The
saloks of Sheikh Farid
Ji guide the seeker towards life’s true purpose, the devotion to the one absolute Divine, IkOankar. In these saloks, he reminds us that our time in this world is finite; therefore, one must turn to IkOankar without delay. Yet, attachment to transient possessions and relationships causes many to forget this truth, becoming entangled in vices that lead to restlessness and inner turmoil. In contrast, those who cultivate virtues such as love, humility, patience, contentment, selfless service, and righteousness experience the bliss of connection with IkOankar even while living a householder’s life. Their life becomes serene and suffused with inner joy.
pharīdā thīu pavāhī dabhu.
je sāṁī loṛahi sabhu.
iku chijahi biā latāṛīahi.
tāṁ sāī dai dari vāṛīahi.16.
-Guru Granth Sahib 1378
Commentary
Literal Translation
Interpretive Transcreation
Poetical Dimension
Calligraphy
In the sixteenth stanza, Sheikh Farid urges himself into a different way of being: become the grass of the path. In the Qur’an and Islam more broadly, the virtue of humility is considered one of the greatest virtues—humility before the Divine, humility towards creation, and humility towards all people, including those with whom we may not agree or even like. It is as if Sheikh Farid had asked himself, How can I learn to be humble? How can I see the Owner, IkOankar (One Creative and Pervasive Force, 1Force, the One), everywhere? The response: Become the grass of the path. The grass Sheikh Farid is referring to is dabh—this is not just grass that fills a yard, this is a type of grass that is shredded and straw-like. It is often too rough to walk barefoot. It is only after the dabh is trampled by shoes, wheels, and hooves that it starts to become soft. If we want to see the beloved One, if we wish to experience the presence of the Owner everywhere, we ought to become like that dabh. We ought to cultivate humility.
Sheikh Farid says, like the grass, you may get cut. You may get trampled. It is after this that you will be accepted at the door of IkOankar. As this grass gets cut and trampled, it softens. Suddenly, those barefoot travelers can walk on it without fear of sharpness or thorniness. This type of grass, once softened, is used to make mats that are then used as surfaces to sit on in religious places. In a way, then, this grass, once trampled, becomes worthy of being in such spaces. Can we become like this through a similar kind of practice? Can we let people ‘walk’ on us, become this humble, this soft, this compassionate, this forgiving? Can we become worthy of experiencing the presence of IkOankar? Can we rid ourselves of our sharpness and thorniness? Treading the path is hard for everyone—will we make it easier? Will we lean into our softness?
