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Chanting
is
a
word
I
do
not
love
for
a
practice
that
I
love
dearly
.
To
me
,
the
word
chant
connotes
a
kind
of
dronelike
and
scary
monotony
,
like
something
male
druids
would
do
around
a
sacrificial
fire
.
But
when
we
chant
here
at
the
Ashram
,
it
’
s
a
kind
of
angelic
singing
.
Generally
,
it
’
s
done
in
a
call
-
and
-
response
manner
.
A
handful
of
young
men
and
women
with
the
loveliest
voices
begin
by
singing
one
harmonious
phrase
,
and
the
rest
of
us
repeat
it
.
It
’
s
a
meditative
practice
-
the
effort
is
to
hold
your
attention
on
the
music
’
s
progression
and
blend
your
voice
together
with
your
neighbor
’
s
voice
so
that
eventually
all
are
singing
as
one
.
I
’
m
jetlagged
and
afraid
it
will
be
impossible
for
me
to
stay
awake
until
midnight
,
much
less
to
find
the
energy
to
sing
for
so
long
.
But
then
this
evening
of
music
begins
,
with
a
single
violin
in
the
shadows
playing
one
long
note
of
longing
.
Then
comes
the
harmonium
,
then
the
slow
drums
,
then
the
voices
…
I
’
m
sitting
in
the
back
of
the
courtyard
with
all
the
mothers
,
the
Indian
women
who
are
so
comfortably
cross
-
legged
,
their
children
sleeping
across
them
like
little
human
lap
rugs
.
The
chant
tonight
is
a
lullaby
,
a
lament
,
an
attempt
at
gratitude
,
written
in
a
raga
(
a
tune
)
that
is
meant
to
suggest
compassion
and
devotion
.
We
are
singing
in
Sanskrit
,
as
always
(
an
ancient
language
that
is
extinct
in
India
,
except
for
prayer
and
religious
study
)
,
and
I
’
m
trying
to
become
a
vocal
mirror
for
the
voices
of
the
lead
singers
,
picking
up
their
inflections
like
little
strings
of
blue
light
.
They
pass
the
sacred
words
to
me
,
I
carry
the
words
for
a
while
,
then
pass
the
words
back
,
and
this
is
how
we
are
able
to
sing
for
miles
and
miles
of
time
without
tiring
.
All
of
us
are
swaying
like
kelp
in
the
dark
sea
current
of
night
.
The
children
around
me
are
wrapped
in
silks
,
like
gifts
.
I
’
m
so
tired
,
but
I
don
’
t
drop
my
little
blue
string
of
song
,
and
I
drift
into
such
a
state
that
I
think
I
might
be
calling
God
’
s
name
in
my
sleep
,
or
maybe
I
am
only
falling
down
the
well
shaft
of
this
universe
.
By
11
:
30
,
though
,
the
orchestra
has
picked
up
the
tempo
of
the
chant
and
kicked
it
up
into
sheer
joy
.
Beautifully
dressed
women
in
jingly
bracelets
are
clapping
and
dancing
and
attempting
to
tambourine
with
their
whole
bodies
.
The
drums
are
slamming
,
rhythmic
,
exciting
.
As
the
minutes
pass
,
it
feels
to
me
like
we
are
collectively
pulling
the
year
2004
toward
us
Like
we
have
roped
it
with
our
music
,
and
now
we
are
hauling
it
across
the
night
sky
like
it
’
s
a
massive
fishing
net
,
brimming
with
all
our
unknown
destinies
.
And
what
a
heavy
net
it
is
,
indeed
,
carrying
as
it
does
all
the
births
,
deaths
,
tragedies
,
wars
,
love
stories
,
inventions
,
transformations
and
calamities
that
are
destined
for
all
of
us
this
coming
year
.
We
keep
singing
and
we
keep
hauling
,
hand
-
over
-
hand
,
minute
-
by
-
minute
,
voice
after
voice
,
closer
and
closer
.
The
seconds
drop
down
to
midnight
and
we
sing
with
our
biggest
effort
yet
and
in
this
last
brave
exertion
we
finally
pull
the
net
of
the
New
Year
over
us
,
covering
both
the
sky
and
ourselves
with
it
.
God
only
knows
what
the
year
might
contain
,
but
now
it
is
here
,
and
we
are
all
beneath
it
.
This
is
the
first
New
Year
’
s
Eve
I
can
ever
remember
in
my
life
where
I
haven
’
t
known
any
of
the
people
I
was
celebrating
with
.
In
all
this
dancing
and
singing
,
there
is
nobody
for
me
to
embrace
at
midnight
.
But
I
wouldn
’
t
say
that
anything
about
this
night
has
been
lonely
.
No
,
I
would
definitely
not
say
that
.
We
are
all
given
work
here
,
and
it
turns
out
that
my
work
assignment
is
to
scrub
the
temple
floors
.
So
that
’
s
where
you
can
find
me
for
several
hours
a
day
now
-
down
on
my
knees
on
the
cold
marble
with
a
brush
and
a
bucket
,
working
away
like
a
fairy
-
tale
stepsister
.
(
By
the
way
,
I
’
m
aware
of
the
metaphor
-
the
scrubbing
clean
of
the
temple
that
is
my
heart
,
the
polishing
of
my
soul
,
the
everyday
mundane
effort
that
must
be
applied
to
spiritual
practice
in
order
to
purify
the
self
,
etc
.
,
etc
.
)
My
fellow
floor
-
scrubbers
are
mainly
a
bunch
of
Indian
teenagers
.
They
always
give
teenagers
this
job
because
it
requires
high
physical
energy
but
not
enormous
reserves
of
responsibility
;
there
’
s
a
limit
to
how
much
damage
you
can
do
if
you
mess
up
.
I
like
my
coworkers
.
The
girls
are
fluttery
little
butterflies
who
seem
so
much
younger
than
American
eighteen
-
year
-
old
girls
,
and
the
boys
are
serious
little
autocrats
who
seem
so
much
older
than
American
eighteen
-
year
-
old
boys
.
Nobody
’
s
supposed
to
talk
in
the
temples
,
but
these
are
teenagers
,
so
there
’
s
a
constant
chatter
going
on
all
the
time
as
we
’
re
working
.
It
’
s
not
all
idle
gossip
.
One
of
the
boys
spends
all
day
scrubbing
beside
me
,
lecturing
me
earnestly
on
how
to
best
perform
my
work
here
:
"
Take
seriously
.
Make
punctual
.
Be
cool
and
easy
.
Remember
-
everything
you
do
,
you
do
for
God
.
And
everything
God
does
,
He
do
for
you
.
"
It
’
s
tiring
physical
labor
,
but
my
daily
hours
of
work
are
considerably
easier
than
my
daily
hours
of
meditation
.
The
truth
is
,
I
don
’
t
think
I
’
m
good
at
meditation
.
I
know
I
’
m
out
of
practice
with
it
,
but
honestly
I
was
never
good
at
it
.
