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The first time I sat in a kirtan, I did not feel devotion.
I felt resistance.
People around me were singing with closed eyes, clapping, some even swaying as if they had forgotten the world completely. And I remember thinking quietly to myself, What are they experiencing that I am not?
I could not connect.
Repeating the same words again and again felt unfamiliar. Almost uncomfortable. My mind kept asking questions. Why repeat? What does this even mean? Am I doing it correctly?
So I did what many of us do when we do not understand something.
I observed from a distance.
This was in Rishikesh, where kirtan is not a performance but a living, breathing practice. It happens in ashrams, on the banks of the Ganga, in small gatherings where nothing is rehearsed and nothing is forced.
Still, I remained on the outside of it.
Listening, but not really listening.
One evening, something shifted.
There was no special reason. No profound teaching that led me there. I simply found myself sitting again among a small group, the sound of the harmonium filling the space, the rhythm of the tabla steady and grounding.
The chanting began softly.
This time, I did not try to understand the words.
I did not try to follow perfectly.
I simply allowed myself to stay.
At first, my voice was barely there.
Just a whisper, almost hidden within the voices around me.
But slowly, something began to open.
Not in the mind, but somewhere deeper.
The repetition, which once felt mechanical, started to feel like a rhythm I could rest into. The need to get it right began to dissolve. The awareness of myself as a separate individual, sitting and observing, became less rigid.
And then, without realizing when it happened, I was no longer listening to the kirtan.
I was inside it.
There is a moment in kirtan that cannot be explained easily.
A moment where the boundary between you and the sound begins to disappear.
You are not singing.
The singing is happening.
There is no effort to stay present.
Presence is simply there.
That night, I understood something I had been missing in my practice.
I had spent so much time trying to go inward through control. Through discipline. Through silence.
But kirtan showed me another way.
A way that did not demand effort but participation.
A way where sound was not something to analyze but something to merge with.
What I once saw as repetition, I began to experience as depth.
Each round of chanting was not the same. It was like moving in circles, but each circle brought me closer to stillness.
Not the forced stillness of trying to quiet the mind.
But a natural stillness arises when the mind is no longer at the center.
Over time, I have seen this happen in many people.
Those who come with hesitation.
Those who feel they cannot sing.
Those who believe they need to understand everything before they can participate.
And yet, when they allow themselves to enter the experience, something softens.
Something opens.
Kirtan is not about the voice.
It is not about music.
It is about dissolving the distance between yourself and the present moment.
And sometimes, all it takes is one evening to feel that shift.
If you ever find yourself sitting in a kirtan and feeling like an outsider, know that this too is part of the journey.
You do not have to force devotion.
You do not have to perform.
Just stay.
Listen.
And when it feels natural, let your voice join in.
In Rishikesh, I continue to witness these quiet transformations through kirtan.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
But deeply real.
~
author: Yogacharya Bhuwan Chandra
Image: Author's Own
Editor: Lisa Erickson
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