Why Doesn’t Pleasure Ever Feel Like Enough?
Have you ever chased something beautiful, only to feel emptier once you got it?
Have you ever chased something beautiful, only to feel emptier once you got it?
There’s a hollow that opens up inside me when I scroll for too long. Or when I keep watching, even though I’m no longer laughing. It’s subtle, like an aftertaste—something I can’t quite name but that doesn’t feel good. This happens not just with screens, but with praise, shopping, daydreaming. It’s not that the pleasures themselves are bad—they’re often vivid and exciting. But there’s something about how I meet them, or maybe how they leave me, that leaves a residue of ache.
This sabad by Bhai Gurdas Ji sits with that ache—not to scold it, but to understand it. Bhai Gurdas Ji’s Vaaran are considered keys to Gurbani. And this particular stanza from Vaar 27 feels like a mirror for our age of overstimulation and spiritual starvation. It’s not an instruction, but a reflection. A way of sitting with the hunger that doesn’t go away, no matter how much we feed it.
੯ : ਸੱਚਾ ਭੋਗ
Bhai Gurdas Ji, Vaaran Bhai Gurdas, Vaar 27, Pauri 9
ਅਖੀ ਵੇਖਿ ਨ ਰਜੀਆ ਬਹੁ ਰੰਗ ਤਮਾਸੇ।
Akhī vekh na rajīā bahu raṅg tamāse.
The eyes do not get satisfied by watching various colorful spectacles.
The eye, that restless seeker of wonder, is never full. No matter how much color, motion, or novelty it consumes, it doesn’t settle. In our time, this line feels eerily familiar. Endless feeds of entertainment and beauty, but still a gnawing thirst. Spectacle doesn’t satisfy—it only stokes desire.
ਉਸਤਤਿ ਨਿੰਦਾ ਕੰਨਿ ਸੁਣਿ ਰੋਵਣਿ ਤੈ ਹਾਸੇ।
Usatat ninḍā kaṉi suṇi rovaṇ ṯai hāse.
Hearing praise and slander, the ears weep and laugh.
Sound, too, plays us. Praise lifts us, slander crushes us. But both pass through, leaving us shaken. Our selfhood becomes hostage to the next comment or compliment, the next notification. These ups and downs are not truths—they are waves.
ਸਾਦੀਂ ਜੀਭ ਨ ਰਜੀਆ ਕਰਿ ਭੋਗ ਬਿਲਾਸੇ।
Sādīṉ jībẖ na rajīā kar bhog bilāse.
The tongue is not satisfied with taste, even when indulging in delicacies.
Taste promises delight, and sometimes delivers it. But even the best meal fades into memory. The tongue wants more—not just food, but sensation, stimulation. Yet no bite lasts. This line offers a gentle truth: pleasure is fleeting, and the hunger behind it is deeper than taste.
ਨਕ ਨ ਰਜਾ ਵਾਸੁ ਲੈ ਦੁਰਗੰਧ ਸੁਵਾਸੇ।
Nak na rajā vās lai durgaṉḏẖ suvāse.
The nose is not content with fragrance, distinguishing stench and sweetness alike.
Even the nose, connoisseur of scent, tires. The sweetest perfume grows dull. Our senses, refined as they are, cannot anchor us. They are designed to detect change, not to dwell in satisfaction.
ਰਜਿ ਨ ਕੋਈ ਜੀਵਿਆ ਕੂੜੇ ਭਰਵਾਸੇ।
Raj na koī jīvīā kūṛe bharvāse.
No one is truly content who relies on false hopes.
This is the pivot. The earlier lines showed how every sense can crave and still feel lack. Now we see why: when we root our sense of fulfillment in illusions, we remain empty. False hopes—of permanence, of control, of egoic success—cannot sustain us. They are breathless foundations.
ਪੀਰ ਮੁਰੀਦਾਂ ਪਿਰਹੜੀ ਸਚੀ ਰਹਰਾਸੇ ॥੯॥
Pīr murīdāṉ pirhaṛī sacẖī raharāse.
The true comfort (rahraas) of the spiritual teacher and disciple lies in Truth.
This is the sabad’s heart. Amidst the noise and craving, what nourishes is not indulgence but Truth. Not as a concept, but as lived reality. This line doesn’t speak of authority or hierarchy—it evokes a relationship of deep trust, where both the guide and the seeker rest not in performance or possession, but in Presence. That which is Real. That which remains.
When I return to that feeling—the ache after pleasure—it’s not to shame it. I see now that it’s an invitation. A doorway into reflection. Bhai Gurdas Ji isn’t condemning the senses or pleasures; he’s showing their limits. Not to reject beauty, but to remind us that the senses can point us toward experience, but not fulfillment.
In our world, it’s easy to believe we can curate our way to satisfaction. A better playlist, cleaner design, the right affirmation. But none of these touch the root. They stir us; they don’t still us. The sabad points toward another kind of aliveness—one not dependent on variety, but rooted in sach (Truth). Not a truth we hold, but one we dwell in.
And maybe that’s what sachī rahrās means. A resting in what is. A slowing into the present, where the eye can see without grasping, the tongue can taste without clinging. Where we stop trying to consume our way into wholeness.
Today, I’m noticing how often I chase stimulation when what I really need is presence. Not a bigger bite, but a deeper breath. Not more beauty, but less chasing. This sabad doesn’t ask me to abandon the world. It invites me to anchor in what’s real while moving through it.
So here is something gentle to carry:
Next time your senses spark a craving, pause. Notice the hunger beneath. Reflect in sacẖī raharāse (ਸਚੀ ਰਹਰਾਸੇ) — True comfort lies in Truth. Not in what is seen, heard, tasted, or smelled, but in what is—in what endures when the show is over.
Let that be your practice. Not as a discipline, but as a soft turning. A coming home.
There are lots of renditions of this sabad sung by various ragis. Here are a few to experience.
Kiranpreet Kaur:
Bhai Nirmal Singh:
Bhai Harcharan Singh:
Bhai Lakhwinder Singh: