Rabb Da dil.

 Early morning, there’s a trail of sneezes. Some weather, some feather. By the fifth sneeze, I whisper to myself: God bless you. By the twentieth, I start laughing—Haye Rabba....the heart is overflowing, even if my nose is too.

We Punjabis bring Rabb into everything. Spill chai on the kitchen shelf? Hai Rabbah! Spot a Bollywood hero on TV? Hai Rabbah! Running late for work? Rab bacha le! One friend told me the only time she remembers God is when she’s stuck in traffic. Another said, “Whenever I sneeze, my husband says, ‘God bless you.’ And I say, ‘Hai Rabbah!’ He replies, ‘Mainu Rabb na bana, tu Rabb di bimaari hai.’”

But here’s the question: Do we really let God in—or just keep Him as a verbal seasoning?

Every Saturday, people donate ₹10 to ward off Shani’s wrath. Is it out of love for Shani—or fear? Daily trips to the gurdwara—do they cover the gap between actions and thoughts?

Osho would chuckle at this. His take on God was radically ordinary: not somewhere in the sky, but in the song of birds, in laughter, in silence under the stars. He said: “Wherever you are alive, vibrant, total—there God is. Wherever you can dance without shame… there is God.”

The Sufis sang the same.

Rumi: “Try to accept the changing seasons of your heart, even if you do not understand them. Perhaps God is preparing you for something new.”

Shah Hussain: “Jisne Rabb de hawa lag gayi, ohnu duniya da rang nahi phasanda.” (One who has tasted God’s breeze no longer gets trapped in worldly colors.)

And maybe that’s what Rab da dil really is—not loud chants or bargaining rituals—but the quiet heartbeat that prays for the stranger in the ambulance, the friend battling addiction, the old neighbor living alone. It’s the unspoken “Rab rakha” when someone travels, the blessing you whisper even after your hundredth sneeze.

Roobaroo Rabb naal hamesha hunda hai.

Rabb di rooh....is...

मेरे इश्क में एक इबादत है....मेरी इबादत में इश्क हा.......गार्गी.