It is the month of Vaisakh (mid-April to mid-May).

I am here and yet not here. I am observing, and yet not. Amidst this noise, there is a silence—an aching absence that no festivity can mask. The fields are heavy with their yield, the trees bend under the weight of their blossoms, and the air is thick with renewal. And yet, within me, there is an emptiness, an unspoken longing.

Is this the condition of the separated ones—those who feel the sting of longing, unseen and unrecognized?

Guru Nanak Sahib’s Vaisakh stanza in the musical mode of rag Tukhari resounds within:

Vaisakh is also auspicious; the vegetation takes a form.
The human-bride, the seeker, is waiting at the door, looking for Hari—the One—the Beloved, and pleading; have compassion; come to my home.¹

Vaisakh is a time of emergence, of new shoots breaking through the earth, of branches bearing tender leaves, of nature shaking off its dormancy. What once seemed lifeless awakens, and the world rejoices in the warmth of renewal. Indeed, the season is “auspicious”—brimming with promise—but for the seeker, it is also a time of reckoning.

For is this not also the month of yearning? The human-bride, the seeker, stands at the door, watching, waiting. The world around her is bursting into bloom, and yet she remains untouched, aching for the arrival of the Beloved. She pleads—Come to my home, not as a distant presence, not as an idea or a name, but as an experience that fills my being. In her longing, I see my own.

I, too, stand at this threshold, longing. I watch this exuberance, yet my heart aches. The world is adorned in celebration, yet my being is stripped bare, waiting, pleading for the presence of the Beloved. I see the branches stretching toward the sky; the fragrance of the earth turned fertile with life. And I wonder—am I, too, capable of such renewal?

I pause: The dry branch does not despair when spring arrives; it trusts it will blossom again. But can I?

I hear: that things grow and blossom in their time. No branch is ever truly dead, only dormant.

Deep within, I know that union is possible, for grace is abundant. I know the Beloved is near. And yet, knowing is not enough—I do not yearn for knowledge; I crave experience. A communion that does not waver with the seasons, a connection as sure as day into night, as the return of spring.

If the Beloved were to enter my home-heart, if that presence were felt fully, then I, too, would blossom in this season of renewal. Then, the festivities would have meaning. Then, the fragrance would be my own.

The air is fragrant with renewal. The world is draped in celebration, but the silence within me deepens. The fields sway under the weight of their golden grain, yielding their abundance to the season. And yet, do they sense they have been severed from their roots? I, too, move through this moment—between abundance and absence, between what is seen and what is missing. The laughter around me rings clear, yet within me, something falters.

A whisper rises through the rustling fields, through the sigh of bending branches.

"How may the separated ones find patience, within whom is the separation of love?"²

Guru Arjan Sahib’s words in rag Majh enter my being like a gust of wind unsettling something within:

"Having forgotten Hari, the Friend, the Being, their consciousness is attached with Maya, the deception."

I reflect: Separation is not just distance—it is the quiet slipping away of remembrance. The most profound sorrow is not just longing but the gentle forgetting of what once sustained me. I move through the abundance of Vaisakh, yet something lingers beyond my grasp. Do I truly feel its fullness, or have I forgotten something?

I move through these days, embracing the season’s joys, but does it reach my depths? 

The wind shifts. The fragrance in the air thickens, carrying with it something unspoken. The world around me sings of fulfillment, yet I am still yearning.

The hush of separation lingers, unseen but deeply felt—like the quiet ache of a severed root.

There are moments I mistake the glow of the world for the fire of the heart. I move as though fulfilled, carried by the rhythm of the season, lost in its abundance. But deep within, something remains untouched. I sway in the wind, yet I feel weightless—chaff with no anchor, no direction, no root.

And then, there are moments when I feel the cut—the severing, the absence. My longing turns to pleading, when my steps falter as I whisper—Where is the Beloved who completes me? I search for presence in the golden fields, in the richness of the season, in the fragrance that lingers in the air. But is it enough?

The truth remains: even the most bountiful season is barren without the Beloved. The fields may gleam under the sun, but what is the worth of grain that does not sustain? What meaning does fragrance hold if it does not permeate the spirit?

Status and worldly attachments cannot fill the void of separation. The world may offer fleeting comforts, but without awareness of the Beloved, even abundance is emptiness.

And so, I recognize this ache—not as suffering, but as a call. It is not wealth I seek nor the fleeting glow of temporary fulfillment. My heart does not yearn for more, only for presence.

"How may the separated ones find patience?"

