Bani Sheikh Farid Ji

Sheikh Farid Ji

This composition is set to rag Suhi, a musical mode associated with themes of devotional longing, intense love, and yearning for union. This composition is attributed to Sheikh Farid, one of the fifteen revered bhagats (devoted beings) whose compositions are included in the Guru Granth Sahib. The color of love becomes central. Suhi, often linked with the crimson red of passionate devotion, becomes a metaphor for internal awakening: How can I feel that inspiration, that fire, that inner fragrance? Set to a vibrant musical canvas, this composition delves into the feelings of regret, yearning, and the inner burning that arises in separation from IkOankar (One Creative and Pervasive Force, 1Force, the One), inviting us into a space where love becomes both the ache and the path. 

The creative and all-pervasive IkOankar is One that is unparalleled. IkOankar is realized through the grace of eternal Wisdom (Guru). The composition commences with the invocation to the One and the anchoring of the omnipotence of IkOankar. It is an invitation, a grounding reminder, perhaps even a call to action, urging seekers to center the One in their remembrance. 

Let us first ground ourselves in the rahau (Pause) line: I have not known the worth of You, the Sovereign. Afterwards, having lost my youth, I regretted. Sheikh Farid speaks with raw honesty about a lamenting seeker who failed to recognize the Sovereign IkOankar and now, with youth gone, is full of regret. The voice is personal, tender, and filled with longing. It is as if we are listening in to the seeker calling out to IkOankar after realizing what was missed. The expression carries the weight of both remorse and recognition. Here, youth is not just a reference to age but a symbol of human opportunity—the vibrant time of life when energy, clarity, and capacity are available for devotion. And yet, that time often slips away unnoticed. Sheikh Farid, through the voice of the feminine, addresses the One as Sahib, evoking the familiar analogy of the all-capable and protective Sovereign. There is only felt absence, a kind of aching that emerges when we realize something essential is missing. The realization is not rooted in information but in essence, a lack of knowing, an absence of feeling, followed by deep mourning of that loss. The seeker doesn’t merely think about the Sovereign—they grieve the distance. It is the moment of awareness that often comes too late for some of us. When the sting of separation has replaced joy, and the heart aches for what could have been—a life lived in love, a life lived in union.

Having been burned and burned, scorched and scorched, I wring my hands. Having gone mad, I long for that Beloved. Sheikh Farid, through the voice of the separated bride, bears the ache of longing that has become unbearable. The seeker-bride laments: I am burning, I have been burning for what feels like lifetimes. My hands, once adorned with dreams of union, now only know how to wring themselves in helplessness. The seeker-bride wanders madly, searching for the Pritam, or Beloved, a divine synonym used for IkOankar that evokes feelings of intimacy and closeness. In this state, we witness the desperation for even a glimpse, a moment, a shadow of the One who once felt so near. The tears are not merely from absence; they rise from the realization that perhaps the Beloved is displeased. But then comes the heartbreak that cuts even deeper: it is not the Beloved who turned away, it is we who failed to recognize the Beloved. The flaws lie within the seekers. This perceived distance is not punishment; it is a consequence. This isn’t the lament of someone who wants to be seen; it is the cry of someone who has seen too late. Time has passed. Life has ebbed. The youth of this union has slipped through our fingers. And now, in this twilight, only this smoldering ache remains. This is not a philosophical regret; it is the devastation of a lover who missed the moment to love, who now carries their madness like a desperate offering, hoping the pain itself becomes a cry that the Beloved might hear.

