Bani Sheikh Farid Ji

Sheikh Farid Ji

This composition is set to rag Suhi-Lalit—a musical mode that deepens the emotional terrain of devotional longing. 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? Now, with the addition of Lalit, the emotional resonance expands. Derived from Lalita, meaning charming, innocent, and lovely, Lalit softens Suhi’s intensity, giving it a delicate, almost childlike innocence. When merged, Suhi-Lalit creates a soundscape of both aching and sweetness—a kind of emotional resolve that declares a willingness to feel everything if it brings one closer to the Divine-Husband, IkOankar (One Creative and Pervasive Force, 1Force, the One).

Let us first ground ourselves in the rahau (Pause) line, Do not touch the safflower with your hand; it will burn, O dearest! Sheikh Farid uses a tender verbal cue as if calling out to a beloved or an adored companion, not in romance, but in forewarning. The tone is soft, but the message is sharp. The flower’s vibrant color is instantly attractive, but it fades quickly, leaving only disappointment in its wake. In this imagery, the safflower stands as a metaphor for things that are enticing yet impermanent and ultimately cause us pain. Even the native name of the safflower, kasumbh, carries the sense of fire, something that scorches more than it soothes. This is an alert to the seeker-bride, or perhaps the inner self, to the nature of material attachments. The world is full of safflowers: attachments, desires, and promises that look beautiful on the surface but burn when held too close. This is a moment of empathic instruction, spoken gently but with gravity. The focus is not the union with the Divine-Husband but the mistake of confusing fleeting pleasure with true love, of mistaking the glow of illusion for something lasting.

You could not build the boat when there was time for building it. Sheikh Farid, with the tenderness of a guide, speaks to us with quiet urgency. The safflower’s warning has already been given. Now comes the second truth: the moment for preparation has passed, and the waters are rising. Waiting too long may cost the chance to survive the crossing. The boat is a symbol of inner preparation—devotion, awareness, the kind of steady grounding that helps us navigate the flood of worldly attachments. When life is calm, we often believe we can navigate it on our own. But when the life-pond overflows—when the emotions, distractions, and desires surge out of control—it becomes almost impossible to swim. We can try to paddle and stay afloat for a while, but without that internal vessel, we’ll be pulled under. The challenge isn’t just poetic, it’s practical. Build the boat now. Not when the storm arrives. Not when the grief, or the aging, or the loss comes. And the building doesn’t happen in grand declarations; it happens in small, quiet, everyday acts. There is no shame in the message, only a gentle awakening to the truth that everything changes, and the work of steadiness must begin while the waters are still low. Because when they rise, and they will, it is the inner boat that carries us.

On the one hand, the seeker-bride in herself is weak. Sheikh Farid, continuing in the voice of the feminine seeker as the seeker-bride, reveals a state of vulnerability that is both emotional and existential.  What happens when time runs out, and there is nothing left to return to? Across the globe, women are often portrayed as emotionally deep but physically delicate, and this exact lens is used to symbolize the human condition. On one side, the seeker-bride is already weak, burned by the indulgence in attachments and worn down by desires that give little and take much. On the other hand, the seeker-bride trembles in fear, not of physical punishment, but of the shame of dishonor, the heartbreak of having disappointed the Divine-Husband. The intimacy appears faded. The connection was never nurtured. And now, the seeker-bride is left with nothing but the ache. We are brought into this moment of truth that’s hard to hold: there is a deadline to this life, and it cannot be extended. Just as in the natural world, milk flows from the mother’s breast only for a specific time, and no matter how great the need is, once that time has passed, it does not return—so too with this life. We always believe we will have time, but we don’t know when the well will dry. This is not a threat—it is a call to awareness. The pain here is not just about aging or weakness—it’s about realizing that once the chance for union has passed, no strength or regret can bring it back. The seeker-bride stands between fading vitality and the worry of the Divine-Husband’s silence. This is the natural law of time, one we cannot manipulate. Action begins in the present, not in delay. Waiting too long leaves only the ache of what could have been.And in this moment—fragile, tender, and urgent—the seeker-bride’s emotional depth and physical delicacy are not just personal attributes. They become a mirror for the human condition itself: longing, limited, and utterly dependent on awareness before it’s too late.

O female-friends! When the Divine-Husband will call, the double-minded swan will depart; this body will become a heap of dust. Sheikh Farid then turns to us, the separated ones, the seeker-brides, as if gathering all of us who ache, who wander, who still have time. We are reminded that one day, we will all be summoned by IkOankar. Here, Allah is used as a synonymous name for IkOankar, the divine, the One which evokes qualities of divinity and godliness. No one will be able to refuse this call from the Divine-Husband. When that moment finally arrives, the swan-like inner being will lift from this body, and it will not take with it our attachments, regrets, or excuses. It will simply go. This body we cling to, decorate, and obsess over will fall to dust like everything else that belongs to this world. This inner self is referred to as ‘double-minded,’ not because it is ‘evil,’ but because it is conflicted—torn between desire and devotion, between the temporary and the eternal. In Semitic traditions, as reflected in Sufi Islam, the idea of a single birth and a single chance makes the call to readiness even more urgent. There is no cycle to return to. The Day of Judgment is not a poetic idea—it is a reckoning of behavior, of sincerity, of alignment. Those who have walked with devotion will not fear the call—they will welcome it. But those who delayed, who sat in duality, who avoided the inner work, will be taken in confusion and sadness. This isn’t a condemnation, it is a compassionate plea. Sheikh Farid doesn’t speak from above, but from among us, saying: We are all journeying toward the Divine-Husband. We will all be called. 

Sheikh Farid offers a gentle, aching wake-up call. Through symbols like the fading safflower, the unbuilt boat, the drying breast, and the departing swan, Sheikh Farid urges us to recognize the truth of time and the cost of delay. There is no condemnation here, only clarity: what is temporary will pass, and what is eternal must be prepared for now. We are being asked not just to observe life but to respond to it—deeply, honestly, and intentionally. Have we built anything within that can hold us when the world can no longer? Are we mistaking the burning color of temporary pleasures for the deeper hue of lasting love? When our call comes, will we be ready? Or will we leave carrying the weight of what we never turned toward?