Two Masters, One Truth: Beyond Physical Presence
In September 2024, Baba Gurinder Singh, Sant Satguru of Radha Soami Satsang Beas [RSSB], appointed Hazur Jasdeep Singh as the new Patron of all RSSB Societies and his successor as Sant Satguru. This succession planning ensures the continuity of having a living spiritual guide, which is at the heart of Sant Mat philosophy.
Most seekers understand why the appointment of a new Sant Satguru is a cause for celebration. Yet, many still ask about Baba Ji’s whereabouts and hope for his presence at satsangs or question and answer sessions. These concerns arise not only at the Dera but also at many satsang centres around the world. Although it is natural to miss one’s spiritual master, this article explores other ways we can show our devotion, beyond wishing for their physical presence at satsang.
The gap between understanding, belief and our actions
Having a spiritual guide is at the core of all mystic traditions. Anyone who has tried a massive open online course [MOOC] knows how hard it can be to learn something new on one’s own. The same is true for spirituality; we need a living guide who can explain the truth about the human condition and, most importantly, teach us the method that helps our soul to connect with the Shabd. Even though a living master is essential, all mystic traditions remind us not to become attached to their physical form, because the true master is Shabd, and the soul attuned to the Shabd is the true disciple.
Many of us think we understand that the true master is Shabd, yet our actions can suggest otherwise. If we truly understood this, we might ask ourselves why we feel the absence of one master even when another is present. Perhaps our heart and soul reveal something our mind has not yet fully absorbed: given that Shabd is the true master, being with one Shabd-realized master is the same as being with another. Seen in this light, the question of who is absent seems less pressing. Instead, we might marvel that, out of billions of people on earth, we are among the fortunate few to sit in the company of a true guru.
Some of us place the Master on a pedestal and believe that, as his true form is Shabd, he is therefore one with everything. The author of Concepts and Illusions points out one way this belief can feel empty:
The most crucial and only test of our belief… is do we obey his wish for us to meditate? If we do not follow the one and only command (hukam) from the one we believe is the Master, then we are mocking our belief, we are pretentious about our belief – for who would have the gall to disobey the Master’s commandment?
These words are uncomfortable precisely because most of us will recognize ourselves in them. The author is not criticizing us but holding up a mirror. Most of us would never dream of disobeying the Master, yet our daily meditation often tells a different story.
Besides not practising meditation every day (despite his explicit wish that we should do so), there is another way our actions reveal the gap between what we say or believe and how we behave. If the Master is one with Shabd, it’s logical that everything he says and does should guide us. Here, Hazur Ji’s response to questions about Baba Ji’s absence shows us exactly what that looks like. When asked why Baba Ji is not at satsang or when he will come, Hazur Ji states that he does not have the audacity to question his Master about his whereabouts. As well as revealing his humility and deep love for Baba Ji, Hazur Ji’s answer teaches us how to let go of such questions.
The greatest act of love
It is only natural to feel a special connection to the Master who initiated us and to wish to bring him happiness. For thirty-five years, Baba Ji has reminded us that true love is expressed through our actions, not our words. Therefore, the best way we can demonstrate our love for the Master is to practise our meditation faithfully.
In fact, provided we practise consistently, the more challenging we find meditation, the deeper our love may be. Why? Simply because it is easy to meditate when we feel inspired. True devotion, however, is practising meditation when we find it difficult, when we are not in the mood, when our emotions have faded, and we feel empty. While the mind urges us to give up or postpone our practice, it is love that compels us to sit, begin again, and persist. As recounted in a Spiritual Link article in 1965, Maharaj Sawan Singh explained to Daryai Lal Kapur:
Real praise is due to him whose meditation is drudgery and a distasteful task, and still he attends to it. Lord values an hour of such meditation more than ten hours of [someone who relishes it]. This is the real service of the Master.
We may also draw comfort from recognizing that, while we may labour under the delusion that the Master only values ‘good’ meditation, he continually reminds us that what truly matters is our effort, not the perceived quality of our practice. If our body won’t stay still or aches and yet we keep trying, that’s effort. If our mind wanders and yet we return to simran, that’s effort. Even if we fall asleep and start again, that’s effort too. In fact, when Daryai Lal Kapur reported his frustration and grief over his apparent failure to focus his mind during meditation, Maharaj Sawan Singh reassured him that what we perceive as struggles or shortcomings, the Lord regards as acts of love. Writing about this encounter in his article, Daryai Lal Kapur said that the Maharaj Sawan Singh told him to read the following line from Rumi’s Masnavi:
Lord loves our failures and useless efforts. He values our unfruitful sincere attempts more than the fruitful ones. Worthless endeavour is better than sleeping.
Maharaj Sawan Singh went on to explain the quote by using an analogy of a parent watching a toddler learning to climb the stairs. The child grips the railing with both hands, hauls one small leg up and wobbles. The child will no doubt slip and may even sit down in frustration. To the parent, each attempt is not a failure but something joyous. The parent does not wait impatiently for the child to reach the top but watches every stumble with love and tenderness. Once the child can run up the stairs without thinking, the parent barely glances over.
Similarly, by embracing the previous quotes, we appreciate that until we reach the third eye, our meditation is like that child’s practice; precious to the inner master, not despite its imperfection but because of it. Every session in which we sit when we would rather not, every return to simran after the mind has wandered, every time we refuse to give up, are not shortcomings that the inner master tolerates. They are acts of love he treasures.
