Chapter 9: The Great Song
"A song?" Vinod asked.
He looked around the terminal, as if expecting a choir to burst out from behind the duty-free shop.
"Not a song for your ears," I said. "A song for your soul."
I leaned back. "Vinod, you are a practical man. You know that different times require different technologies. You don't use a typewriter to send an email, do you?"
"No."
"The ancients knew this too. In the past—thousands of years ago—the atmosphere was different. It was quiet. People lived for centuries. Their minds were steady like still water. They could sit in silence, close their eyes, and find God within. That was the age of Meditation."
I gestured to the chaos around us. The blaring announcements about Gate 4B. The crying toddler. The news anchor shouting from the TV screen. The incessant pinging of smartphones.
"Try to meditate here," I challenged. "Try to close your eyes and make your mind blank."
Vinod closed his eyes for exactly three seconds before wincing. "Impossible. My to-do list just attacked me."
"Sound," he guessed.
"Sound," I confirmed. "Spiritual sound. A vibration that cleans the mirror of the mind."
I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a gentle murmur.
"Imagine a child, Vinod. A small child lost in a massive carnival. The crowd is loud, the lights are blinding, and he can't find his parents. He is terrified. What does he do?"
"He cries," Vinod said. "He screams for his mother."
"Does he need a PhD to do that? Does he need to sit in a yoga posture?"
"No. He just calls out."
"That is the method," I said. "The Maha Mantra. The Great Chanting. It is not a magic spell. It is not a ritual to get money. It is the cry of the lost soul calling out to the Original Father and Mother."
I pulled a small card from my pocket. But I didn't hand it to him yet.
"The words are Sanskrit," I said, "but the feeling is universal. It translates to: 'Oh Lord, Oh Energy of the Lord, please engage me in Your service. Please pick me up. Please let me taste the sugar.'"
Vinod sat very still. "What are the words?"
I looked him in the eye. I didn't chant it like a performance. I spoke it. I spoke it with the weight of someone who has held onto this raft in the middle of many storms.
The sound left my lips and seemed to hang in the space between us. For a split second, the airport noise didn't disappear—it just became irrelevant. Like static on a radio when the music finally comes through clear.
I saw Vinod’s chest rise and fall. He felt it. It’s a vibration that doesn't hit the eardrums; it hits the heart.
"Hare," I explained softly, "is the Energy. The Mother. The Love. Krishna is the Father. The All-Attractive One. Rama is the Reservoir of Pleasure."
I handed him the card.
"You don't need a cave, Vinod. You don't need to leave your family. You can do this in your car on the way to the office. You can do this while you cook. You can do this while you walk."
Vinod took the card. He stared at the words, tracing the letters with his thumb.
"Just sound?" he whispered.
"Just sound," I said. "But it is not ordinary sound. It is the address of your Home. When you chant it, you are dialing the number. And I promise you... He picks up."
Vinod looked up at me. His eyes were wide, vulnerable.
"Will it... will it stop the hunger?"
"It is the food," I said. "It is the only food."
"Hare Krishna," he tested the words. His voice was clumsy, shy.
"Hare Krishna," I replied.
And in that moment, in the middle of the transit lounge, two strangers ceased to be strangers. We were just two travelers, humming the same tune, waiting for the flight Home.
Bing-bong.
The intercom overhead crackled to life, loud and jarring.
"Attention passengers for Flight 604 to Delhi. This is the final boarding call at Gate 4."
Vinod jumped. The spell broke. The world rushed back in—the shuffling feet, the rustle of bags, the urgency of departure.
"That’s me," he said, looking at the screen. "That’s my flight."
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