Chanting Together: The SacredPractice of Kirtan

A circle of musicians and chanters sits together in a New York retreat space, their instruments tuned and ready. The harmonium drone settles into place. Before anyone speaks, before anyone sings, there is an intention being set—not through words alone, but through the entire architecture of what's about to unfold. This is the opening of a Thursday night satsang, a gathering rooted in a lineage stretching back centuries, yet alive and present in this moment.

Beginning with Intention: The Practice of Listening

Krishna Das, addressing the gathered chanters, establishes the fundamental stance for what will follow: "What we will do this morning is try to stay with the chant as much as you can. If you like, if you have a sheet there is also the English translation." The invitation is not to perform, but to participate—to listen, to follow the sound, and to remain present. "Don't evaluate it," he instructs, "but if you find yourself thinking, it's okay. Let it go, come back to the chant, and just think of that as your practice."

This teaching cuts to the heart of what kirtan—the practice of call-and-response chanting—actually is. It is not a performance to be judged by the quality of any individual voice. It is a technology of consciousness, a means of stabilizing the mind through sound and rhythm and the collective presence of others. The sheet music, the translations, the English explanations—these are all scaffolding. The real work happens in the sustained attention, breath by breath, verse by verse.

The Invocation: Who Are We Calling Upon?

Before the main body of chanting begins, the satsang opens with what Krishna Das describes as "some invocation verses to Ganesha and Saraswati from the Vedas." These are not abstract prayers. Ganesha and Saraswati have specific roles in the devotional imagination: they are "the beings who help us with our practice, give us the stamina, the clarity, the inclination and the will to continue on this path of practice."

The opening three Oms set the sonic foundation. Then come the Sanskrit verses, each one a named acknowledgment of divine qualities and powers. "Om Shri Ganeshaya Namah"—I bow to Ganesha, the remover of obstacles. "Pranava Devi Saraswati"—the invocation to Saraswati, goddess of wisdom and learning. These are not casual greetings. They are formalized requests for aid, couched in a language and a tradition that gives them weight and specificity.

The Story Within the Song: Hanuman Chalisa

The centerpiece of this satsang is the Hanuman Chalisa, a 40-verse devotional hymn composed by the poet-saint Tulsidas in the 16th century. The story behind it matters. Krishna Das explains: "The storyline comes from an epic called the Ramayana, which also you don't need to know. If you do, you know that Hanuman is the central figure, and is the one who through his grace unifies everything."

Hanuman is a particular kind of devotional hero—not a warrior seeking glory for himself, but one whose entire being is consecrated to the service of Ram (or Rama), the incarnation of divine consciousness in human form. The Hanuman Chalisa is a catalog of Hanuman's virtues and his deeds, but read more deeply, it is a map of what devotion itself looks like: unwavering loyalty, fearlessness, clarity of mind, and the capacity to serve without attachment to outcome.

The verses that emerge from this practice session are dense with imagery and theology. "Mangal Murti Maran Nandan"—auspiciousness embodied, son of the wind god. "Buddiheen Tanu Janike"—recognizing myself as ignorant, I call upon you. Each verse builds upon a scaffolding of gratitude, request, and acknowledgment of Hanuman's powers: the removal of obstacles, the curing of disease, the deliverance from fear, the capacity to accomplish what seems impossible.

The Musicians: Craft and Presence

The sound world is held by a specific ensemble. Mark Goman plays bass; Tybur Hom tends the tablas (hand drums) while Tai Bola works the shalos (wooden drums). Breath Stoller brings the guitar. At the heart of it all is the harmonium, whose drone creates the sonic container within which the human voice can move and be heard. This is not incidental musicianship. Each instrument has a role, each musician a responsibility.

The tablas in particular deserve attention. In Indian classical music and in kirtan, the tabla is not keeping time in the Western sense—it is a voice of its own, a conversation partner with the melody and the text. The rhythmic cycles, the intricate polyrhythms, the way the tabla player listens and responds moment by moment—this is precision crafted through years of study, yet always alive to the needs of this particular gathering, this particular moment.

Singing Without Performance: The Practice Itself

As the Hanuman Chalisa unfolds, verse after verse, the distinction between "practice" and "performance" begins to dissolve. Participants are not singing "at" anyone. The focus is inward and collective simultaneously—inward because each person is working with their own breath and voice, collective because that individual work is happening in resonance with dozens or hundreds of other voices, all moving through the same Sanskrit words at roughly the same speed.

This creates a particular state of consciousness. The individual ego—the part that worries about whether it's singing "correctly"—has less to do. The attention can settle into the sound itself, the meaning of the words, the presence of others, the rhythm beneath it all. When Krishna Das instructs "Don't evaluate it," he is not asking for passivity. He is asking for a different quality of attention: one that notices without judging, that corrects course without self-blame, that returns to the object (the chant) when the mind wanders, over and over again.

The Message Within the Verses

Deep in the Hanuman Chalisa's progression, Tulsidas writes: "When you hear his name, disease departs, all pain is cured. Constantly chanting Hanuman, oh brave one, the Lord delivers from danger." This is not presented as metaphor or poetry alone. It is a direct claim about the nature of sound, consciousness, and transformation. The repetition of a name, charged with centuries of devotional energy and concentrated attention, literally changes the nervous system of the person chanting it.

Later verses address the practical reality of spiritual life: "Whose mind and action rest in remembrance of you, though he be a hermit king, his work is accomplished." The suggestion here is that true power—the capacity to act effectively in the world, to accomplish what needs doing—comes not from personal will or ambition, but from alignment with something larger, something sacred. Hanuman, in this theology, represents that perfect alignment: the individual will fully absorbed into and operating in service of divine will.

The Closing: Integration and Continuance

As the satsang winds down and the final verses cycle through repetition, there is a sense of the participants being woven together—not magically or mystically, but through the sheer sustained attention and breath and sound. The merchandise table remains open for "people to connect with each other," as Krishna Das notes, acknowledging that the practice creates bonds that extend beyond the formal gathering.

The practice itself doesn't end when the last note is sung. It continues in the nervous systems of those who participated, in the residual calm and clarity that often follows sustained chanting. It continues in the way the words and melodies remain present in the body and mind for hours or days afterward. And it continues in the commitment to return—to another satsang, another gathering, another chance to sit with the practice and with others doing the same.

Where to go from here

If you're drawn to explore kirtan and collective chanting practice, the foundation is simply showing up—to a live satsang if possible, or to recorded sessions like this one. No prior knowledge of Sanskrit is required; translations are provided. What matters is the willingness to sit with the practice, to let the sound work on you, to stay present even when the mind wanders, and to trust that something real is happening beneath the level of intellect and analysis. For those interested in deeper engagement with Krishna Das's teachings and upcoming events, his website (krishnadas.com) maintains a calendar and a digital library of workshops and recordings. The practice of kirtan is ancient, but it lives in every breath, every gathering, every moment someone chooses to return their attention to the sacred sound.