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How chanting helps me?

 


When the Heart Becomes Audible



There are evenings when I can hear my own heartbeat. Not metaphorically, but physically. Thoughts gather speed, responsibilities grow heavier, and the mind begins solving problems that have not yet arrived. In such moments, logic does not help me. Sound does. Chanting, for me, is not ritual. It is return. It is the quiet act of stepping back into the spectator seat of my own turbulence.


As a child, I began chanting the Gayatri Mantra. I did not understand its depth then. I only knew that it was something my parents taught me, especially before sleeping at night. It became part of my rhythm, like brushing my teeth or folding my hands in gratitude. The sound settled into memory long before meaning did. Even today, I feel that much depends on what our parents give us in those quiet formative years. What they repeat before we sleep often stays with us for life. The Gayatri Mantra has lived in my mind ever since, and in ways I did not recognise then, it has steadied me throughout my life.


An anxious mind breathes shallowly, and shallow breathing feeds anxiety. Chanting interrupts this rhythm. When a sound is stretched and the exhale deepens, the body softens. The mind, which was scattered, now has one anchor. Something shifts. Not dramatically, but steadily.


The word mantra comes from Sanskrit, an ancient Indian language from which Hindi later evolved. In Sanskrit, man means mind and tra means instrument or tool. A mantra is therefore an instrument of the mind. Mantras originated in the Vedic tradition of Hinduism thousands of years ago. The rishis are believed to have received these sounds in deep meditative states. They were not considered inventions, but discoveries. Sound was understood as a foundational force of existence, and sacred syllables were preserved with precision because their vibration was believed to influence consciousness. In Hindu philosophy, creation itself is often symbolised through sound, especially in the syllable ॐ. Chanting, therefore, was not merely prayer, but alignment with a cosmic rhythm.


In moments of restlessness, certain mantras feel deeply relevant.


ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः


ॐ दुं दुर्गायै नमः


ॐ गं गणपतये नमः


ॐ नमः शिवाय


सोऽहम्


For resilience and healing, I turn to:


ॐ त्र्यम्बकं यजामहे सुगन्धिं पुष्टिवर्धनम्

उर्वारुकमिव बन्धनान् मृत्योर्मुक्षीय मामृतात्


And when I seek clarity and illumination, I return to the mantra that began it all for me:


ॐ भूर्भुवः स्वः

तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं

भर्गो देवस्य धीमहि

धियो यो नः प्रचोदयात्


Each mantra carries a tone, and each tone reorganises the inner noise. Sometimes I reflect on its meaning. Sometimes I simply surrender to its vibration.


Yet in moments of acute overwhelm, even names fall away. Only breath and sound remain. A hum on the exhale. So on the inhale. Hum on the exhale. Nothing elaborate. Just rhythm. The thoughts may not disappear, but they lose authority.


Chanting is not escape. It is participation in stillness. It reminds me that while the mind produces noise, there is also a quieter self capable of observing it. When the heart is loud and the thoughts are louder, chanting gently reminds me that I am not the noise. I am the listener.


Between experience and reaction lies a quiet seat. I choose to sit there.

— The Thought Balcony


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