Yet understanding something and truly absorbing it are not always the same. Even as we recognize that our struggles are received as acts of love, many of us still carry an unspoken expectation that ‘good’ meditation should be rewarded with inner darshan, noticeable virtue, the eradication of one’s weaknesses, and a growing indifference to life’s problems. When we measure our practice against these outcomes, we may feel that such attainments lie far beyond what our efforts have yet produced. The deeper lesson, however, is that these are not the objectives of meditation, nor can they be demanded as proof that our practice is working.
Meditation is the greatest seva we can perform, and seva is fundamentally about giving, not receiving. What may please the Master most is not a particular inner experience, but a change in our attitude: from approaching meditation as a transaction in which we sit to obtain darshan, hear the Shabd or see its light – to embracing it as an offering. In meditation, we give our time, attention, persistence, and our very selves (heart, mind, and soul) to the Master. When we give in that spirit, even our difficulties become part of the love we are trying to express.
Gratitude and living in his will
Our masters emphasize that gratitude is the bedrock of spirituality. If meditation is the highest expression of our love for the Master, then expressing our gratitude by living in his will may well be our second greatest act of love. Practically, this means respecting his decisions, even when they do not align with our preferences. If the Master attends satsang, we are grateful; if he does not, we accept that as well.
It is natural to feel disappointed if one of the Masters does not attend satsang. However, when given the opportunity to ask a question, it is worth pausing to consider how best to use it. Asking about the absent Master’s whereabouts is understandable, but since he acts according to his own will, such questions are unlikely to change anything. We might instead direct our questions towards what will benefit us spiritually and, in turn, be of value to the wider sangat.
Another way in which we can demonstrate living in the Master’s will is by making Hazur Ji’s transition as Baba Ji’s successor as smooth as possible. As well as dedicating ourselves to meditation, the most meaningful support we can offer is to refrain from asking Hazur Ji questions prompted by grief at Baba Ji’s absence. Such questions, however sincerely felt, draw attention away from Hazur Ji’s own presence and, in so doing, from the ways his teaching may benefit us. Our truest support, then, lies not in our questions but in our silence and our meditation, which brings to mind the parable of the lost sheep.
Imagine a new shepherd taking over a flock. If the experienced sheep stick to safe pastures and steady paths, they make the new shepherd’s task manageable, joyful even. However, if the experienced sheep begin to wander and get lost on the hillside while looking for the old shepherd, the new shepherd faces a double task: gently guiding the new lambs while also scrambling over the hills to search for the lost, experienced sheep.
Making the pain of separation work for us
At its heart, spirituality is a path of love and devotion, on which disciples throughout the ages have felt a deep ache when separated from their master. As the author of Tulsi Sahib explains, this pain is a gift from the Lord:
Just as love is a blessing from the Lord, longing is his gift as well. In fact, love matures and ripens in separation. The pangs of separation and longing destroy worldly desires. In separation, every pore of the lover calls out to the Beloved. Separation is the ladder which takes the loving devotee to the feet of the Beloved.
This is a crucial insight. We must be careful not to let the pain of separation become something we emotionally endure without allowing it to transform us. Instead of being overpowered by the feeling of separation, why not make this longing work for us? For instance, if we feel the Master’s absence keenly, perhaps because he was not physically present at a satsang, that feeling is a call to action. Are we willing to put our feelings into action by devoting extra time to meditation that evening? That is, on top of the time we’ve already devoted to meditation in the morning?
Before doubt about our ability to do so creeps in, we must pause and remember who we truly are. Our true self is the soul, which is Shabd, and the Shabd is all-powerful. Furthermore, we must ask: who is it, really, that we think is missing whom? The notion that our physical self, our constructed identity, is pining for the Master’s physical form is an illusion of the mind. The separation we feel is experienced by our soul, yearning for the Shabd, the divine current, that is manifesting through the Master.
The extraordinary feats of selfless seva unfolding across satsang centres worldwide are proof of the Shabd in action. If our love were merely physical or emotional, such sustained selflessness would be nearly impossible. We often say, “The Master is doing everything.” But who is the Master? The Master is Shabd, and who is performing the seva? It is that same Shabd, working through each sevadar.
Even if we haven’t participated in organised seva, we’ve likely witnessed or experienced firsthand the lengths we go to for outward darshan. Regardless of age or physical ailments, we rise before dawn without hesitation, forgoing comfort and nourishment. We hurry to be at the front of the line, then wait patiently for hours, all for a glimpse of the Master’s physical form. Motivated by love, we endure this discomfort gladly.
If we can muster such determination for an outward glimpse, there is no reason why we cannot channel that same resolve into our meditation. We may not immediately experience the inner darshan we hope for, but by practising sincerely, we automatically draw closer to the Master. No matter how far our meditation session falls short of the ideal we envision, we experience peace and quiet happiness just from knowing we have offered our best effort, and in that offering, the separation itself begins to dissolve.
The longing we feel is not an obstacle on the path; it is an invitation. Every pang of separation is the inner master calling us towards the only meeting place that is always available: the stillness inside. We have been given extraordinary gifts: a living master, a proven method and, perhaps now, the gift of longing to give our practice urgency and depth. The only question worth asking is not “Where is he?” but “Am I showing up?” If we can answer that honestly in the quiet of our meditation each morning, we may find that the distance we feel is far smaller than we imagined, and that the love waiting for us on the other side of that silence may be far greater than we dared to hope.