Enchanting Chants

One quiet morning, quite without warning, I caught myself humming an old Vedic chant. It wasn’t planned. I hadn’t participated in a havan in months, nor had I been near a space that called for ritual or recitation. By all accounts, I am not a religious person. And yet, the sound came—unbidden, insistent, familiar.

Curious, I found myself drawn to the comfort of memory. I typed “Arya Samaj havan” into YouTube and played one of the videos on my computer. As the mantras filled the room—those familiar syllables, once part of my childhood's daily fabric—I felt a strange, deep calm settle inside me. The whole day, my mind kept replaying those chants like a background score to life. Not loud, not dramatic—just there, like a steady heartbeat.

I was born into an Arya Samaj family, where a havan marked every occasion—birthdays, anniversaries, festivals, even quiet Sundays. By the time I was six or seven, I knew all the mantras by heart, even if I didn’t know their meaning then. Later, I would learn the translations, but honestly, it was always the sound that captivated me. Especially the way my father recited them—his voice loud, rhythmic, reassuring. In moments of fear or chaos, it’s that voice that returns to me first.

But those weren’t the only sacred sounds etched into memory. I went to a missionary school, and if there’s one thing such schools do, it’s leave you with a lifetime supply of hymns. Some of those melodies—especially Ave Maria, whether sung in the quiet hush of our school chapel or in the soaring voice of Pavarotti—have the power to still my racing thoughts. I’ve never felt the need to look up the meaning. The rhythm is enough. The voices rising and falling in harmony—some with deep belief, others (like mine) mechanical, half-hearted perhaps, but all equally affected. There is a strange alchemy in communal song, where faith is almost contagious.

These sounds—of Sanskrit and Latin, of prayer and poetry—form a bridge to a gentler time. A time when life felt protected, when grown-ups had answers, and I only had to listen. Somewhere in that soundscape, the Hanuman Chalisa also found its way into my life. I can’t quite remember who taught it to me—perhaps a household help, perhaps an elder. But I internalized one thing: if ever there was fear, danger, or uncertainty, I should recite it. And so I did—when I traveled alone for the first time, when exam results loomed ominously, when I went to collect my father’s medical tests. I don’t believe it changed outcomes. But I do believe it changed me. It steadied me, made me feel less alone. That, I think, is the secret power of a chant.

And truly, it need not be religious. A chant can be any string of words—mantra, poem, affirmation—that anchors you, that grounds you in a moment, that whispers to your soul: you’ve got this. Almost every tradition on Earth has understood this magic. Vedic mantras. Buddhist chants. Gregorian hymns. Baha'i prayers. African tribal calls. Psalms sung in churches. Sanskrit shlokas murmured before dawn. They echo across the centuries, stitched into rituals of birth, death, marriage, war—and peace.

Even today, the loudest voices in a stadium belong not to athletes, but to fans chanting in unison, beating drums of hope and tribal loyalty. Protesters on streets find rhythm in slogans, turning resistance into a chorus. Soldiers chant before battle. New-age gurus offer affirmations. Punk bands roar verses that border on mantra, and their crowds chant them back like scripture. And somewhere, in a small classroom or under a banyan tree, a child repeats lines of poetry over and over, unknowingly entering this ancient rhythm of remembering.

Even labor has its music. Remember the “Haiyya ho” of workers lifting together? The hun huna of palanquin bearers? Rhythm helps. Sound strengthens. It's primal and poetic. Even birds respond to certain calls; even the wind seems to dance when a lullaby is sung with love.

I come from a culture where knowledge passed from generation to generation through the spoken word. Where everything worth knowing had a meter, a cadence, a beat. Healing chants, teaching chants, mourning chants. The West, too, recognizes this. What began as sacred incantation finds new form as sonic therapy. Sacred or secular, ancient or new—the chant persists.

I once asked my French teacher why she began her day listening to the Chaupaiya from the Ramcharitmanas. “It takes me to another world,” she said. “A world of bliss and glory.” She didn’t understand every word, but she didn’t need to. The music of faith, the poetry of belief, the power of sound—it took her where she longed to go.

And maybe that’s the truth of it. Maybe chants don’t need translation. Maybe they only need a heart that listens.

Enchanting, indeed.