“Bura Jo Dekhan Main Challa, Bura Na Milia Koye. Jo Mann Khoja Apna, To Mujhse Bura Na Koye.” — Kabir
(I went out in search of the wicked, but found none. When I looked within, I discovered none more wicked than myself.)
The word “Bura” can be translated as “wrong,” “evil,” or even “flawed,” depending on how one chooses to interpret Kabir’s deceptively simple couplet. Its beauty lies in its universality — the realization that what we often perceive as evil in others is merely a reflection of the imperfections we refuse to confront within ourselves.
It begins as an observation about human nature but, upon reflection, reveals itself as a mirror to the soul. We spend much of our lives searching for fault in the world—questioning beliefs, mocking rituals, doubting faith. Yet the moment we turn that gaze inward, we discover that what we dismiss as “flawed” in others often springs from our own incompleteness. Kabir was a 15th-century Indian mystic poet and sant revered in Hinduism, Sikhism, and Sufism, known for his critiques of organized religion and his emphasis on inner devotion over ritual.
For most of my life, I wore disbelief as an identity. I was an atheist—not tentatively, but with conviction. I viewed religion as a cultural construct, a human attempt to make sense of what cannot be explained. Temples, gurudwaras, churches—these were, in my mind, monuments to collective delusion. I found faith in reason, and reason, I believed, needed no divine scaffolding.
Then my father died.
It is astonishing how grief rearranges one’s certainties. Loss, in its purest form, does not ask for permission—it enters quietly and dismantles logic piece by piece. In those long hours after his passing, I caught myself thinking thoughts I would once have laughed at. I imagined him in heaven—yes, heaven—peaceful, unburdened, perhaps even watching over me. It was not a religious awakening, but a childlike need to situate him somewhere safe, somewhere still reachable.
For twelve years now, I have found myself entering places of worship—not to pray, not to seek miracles, but to converse. In the hushed air of temples, the fragrance of incense curling upward like whispered hopes, I have spoken to my father. I have stood before idols and candle flames, not asking for blessings but for a sense of proximity. In those moments, I am not a devotee; I am a son, still mid-conversation with a voice that was silenced too soon.
And yet, I cannot help but ask: does this make me a believer?
Perhaps faith is not the opposite of reason but its extension into the unseen. Perhaps heaven is not a location but a metaphor for love that endures beyond physical presence. When I imagine my father in heaven, I am not subscribing to dogma—I am acknowledging that some forms of connection defy the boundaries of science.
It makes me reconsider Kabir’s words. When I set out to find what was “bura”—wrong—in religion, I found none. The fault was never in belief, but in my arrogance to think that the heart’s needs could be outreasoned. When I searched within, I found my own frailty—the human longing to anchor grief in something sacred.
Maybe that is what belief truly is: not blind acceptance, but an act of hope disguised as faith.
I no longer enter places of worship with the same dismissive curiosity I once had. I go not in search of God, but of my father. And perhaps, in doing so, I have found a quiet intersection where love and faith coexist—not in opposition, but in understanding.
Kabir’s couplet now feels less like poetry and more like truth. For when we stop looking outward for what is “bura,” and turn inward with honesty, we discover that even disbelief can be a form of devotion—an unspoken prayer shaped by longing, loss, and love that refuses to die.
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