We spend centuries dividing humanity into good people and bad people, as though character were carved into the bone. Yet the Gurus, Kabir, Farid, Ravidas, Nanak himself, never spoke in this language. They spoke of the self — the inner construction of thought, fear, conditioning, memory, desire — and they spoke of what happens when it dissolves. Good and bad are not permanent qualities in anyone. They are simply the expressions that flow from whether the self is operating or whether it is absent.
This is why Guru Granth Sahib is unlike any scripture in the world. It does not classify human beings. It observes the movements of the mind. It looks inward, not outward. It shows that every harmful act arises from the same root — the self, the “haumai,” the me that resists what is, defends its own continuity, seeks approval, protects its own image, reacts from fear and illusion. From this inner distortion, actions become distorted. Hurt emerges, division emerges, cruelty emerges. Not because the person is bad, but because the self is operating.
And the opposite is also true. When the self becomes quiet, when inner time slows, when the mind enters that silent, unoccupied space where awareness simply perceives without projection, then actions become aligned, compassionate, effortless. The same person who once struggled becomes gentle. The same person who once reacted becomes clear. The same person who once harmed becomes a source of healing. It is not a transformation of personality; it is the disappearance of the structure that creates conflict.
People living with the projected self can still perform good actions, but these actions come from a different place. They arise from conditioning, from upbringing, from the desire to be seen in a certain way, from the wish to maintain an inner image of goodness, from cultural momentum and moral training. These actions may reduce harm, may help others, may bring comfort — but they remain tied to the self that performs them. There is always a subtle motive, a quiet expectation, a hidden reference point. Goodness from the self is limited by the self. It is inconsistent, conditional, and shaped by inner narratives. But when the self dissolves, goodness no longer needs intention. It flows naturally, without identity, without reward, without fear. It becomes the movement of a mind aligned with what is real.
This is why Kabir could say that no one in the world is evil; only the self inside him was the problem. This is why Guru Nanak could say that ego is the one true disease, and that liberation is nothing more than dissolving the ego and returning to the natural state of the mind. And it is why Krishnamurti, five centuries later, would say, “The truth is when the self is not.” These insights do not belong to different traditions. They are describing the same fundamental shift in perception: the end of psychological identity.
When Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji looked upon the world, he saw fear, division, and pain — but he did not see evil people. He saw actions arising from ignorance, confusion, and the self. That is why he could stand calm in front of power, why he could hold silence even as the world trembled. His fearlessness did not come from strength; it came from the absence of “I.” When the self has dissolved, there is nothing to protect, nothing to defend, nothing to fear. From this state, even sacrifice becomes natural, like a leaf falling from a tree at the end of the season.
So when we say, “There are no good or bad people, only good and bad actions,” we are pointing directly at the architecture of the human mind. Actions flow from whatever is active inside us in that moment. If the self is in control, the action is fragmented, conditioned, short-sighted. If the self falls silent, the action is whole, clear, compassionate. In this way, morality is not a set of commandments. It is the natural expression of a silent mind.
This is what the Guru Granth Sahib reveals again and again: there is only consciousness, either clouded or clear, contracted or spacious, caught in time or free of it. When the self fades, the timeless enters. Awareness stands alone without a centre. And in that state, the action that emerges is naturally right — not because of discipline or belief, but because clarity acts without distortion.
Krishnamurti was pointing to the same movement when he said the truth is when the self is not. Without the self, the mind is empty, and in that emptiness lies intelligence. The Gurus called it Naam, Shabad, Hukam — not as words, but as the living order that flows through a mind in harmony with the real.
To understand this is to understand the whole architecture of spirituality: the mind is the field, the self is the distortion, and the dissolving of the self is the return to the real. There is no higher mystery than this, no deeper moral principle, no greater freedom. The person is not the problem. The self inside the person is. When that dissolves, what remains is consciousness itself, moving without fear, without division, without conflict.
And in that state, all actions become right, because they no longer come from “me,” but from the quiet intelligence that holds the whole of life together.
