the other direction literally). Read in the way of the words' etymology, the Laavaan describe a beautiful progression of the soul: turning, meeting, longing, and resting. This journey belongs to every soul-bride, every seeker of love. What follows is a translation shaped by this vision, followed by a note I wrote about how relevant this poem is in current times.

First Laav

ਹਰਿ ਪਹਿਲੜੀ ਲਾਵ ਪਰਵਿਰਤੀ ਕਰਮ ਦ੍ਰਿੜਾਇਆ ਬਲਿ ਰਾਮ ਜੀਉ ॥
Har pahilṛī lāv parviratī karam driṛāiā bali rām jīu.
In the first step, Hari turns us homeward.

ਬਾਣੀ ਬ੍ਰਹਮਾ ਵੇਦੁ ਧਰਮੁ ਦ੍ਰਿੜਹੁ ਪਾਪ ਤਜਾਇਆ ਬਲਿ ਰਾਮ ਜੀਉ ॥
Bāṇī brahmā vedu dharamu driṛahu pāp tajāiā bali rām jīu.
Root yourself in wisdom, in song, in dharam; release what pulls you away.

ਧਰਮੁ ਦ੍ਰਿੜਹੁ ਹਰਿ ਨਾਮੁ ਧਿਆਵਹੁ ਸਿਮ੍ਰਿਤਿ ਨਾਮੁ ਦ੍ਰਿੜਾਇਆ ॥
Dharamu driṛahu hari nāmu dhiāvahu simriti nāmu driṛāiā.
Stand firm in dharam, remember the Name, and let remembrance deepen.

ਸਤਿਗੁਰੁ ਗੁਰੁ ਪੂਰਾ ਆਰਾਧਹੁ ਸਭਿ ਕਿਲਵਿਖ ਪਾਪ ਗਵਾਇਆ ॥
Satiguru guru pūrā ārādhahu sabhi kilavikh pāp gavāiā.
Cherish the True Guru, and the burdens of the past fall away.

ਸਹਜ ਅਨੰਦੁ ਹੋਆ ਵਡਭਾਗੀ ਮਨਿ ਹਰਿ ਹਰਿ ਮੀਠਾ ਲਾਇਆ ॥
Sahaj anandu hoā vaḍbhāgī mani hari hari mīṭhā lāiā.
Then bliss arises naturally, and Hari becomes sweet to the heart.

ਜਨੁ ਕਹੈ ਨਾਨਕੁ ਲਾਵ ਪਹਿਲੀ ਆਰੰਭੁ ਕਾਜੁ ਰਚਾਇਆ ॥੧॥
Janu kahai nānaku lāv pahilī ārambhu kāju racāiā.
Says Nanak: this is the first step—the journey begins.

Second Laav

ਹਰਿ ਦੂਜੜੀ ਲਾਵ ਸਤਿਗੁਰੁ ਪੁਰਖੁ ਮਿਲਾਇਆ ਬਲਿ ਰਾਮ ਜੀਉ ॥
Har dūjṛī lāv satiguru purakhu milāiā bali rām jīu.
In the second step, you meet the True Guru.

ਨਿਰਭਉ ਭੈ ਮਨੁ ਹੋਇ ਹਉਮੈ ਮੈਲੁ ਗਵਾਇਆ ਬਲਿ ਰਾਮ ਜੀਉ ॥
Nirbhau bhai manu hoi haumai mailu gavāiā bali rām jīu.
Fear gives way to fearlessness, and the dust of ego is washed away.

ਨਿਰਮਲੁ ਭਉ ਪਾਇਆ ਹਰਿ ਗੁਣ ਗਾਇਆ ਹਰਿ ਵੇਖੈ ਰਾਮੁ ਹਦੂਰੇ ॥
Niramalu bhau pāiā hari guṇ gāiā hari vekhai rāmu hadūre.
Pure awe awakens, you sing Hari's virtues, and you see Ram before you.

ਹਰਿ ਆਤਮ ਰਾਮੁ ਪਸਾਰਿਆ ਸੁਆਮੀ ਸਰਬ ਰਹਿਆ ਭਰਪੂਰੇ ॥
Har ātam rāmu pasāriā suāmī sarab rahiā bharapūre.
The Ram within reveals itself as the One present everywhere.

ਅੰਤਰਿ ਬਾਹਰਿ ਹਰਿ ਪ੍ਰਭੁ ਏਕੋ ਮਿਲਿ ਹਰਿ ਜਨ ਮੰਗਲ ਗਾਏ ॥
Antari bāhari hari prabhu eko mili hari jan maṅgal gāe.
Inside and outside, the same One—the lovers of Hari sing songs of joy.