O black cuckoo! Due to which virtues are you black? I am burned in the separation of my Beloved. Sheikh Farid, in the aching voice of the separated bride, turns to this familiar bird not just in curiosity but in kinship. The seeker-bride asks: What sorrow has colored you like this? And in that silent exchange, we hear our truth echoed back to us. The cuckoo’s blackness becomes a living metaphor—a skin burned by the fire of longing, by nights of calling out for the Beloved and receiving no reply. Just as the bird is outwardly seared, the seeker’s inner canvas is charred by yearning; each moment of absence leaves its ash. There is no joy, no fragrance, no shade of crimson love—only gray. In the Beloved’s absence, she too fades from within, not because of sin but from the ache of unmet devotion. Comfort feels impossible, because nothing soothes but the intimacy experienced through union with the Beloved. And that touch cannot be earned; it must be received through grace, through the Wisdom (Guru) that unites the separated with the Beloved. Until then, the seeker-bride remains suspended in sorrow, singing their pain into the wind like the cuckoo, whose call is both a cry and a plea.

I, the young and beautiful seeker-bride, was alone at an abandoned well. There was neither any friend nor any companion.  Sheikh Farid brings us into this intensely emotional state: the seeker-bride, though young and full of life, feels utterly isolated in a world that does not understand the ache. Alone in the vast world—untouched, unseen, unheard—like a bride left behind without the Beloved. Separation from the Beloved is not merely external; it is a feeling of being trapped in a dry, abandoned well, where every echo is longing returning to haunt the seeker. The seeker-bride is surrounded by forms but has no real companions. No one who can soothe. No one who can see the invisible wound of separation. But then something changes—not through effort, but through grace. IkOankar bestows the company of the Sage-Guru—not merely a teacher, but one who disciplines and awakens the seeker’s inner seeing. Through this guidance, the seeker-bride begins to understand that they are never truly alone. Here, Allah is used as a divine name for IkOankar, which evokes qualities of divinity and godliness. IkOankar was always near, waiting to be recognized. And now, when the seeker-bride turns their gaze outward, they no longer see emptiness. The seeker-bride sees presence. They experience union with the Beloved. This realization transforms the same world that once felt barren into a place lit with connection, not because the world has changed but because the inner awareness has finally opened.

My path is very painful. Sharper than a sword and extremely narrow. The path is neither wide nor easy. It is narrow—so narrow it feels like walking the edge of a sword, and every step threatens a fall. Sheikh Farid, addressing himself like a trembling but determined bride, speaks not from pride but from a place of deep resolve. Others may walk smoother roads, paths lit by comfort and company, but this one, the one that leads to the Beloved, is always walked alone. It may seem lonely, yes, and sharp, yes, but it is the path to the Beloved. And so the seeker-bride accepts it with joy and conviction. We are encouraged to begin early, while it is still dawn, knowing that once the sun rises and the day grows heavy, as life does with age and distraction, the walking becomes harder. And by evening, it may be too dark to find the way. Dawn here becomes a symbol of youth, clarity, and opportunity—the brief window when longing can still turn into movement. This is not a passive reflection; it is a bold commitment. To walk this path is not to check in and out—it is to belong to it. This stark clarity shakes something loose in all of us. Naming the path requires readiness. Walking demands commitment and integrity. The search is not just about finding the way, but about truly wanting it, yearning for it, longing for it. When the why is felt deeply enough, the how begins to reveal itself.

The analogy offers relatability, and through the image of love between a seeker-bride searching for the Divine-Husband, Sheikh Farid brings the seeker closer to the texture of what separation feels like—not just conceptually but viscerally. This vignette unfolds like a slow-burning ache, revealing the internal state of the seeker: a bride stung by absence, alone on a path sharper than a sword’s edge. The difficulty of the journey is not denied; yet the voice of Sheikh Farid carries us with assurance. It remains possible, even now. Many are called companions—those with whom food is shared, roads are walked, and laughter echoes—but beneath that surface lies the deeper question of true companionship. In this world, subservience is constant: to schools, jobs, families, and society. Yet the relationship with the Beloved often goes unexamined. The visible dynamics of the world claim loyalty, while the eternal relationship is overlooked. We are called to ask ourselves: Are we walking the path to the Beloved with longing and awareness, or simply following the motions of life? Is my devotion shaped by presence and recognition, or by routine and obligation? What keeps me from turning inward and recognizing the presence of the Beloved already near?