Artist or a Saint — What’s Common in Both

It usually doesn’t begin with spirituality or greatness.
It begins with distance — long before purpose is understood.

Something quietly breaks:

Diljit Dosanj was eleven when he left his village and moved to Ludhiana. No rebellion, no anger — just
separation wrapped in practicality. Better education, better chances. That’s how adults explain it. But for a
child, distance feels heavier than intention. Love remains, yet presence disappears. Something fractures
softly, without noise.
Meera Bai separation came differently, yet the feeling was the same. Married young into a royal household,
surrounded by people, rituals, expectations — and still inwardly alone. The world around her was full, but her
inner world had already turned elsewhere. Her devotion did not fit where she was placed.

This is how Ketu enters a life:

It rarely removes love.
It removes belonging.

Diljit Dosanj grew up watching his father work long hours as a roadways bus ticket checker, money always tight, life
measured carefully. Comfort was never guaranteed. That kind of childhood teaches restraint early. You learn
not to demand too much from the world. You learn how to stand quietly on your own.

Meera Bai, despite being born into privilege, lived with the same restraint — not by lack, but by refusal. She
rejected the comforts of palace life, not out of rebellion, but because they no longer felt real. Ketu works this
way. Whether through poverty or abundance, it creates emotional minimalism.

An artist doesn’t wake up one day and decide to become deep. Something is taken away first. A person they
loved. A sense of safety. Recognition that should have come but didn’t. Slowly, they begin to notice they no
longer fit where they once did. Conversations feel shallow. Applause feels distant. Even joy carries a strange
aftertaste.

Most people try harder to belong at this point.
Artists don’t. They withdraw.

Not because they want to be alone, but because the world suddenly feels misaligned. This is where astrology
starts whispering one name again and again — Ketu.

Ketu doesn’t arrive loudly. It doesn’t destroy in front of your eyes. It simply loosens things. Relationships
fade. Validation disappears. People stop understanding you. You may still be in the middle of society, yet feel
completely unseen. This is not punishment. This is separation without explanation.

Before Diljit sang on stages, he sang in gurdwaras. Shabads. Devotion before performance. A voice offered,
not advertised. Later, when he sang at weddings and birthday parties for two thousand rupees, there was no
illusion of greatness — only faith that expression itself mattered.

Meera sang too. Not for courts, not for kings, but for Krishna. Her bhajans were not meant to impress. They
were confessions. They were surrender. Society didn’t celebrate her while she lived. They questioned her.
Isolated her. Tried to correct her.

This is where the line between artist and saint almost disappears.

Both express something deeply personal.
Both are misunderstood for it.
Both are shaped by isolation, not applause.

Diljit’s early loneliness didn’t make him bitter. Meera’s rejection didn’t make her angry. This is the quiet
signature of Ketu — acceptance without resentment. Life takes something away, and instead of fighting it, the
soul turns inward.

When Ketu touches creativity, expression becomes sacred. When it touches devotion, surrender becomes
total. The form changes, but the inner process remains the same.

In astrology, when Ketu touches the Moon, emotions become private. When it touches Venus, love becomes
detached from pleasure. When it influences the fifth house, creativity stops being playful and becomes
compulsive. When it moves through the eighth or twelfth, isolation feels inevitable. These combinations
appear again and again in the lives of people who create or surrender from depth rather than desire.

This is why many artists produce their most honest work during their loneliest years. They are no longer
performing. They are no longer asking to be chosen. They are creating because not creating feels unbearable.
Expression becomes survival, not ambition.

Saints experience the same phase, but without the need to express it outwardly. Where the artist paints,
writes, sings, or composes, the saint sits, chants, or remains silent. Both are responding to the same inner
stripping.

Even later, when the world turns toward them, something remains untouched. Diljit’s fame never seems to
own him. Meera’s devotion was never diluted by recognition. Both carry an inner detachment — present in
the world, but not consumed by it.

Society often understands this too late. Artists are celebrated after struggle. Saints are revered after exile. But
astrology quietly records the same pattern again and again — early separation, inner solitude, devotion or
creativity replacing attachment.

In the end, an artist and a saint are not walking opposite paths. They are walking the same inner corridor, just
exiting through different doors.

One dissolves into silence.
The other dissolves into expression.

And both are shaped by the same invisible force — not as a curse, but as a calling.
That force is Ketu.

The Article is written by Lunar Astro Code : 5077

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