ਜਨ ਨਾਨਕ ਦੂਜੀ ਲਾਵ ਚਲਾਈ ਅਨਹਦ ਸਬਦ ਵਜਾਏ ॥੨॥
Jan nānak dūjī lāv calāī anahad sabad vajāe.
Says Nanak: in the second step, the unstruck Song begins to resound.

Third Laav

ਹਰਿ ਤੀਜੜੀ ਲਾਵ ਮਨਿ ਚਾਉ ਭਇਆ ਬੈਰਾਗੀਆ ਬਲਿ ਰਾਮ ਜੀਉ ॥
Har tījṛī lāv mani cāu bhaiā bairāgīā bali rām jīu.
In the third step, a longing awakens and the heart turns toward Hari alone.

ਸੰਤ ਜਨਾ ਹਰਿ ਮੇਲੁ ਹਰਿ ਪਾਇਆ ਵਡਭਾਗੀਆ ਬਲਿ ਰਾਮ ਜੀਉ ॥
Sant janā hari melu hari pāiā vaḍbhāgīā bali rām jīu.
Through the company of saints, Hari is found—a rare blessing.

ਨਿਰਮਲੁ ਹਰਿ ਪਾਇਆ ਹਰਿ ਗੁਣ ਗਾਇਆ ਮੁਖਿ ਬੋਲੀ ਹਰਿ ਬਾਣੀ ॥
Niramalu hari pāiā hari guṇ gāiā mukhi bolī hari bāṇī.
The Pure One is found, His praises are sung, and the tongue speaks Hari's song.

ਸੰਤ ਜਨਾ ਵਡਭਾਗੀ ਪਾਇਆ ਹਰਿ ਕਥੀਐ ਅਕਥ ਕਹਾਣੀ ॥
Sant janā vaḍbhāgī pāiā hari kathīai akath kahāṇī.
Blessed is the meeting with saints—together they speak the unspeakable.

ਹਿਰਦੈ ਹਰਿ ਹਰਿ ਹਰਿ ਧੁਨਿ ਉਪਜੀ ਹਰਿ ਜਪੀਐ ਮਸਤਕਿ ਭਾਗੁ ਜੀਉ ॥
Hiradai hari hari hari dhuni upajī hari japīai masataki bhāgu jīu.
Within the heart, Hari, Hari, Hari resounds—destiny unfolds.

ਜਨੁ ਨਾਨਕੁ ਬੋਲੇ ਤੀਜੀ ਲਾਵੈ ਹਰਿ ਉਪਜੈ ਮਨਿ ਬੈਰਾਗੁ ਜੀਉ ॥੩॥
Janu nāku bole tījī lāvai hari upjai mani bairāgu jīu.
Says Nanak: in the third step, love deepens into longing.

Fourth Laav

ਹਰਿ ਚਉਥੜੀ ਲਾਵ ਮਨਿ ਸਹਜੁ ਭਇਆ ਹਰਿ ਪਾਇਆ ਬਲਿ ਰਾਮ ਜੀਉ ॥
Har cauthṛī lāv mani sahaju bhaiā hari pāiā bali rām jīu.
In the fourth step, the mind comes to rest—Hari is found.

ਗੁਰਮੁਖਿ ਮਿਲਿਆ ਸੁਭਾਇ ਹਰਿ ਮਨਿ ਤਨਿ ਮੀਠਾ ਲਾਇਆ ਬਲਿ ਰਾਮ ਜੀਉ ॥
Guramukhi miliā subhāi hari mani tani mīṭhā lāiā bali rām jīu.
Through the Guru's way, meeting happens naturally—Hari becomes sweet to body and soul.

ਹਰਿ ਮੀਠਾ ਲਾਇਆ ਮੇਰੇ ਪ੍ਰਭ ਭਾਇਆ ਅਨਦਿਨੁ ਹਰਿ ਲਿਵ ਲਾਈ ॥
Har mīṭhā lāiā mere prabh bhāiā anadinu hari liv lāī.
Hari is sweet, the Beloved is pleased—day and night, attention rests in Him.

ਮਨ ਚਿੰਦਿਆ ਫਲੁ ਪਾਇਆ ਸੁਆਮੀ ਹਰਿ ਨਾਮਿ ਵਜੀ ਵਾਧਾਈ ॥
Man cindiā phalu pāiā suāmī hari nāmi vajī vādhāī.
The heart's desire comes to fruition—the Name rings out in celebration.

