Hearing plays a major role in human life. All knowledge comes through hearing. This is true for us not only when we were babies but also after we learnt to read and write, and to think and talk.
Besides hearing external sounds and words throughout the day, we also hear a lot inside our minds. When we read, we hear in our minds the words that are on paper or electronic devices. When we write, we hear the words as we write. When we think, we hear ourselves. Thinking is nothing but a conversation with oneself. All thinking occurs in some language or other—and we hear our thoughts, it’s as if we are reading a scrolling script on our mental screens.
Add to all of this the conversations we have, as well as the varied sounds and noises around us, throughout our waking hours. There is just no end to hearing. To free ourselves from it, we may want to use noise-canceling headphones. But how long can we use them really? Besides, while they do a fairly good job of keeping out external sounds, they cannot stop the internal chatter.
Even sleep provides no respite, for the hearing continues in the dream world too. The only time most of us get rest from this kind of nonstop badgering is when we are in deep sleep (suṣupti). In deep sleep, no words are spoken, no thoughts are thought, and there is no sound. Come morning, and the hearing chore resumes.
What is problematic is not the hearing itself but our total lack of control over it. The ability to hear is vital, but when we become passive actors in an uncontrolled and undirected environment of words, sounds and noise—it adds to the already chaotic messiness of our lives. We try to reclaim a measure of control over it by manipulating our spaces (doors, windows), devices (headphones, notifications) and people (choosing who we want to spend time with), which helps to some extent in keeping out or minimizing unwanted sounds and talk.
None of that helps, though, in controlling what we hear within—when we think, read, write, or do art. All deep thinking is really a conversation with ourselves as we sift and organize the ideas, thoughts and feelings within us. All focused reading is really hearing the author—or the characters, if you are reading fiction—speak through the pages of the book. All creative writing is really putting on paper (or on a screen) what we are hearing in our minds. Every piece of authentic art is the artist’s creation in response to whatever is being heard in the heart.
What we hear in our hearts is important, but we need the ability to choose when we want to hear it and when we don’t. Quite often what we hear within is not a helpful voice but a cacophony of competing voices and sounds, which creates both exhaustion and confusion. This manifests outwardly in an erratic style of thinking and living. Which is precisely what we don’t want if we want to lead a spiritual life. Spirituality without discipline is a joke.
The first practice for a Vedanta student is simply called “hearing” (śravaṇa)—hearing the highest truth from one’s teacher and from scriptures. What we hear can be life-transforming if—and only if—we hear it the way things should be heard. We won’t be able to do this unless we have mastered the art of hearing. The meaning and implication of hearing as practice is described at length in the chapter on “Practice” in Knowing the Knower: A Jñāna Yoga Manual.
Hearing is also important in the practice of mantra-repetition, or Japa. The first hearing of the mantra happens when the Guru imparts it to the disciple in an initiation ceremony called mantra-dīkṣā. The subsequent hearings occur when the disciple starts repeating the mantra, also known as “doing Japa.” It’s the mind that repeats the mantra and we are expected to “hear” the mind chant the mantra. This is what should happen ideally. In practice, though, things don’t always turn out that way.
When we begin the practice of Japa, we are able to hear the mind repeating the mantra. But soon enough, and completely without our knowledge or consent, the mind opens itself to other sounds—and we begin to hear all sorts of things, such as what we intend to do immediately after Japa is over, or the heated exchange we had with someone earlier in the day, or the particularly heartbreaking event we saw on TV, or the things we need to plan for an upcoming celebration. The more these other voices gain prominence, the more feeble the sound of the mantra becomes until it vanishes altogether. It is revived when we become aware that the mind was distracted. We hear the mantra again, but there is no knowing when it will be drowned out again by the other voices in the head. It’s a relentless struggle.
It doesn’t have to be this way. The practice of Japa doesn’t have to be a continual inner battle. The practice of meditation is an invitation, an opportunity, to go back to ourselves and to recover our native peace, joy and freedom. It is possible to prevent this restful and joyful dwelling in one’s true self from being a chore to be finished or a struggle to be endured.
The first requirement is love. Do I love my chosen ideal (iṣṭa)—and do I love the practice of Japa and meditation? There is no obstacle that love cannot conquer. There is nothing in life and no one in life who can be more important than the object of my love. I need to look in my heart to gauge the intensity of my love for God, and recognize that success in Japa is directly related to love.
A helpful practice is to remind myself, every time I sit for japa, that—at least for the next few minutes or however long I am sitting on my meditation seat—nothing and no one is more important to me and to my life than my chosen ideal and my mantra. No form is more precious than the form of my chosen ideal. No sound is more melodious than the sound of my mantra. Nothing is more meaningful, nothing more rewarding, than the practice of Japa. When this kind of affirmation is made with love, faith and sincerity, it helps considerably in silencing the chatter of all other voices in the mind.
Rhythm is another factor that affects the quality of Japa. Those who love running or taking long walks understand the importance of rhythm. Once we find the rhythm in any activity, we can do that activity for a sustained amount of time with relative ease. Artists know this too. They sometimes speak of being “in the zone,” which is another way of saying that there are times when artists find the inner rhythm and their creativity flows naturally and profusely. That is when they are at their best.
It becomes easier to focus on the mantra and repeat it effortlessly for a long time when we discover the rhythm embedded in it. The rhythm cannot be generated intentionally. It is an organic process. It happens on its own. When we continue doing Japa steadily, with a calm mind and a heart filled with love, something magical happens. Every inner movement—the heartbeat, the breathing—syncs with the mantra repetition. A rhythm is created and there is a kind of gliding effect. The trick is not to pay any attention to it while doing Japa. When the rhythm is achieved, we’ll know it after the Japa is over—when we feel lighter, brighter and happier.
Yet another helpful tip is to see Japa as more than simply “the repetition of a mantra.” Japa can be done as a prayer or as an offering or as a form of surrender. The mantra is really a short prayer. We can repeat the mantra with a prayerful heart—108 repetitions are equivalent to saying a prayer 108 times. Or we can look upon Japa as a form of worship. Every repetition can be thought of as a flower being offered at the feet of God. It is possible to look upon one’s own self as a flower—then every repetition becomes an offering of oneself to God. Which is what surrendering to the Divine is.
These, then, are the ways to silence all other sounds, all other voices, while doing Japa— (1) cultivating love for God, (2) affirming the importance of practice, (3) doing it as a prayer, worship or surrender, and (4) discovering its rhythm. As far as it is practicable, doing japa regularly at fixed hours and in the same spot also helps to solidify the practice.
When this is done day after day, month after month, the mantra is heard clearly in the heart. Distractions disappear. The clearer we hear the mantra, the purer the heart becomes. It is in the pure heart that the light of God shines in all its glory.
The form of the chosen ideal merges into the formless. The words of the mantra merge into the nameless. The sound of the mantra becomes the voice of silence. What happens thereafter is known only to those who have known it.