But when I try to go to the chant, all it does is agitate me. I mean, physically. I don't feel like I'm singing it so much as being dragged behind it. It makes me sweat. This is very odd because I tend to be one of life's chronically cold people, and it's cold in this part of India in January before the sun comes up. Everyone else sits in the chant huddled in wool blankets and hats to stay warm, and I'm peeling layers off myself as the hymn drones on, foaming like an overworked farm horse. I come out of the temple after the Gurugita and the sweat rises off my skin in the cold morning air like fog—like horrible, green, stinky fog. The physical reaction is mild compared to the hot waves of emotion that rock me as I try to sing the thing. And I can't even sing it. I can only croak it. Resentfully.
可是当我尝试去吟诵，总是受到波动。我是说就生理而言。与其说我在吟唱，不如说是被拖着走。我汗流浃背。这奇怪得很，因为我是寒性底子的人，而印度此区的一月份，日出前很冷。每个坐着吟诵的人都裹着羊毛毯、戴着羊毛帽保暖，我却随着赞歌的声音剥去一件件衣服，有如劳动过度的马儿直冒汗。古鲁梵歌过后，我走出寺院，汗水在寒冽的清晨从皮肤蒸发，仿若雾气——有如恐怖、惨绿、醺臭的雾气。相较于吟唱时波动的情绪，生理反应不算什么。我甚至唱不了，只能发出低沉沙哑的声音，满心愤恨。

Did I mention that it has 182 verses?
我提过它有一百八十二节吧？

So a few days ago, after a particularly yucky session of chanting, I decided to seek advice from my favorite teacher around here—a monk with a wonderfully long Sanskrit name which translates as "He Who Dwells in the Heart of the Lord Who Dwells Within His Own Heart." This monk is American, in his sixties, smart and educated. He used to be a classical theater professor at NYU, and he still carries himself with a rather venerable dignity. He took his mon-astic vows almost thirty years ago. I like him because he's no-nonsense and funny. In a dark moment of confusion about David, I'd once confided my heartache to this monk. He listened respectfully, offered up the most compassionate advice he could find, and then said, "And now I'm kissing my robes." He lifted a corner of his saffron robes and gave a loud smack. Thinking this was probably some super-arcane religious custom, I asked what he was doing. He said, "Same thing I always do whenever anyone comes to me for relationship advice. I'm just thanking God I'm a monk and I don't have to deal with this stuff anymore."
几天前，在一次特别讨人厌的吟唱时间过后，我决定征求自己最喜爱的老师给我意见——他是一位僧人，有个长而妙的梵语名字，译为“他住在自己心中的神的心中居住的人”。这位僧人是六十多岁的美国人，一位精明干练的知识分子。他曾是纽约大学的古典戏剧教授，身上仍带有可敬的学者气质。他在三十年前立下修道誓言。他之所以让我喜欢，是因为他既严肃又逗趣。在对大卫感到困惑的黑暗时刻，我曾向这位僧人倾诉痛苦。他郑重其事地听我说，提供所能找到的最慈悲的忠告，而后说：“现在我要亲吻我的道袍。”他掀起姜黄色道袍的一脚，响亮地咂嘴一吻。我以为这可能是某种超神秘的宗教习俗，于是询问他的举动之因。他说：“每当有人来找我做关系咨询，我总是这样做。我只是感谢神让我身为僧人，无须再面对这件事。”

So I knew I could trust him to let me speak frankly about my problems with the Gurugita. We went for a walk in the gardens together one night after dinner, and I told him how much I disliked the thing and asked if he could please excuse me from having to sing it anymore. He immediately started laughing. He said, "You don't have to sing it if you don't want to. Nobody around here is ever going to make you do anything you don't want to do."
因此我知道自己信得过他，可以让我坦白地说出自己在吟唱古鲁梵歌时所碰到的问题。某天晚上吃完晚饭，我们一道去庭院散步，我告诉他那首梵歌多么令我讨厌，问他能否允许我不再唱它。他立刻笑了起来。他说：“你不想的话就别唱。这里没有人会逼你做你不想做的事。”

"But people say it's a vital spiritual practice."
“可是每个人都说它是必不可少的修行。”

"It is. But I'm not going to tell you that you're going to go to hell if you don't do it. The only thing I'll tell you is that your Guru has been very clear about this—the Gurugita is the one es-sential text of this Yoga, and maybe the most important practice you can do, next to medita-tion. If you're staying at the Ashram, she expects you to get up for the chant every morning."
“没错。但我不会跟你说，你若不唱就会下地狱。我只能告诉你，你的导师很明确地看待这件事——古鲁梵歌是这种瑜伽的必要文本，可能是最重要的修行，仅次于禅坐。你若待在道场，她会期待你每天早上起床吟唱。”

"It's not that I mind getting up early in the morning . . ."
“我不是介意一大早起来……”