ਹਰਿ ਪ੍ਰਭਿ ਠਾਕੁਰਿ ਕਾਜੁ ਰਚਾਇਆ ਧਨ ਹਿਰਦੈ ਨਾਮਿ ਵਿਗਾਸੀ ॥
Har prabhi ṭhākuri kāju racāiā dhan hiradai nāmi vigāsī.
The union is fulfilled—the bride's heart blooms in the Naam.

ਜਨੁ ਨਾਨਕੁ ਬੋਲੇ ਚਉਥੀ ਲਾਵੈ ਹਰਿ ਪਾਇਆ ਪ੍ਰਭੁ ਅਵਿਨਾਸੀ ॥੪॥੨॥
Janu nānaku bole cauthī lāvai hari pāiā prabhu avināsī.
Says Nanak: in the fourth step, the eternal hari/prabhu/love is found.

What does this have to do with us now?

In modern love, we already know these four steps, even if we have never read the Laavaan. Think of how it begins: a woman dresses up, prepares herself, turns her attention toward love, and hopes to attract someone she truly desires. She primps and preens, not out of vanity, but because she is readying herself for the meeting. That is the first step—parviratī, a turning toward the beloved, a rooting in the hope that something beautiful is about to begin.

Then she meets him. There are butterflies, a flutter in the chest, a feeling that the world has suddenly become more vibrant. Every glance feels charged, every word carries weight. She cannot quite explain it, but something inside her knows this is significant. That is the second step—milāiā, the meeting. The unstruck sound begins to play, not as something heard with the ears, but as something felt in the bones. It is the music of new love, the harbinger of the bliss to come.

As the relationship deepens, she finds herself missing him when he is not around. She thinks of him constantly, longs for his presence, and cannot imagine her days without him. This is not weakness; it is the heart recognizing that it has found something worth holding onto. That is the third step—man chāo, the longing that awakens in the heart, the desire to keep being with the beloved, to know them more fully, to grow alongside them.

And then, finally, there comes a day when she no longer has to perform. The makeup comes off, the pretenses fall away, and she is simply herself. She knows, with a quiet and unshakable confidence, that she is loved exactly as she is. She does not have to earn it, prove it, or fight for it. It is simply there. That is the fourth step—man sahaj, the intuitive ease of resting in love, the fulfillment of the heart's deepest desire. This is what Guru Ram Das is teaching us: that the journey of the soul toward the Divine is no different from the journey of the heart toward true love. And in both, the destination is the same—the quiet, certain knowledge that we are home.

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.

Following the Daisy Because Love is Sweet - Reflecting Upon Emily Dickinson

The Daisy follows soft the Sun –

And when his golden walk is done –

Sits shily at his feet –

He – waking – finds the flower there –

Wherefore – Marauder – art thou here?

Because, Sir, love is sweet!

We are the Flower – Thou the Sun!

Forgive us, if as days decline –

We nearer steal to Thee!

Enamored of the parting West –

The peace – the flight – the amethyst –

Night’s possibility!

- Emily Dickinson

Standing here among the damp April grass, I watch the daisies turn their faces toward the sun. They are doing what flowers have always done—following light—but today, because of Emily Dickinson, I cannot see it as mere botany. The small white petals are a kind of courtship. The whole garden is a conversation. The whole garden is a trade. Come, beloved, where are you?

“The Daisy follows soft the Sun,” Emily writes, and the word soft does something unexpected. Does it refer to the daisy, the sun or the following? Let us for an instant think it is the following—the quality of attention, the tenderness of a creature that positions itself not to demand but to be near. This is not pursuit; it is devotion conducted at the proper distance. The daisy waits through the golden arc of the sun’s labor, and when his walk is done, she “Sits shily at his feet.” (I am assuming that's how she spells shyly). The line break suspends her there, in that posture of waiting, of hoping to be noticed without presuming. It suspends me too.

But notice does come. Emily stages a dawn reunion so delicate it reads like a waking dream. Perhaps on rising the sun finds her there, and his question—“Wherefore—Marauder—art thou here?”—is not quite anger. The word marauder is almost playful, a mock-accusation that contains its own forgiveness. A true marauder does not sit shyly; a true marauder does not wait all night at your feet. The daisy’s answer is disarmingly simple: “Because, Sir, love is sweet!” There is no elaborate defense, no philosophy. Just sweetness. Just the irreducible fact of affection.