How does one endure when the heart aches for what is missing? How does one exist when the longing remains unfulfilled?

The wind stirs. 
The fields tremble. 
The leaves whisper.

A voice within asks: Is this pain not also a call?

The ache, the restlessness, the silence beneath the noise—is this not the invitation of the Beloved?

Something within me stills.

A quiet unfolds.

Vaisakh is not merely a season of harvest but a whisper of transformation. It beckons me inward, asking: What truly sustains? If the earth flourishes and my heart remains barren, what must I awaken within? If the ache of separation stirs, will I surrender? Will I soften, open, and welcome the Beloved? If I seek union, am I ready to release all that keeps me distant?

The wind rises. The fragrance of blossoms wraps around me. A knowing stirs in the depths of my being—This longing is not emptiness; it is the stirring of something unseen, something calling me home.

Vaisakh is an invitation—a whisper to awaken, to recognize the dormant within, and trust that it, too, can bloom. It is a plea to turn away from distraction and into the embrace of the Beloved, the one who truly nourishes.

For what is harvest, if not the gathering of what was sown?

And what will I reap if my hands are empty?

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References

¹ ਵੈਸਾਖੁ ਭਲਾ ਸਾਖਾ ਵੇਸ ਕਰੇ ॥
ਧਨ ਦੇਖੈ ਹਰਿ ਦੁਆਰਿ ਆਵਹੁ ਦਇਆ ਕਰੇ ॥
ਘਰਿ ਆਉ ਪਿਆਰੇ ਦੁਤਰ ਤਾਰੇ ਤੁਧੁ ਬਿਨੁ ਅਢੁ ਨ ਮੋਲੋ ॥
ਕੀਮਤਿ ਕਉਣ ਕਰੇ ਤੁਧੁ ਭਾਵਾਂ ਦੇਖਿ ਦਿਖਾਵੈ ਢੋਲੋ ॥
ਦੂਰਿ ਨ ਜਾਨਾ ਅੰਤਰਿ ਮਾਨਾ ਹਰਿ ਕਾ ਮਹਲੁ ਪਛਾਨਾ ॥
ਨਕ ਵੈਸਾਖੀਂ ਪ੍ਰਭੁ ਪਾਵੈ ਸੁਰਤਿ ਸਬਦਿ ਮਨੁ ਮਾਨਾ ॥੬॥
-ਗੁਰੂ ਗ੍ਰੰਥ ਸਾਹਿਬ ੧੧੦੮

² ਵੈਸਾਖਿ  ਧੀਰਨਿ ਕਿਉ ਵਾਢੀਆ ਜਿਨਾ ਪ੍ਰੇਮ ਬਿਛੋਹੁ ॥
ਹਰਿ ਸਾਜਨੁ ਪੁਰਖੁ ਵਿਸਾਰਿ ਕੈ ਲਗੀ ਮਾਇਆ ਧੋਹੁ ॥
ਪੁਤ੍ਰ ਕਲਤ੍ਰ ਨ ਸੰਗਿ ਧਨਾ ਹਰਿ ਅਵਿਨਾਸੀ ਓਹੁ ॥
ਪਲਚਿ ਪਲਚਿ ਸਗਲੀ ਮੁਈ ਝੂਠੈ ਧੰਧੈ ਮੋਹੁ ॥
ਇਕਸੁ ਹਰਿ ਕੇ ਨਾਮ ਬਿਨੁ ਅਗੈ ਲਈਅਹਿ ਖੋਹਿ ॥
ਦਯੁ ਵਿਸਾਰਿ ਵਿਗੁਚਣਾ ਪ੍ਰਭ ਬਿਨੁ ਅਵਰੁ ਨ ਕੋਇ ॥
ਪ੍ਰੀਤਮ ਚਰਣੀ ਜੋ ਲਗੇ ਤਿਨ ਕੀ ਨਿਰਮਲ ਸੋਇ ॥
ਨਾਨਕ ਕੀ ਪ੍ਰਭ ਬੇਨਤੀ ਪ੍ਰਭ ਮਿਲਹੁ ਪਰਾਪਤਿ ਹੋਇ ॥
ਵੈਸਾਖੁ ਸੁਹਾਵਾ ਤਾਂ ਲਗੈ  ਜਾ ਸੰਤੁ ਭੇਟੈ ਹਰਿ ਸੋਇ ॥੩॥
-ਗੁਰੂ ਗ੍ਰੰਥ ਸਾਹਿਬ ੧੩੩-੧੩੪