And then the poem does something breathtaking. It shifts from third person to first, from observation to confession. “We are the Flower—Thou the Sun!” Suddenly I am no longer watching daisies. I am implicated. We are all implicated. The poem has been a prayer disguised as a fable, and now the veil lifts. We are the ones who follow, who steal nearer as the light declines. We are the ones enamored of endings.

This is where Emily becomes unbearable in the best way. The poem could have ended with “love is sweet”—it is complete, it is satisfied. But she pushes further, into the twilight we usually try to avoid. “Forgive us, if as days decline— / We nearer steal to Thee!” The movement toward the beloved is also a movement toward disappearance. The “parting West” is both the sunset and the horizon of mortality. The “amethyst” is that impossible color between day and night, presence and absence. And then the final phrase—“Night’s possibility!”—hovers there, both terrifying and tender. It is the same word she uses elsewhere when she says she “dwells in Possibility”—as if the fading light opens more rooms than noon ever could. Dickinson does not insist on the end; she only acknowledges that it might be coming, and that this knowledge sharpens devotion until it is almost unbearable. This would be sung in Raag Asa because it is in between, and it is all about love. The daisy follows the sun, like we follow Emily's words, those soft daisies,

I look down at the daisies again. They are still following the sun, but now I understand that they are not naïve. They know the sun sets. They know night comes. They steal nearer anyway. This is what it means to love in full knowledge of loss—the fleetingness itself sharpening the sweetness until it is almost unbearable. The flower does not ask to be saved from evening. It asks only to be forgiven for wanting to be near the light until the very last moment.

Emily, like any ancient bard, understood that the smallest things—a daisy, a sunset, a word spoken in the morning—could hold the whole weight of what we are too afraid to say directly. So she says it slant, through flowers and suns and shy petitioners. And now, kneeling here in the grass, I find myself saying it too: Because, Sir, love is sweet. And because the sweetness does not last, but while it does, we follow.

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.

Original Poem by Faiz

ज़िंदाँ की एक शाम

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

Translation

An Evening in the Prison

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.

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/

Dua for Dervishes

by Michael Cirelli

The crests of his dress
In 3s like sets of waves,
An O on the stage, a groove
Ground by soft leather soles
O perfect circle etched!
O spinning cipher human planet!
O the body void! O null.
Everything the Sufi does
Is for the love of Allah I’m told.
But when the dance was over
He came out smoking a Marlboro
In a cheap pleather jacket
And knockoff Nikes.
His hair flopped limp
On his forehead with each
Overextended inhale.
O the disappointment
As he scrolled on his smartphone,
Earbuds clogging his head
With Katy Perry I now suspect.
O Facebook for the love of Allah!
O fake Nikes for the love of Allah!
O iPhones O iTunes O iClouds
Overhead for the love of Allah.
Roar for the love of Allah!
I ran into my accountant halfway
Around the world that night,
My accountant for the love of Allah.

The poem begins with a Sufi dancer—spinning, sacred, almost cosmic. The kind of image we like to associate with devotion. A body becoming a circle, a human turning into something beyond himself. But then the dance ends.

The guy unexpectedly steps outside, lights a cigarette, scrolls on his phone, earbuds in, wearing knockoffs—completely ordinary. He’s even listening to Katy Perry. Which made me smile. I guess in the reverent it may feel like a a small disappointment, as if the sacred has slipped.

By the end of the poem, we are finding everyone—even an accountant—“for the love of Allah.”

Maybe the point isn’t that the sacred disappeared. Maybe it’s that we were expecting it to look a certain way: clean, elevated, separate.

Which brings me to what I have been meditating on this week. Maya. This is maya—the illusion that the divine lives only in the perfect moment, the perfect person, the perfect posture. Guru Amardas says, “maya viche paya” — what is beyond illusion is found within it. The love of God is discovered through the love of His gifts, welcome and unwelcome.

Those who are praying are human too. They are not finished beings. They are not pure symbols. They are people—smoking, scrolling, stumbling, singing pop songs—still trying to find Allah in the noise, in the mess, in the middle of their lives.

And maybe that is the prayer. To find what is beyond counting in the counting. To glimpse the infinite even in an accountant. To realize that nothing has fallen away— only our idea of what the sacred should look like. And once that illusion loosens, everything begins again “for the love of Allah.”

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.

Uplifting Music

Guru Nanak

Ruminations

What does this have to do with us now?

Not Just a Story

Original Poem by Faiz

Translation

The Best Lines — and Why They Stay

Finding Joy in a Burning World

SHIVPREET SINGH

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