CHAPTER B
A City That Spoke Louder Than Belief
The city did not wait for him.
It never does.
On the morning he arrived for college, the train doors opened and released him into a noise he had never learned to translate. Voices overlapped. Shoes struck pavement with urgency. Someone laughed too loudly, someone argued too quickly, someone played music that sounded like confidence.
He stood still for a moment, his single suitcase beside him, feeling oddly underdressed for life.
The village had taught him silence.
The city demanded response.
The college hostel smelled like detergent, old books, and impatience. His room was small—two beds, one window, a desk that wobbled slightly as if unsure of its purpose. His roommate arrived late, dragging a backpack that looked heavier than responsibility.
"First year?" the boy asked, dropping onto the bed.
"Yes."
"Don't worry," the roommate grinned. "Everyone's confused here. Some just hide it better."
That was the first honest sentence the boy had heard all day.
Classes began quickly. Philosophy in the morning. Science in the afternoon. Economics somewhere in between, pretending to explain the world. Professors spoke with authority. Students nodded with ambition.
And yet—
questions were suddenly allowed.
In lecture halls, people raised their hands. They challenged ideas. They disagreed openly. No one lowered their voice before asking why.
The boy found this both thrilling and terrifying.
At night, the hostel came alive in strange ways. Someone played guitar badly but confidently. Someone argued about politics. Someone fell in love every two weeks and announced it loudly.
One evening, his roommate asked, half-joking,
"So, what do you believe in?"
The boy hesitated.
"I… I'm not sure."
His roommate laughed. "That's the smartest answer I've heard all week."
He smiled, surprised at himself.
For the first time, not knowing did not feel like failure.
There were distractions, too.
A girl in his literature class who smiled with her eyes before her lips.
Friends who spoke about freedom like it was a weekend plan.
Moments when laughter arrived before guilt could catch up.
Sometimes he forgot the question entirely.
And then—late at night—it returned.
Not loudly.
Patiently.
He tried to drown it in activity. Studying harder. Talking longer. Laughing louder. Once, at a party, he held a drink he did not want and smiled at jokes he did not understand.
Walking back to the hostel alone, he wondered when pretending had become so easy.
On Sundays, he visited a nearby church. It was larger than the one in his village, more polished, more confident. The sermons were eloquent. The choir was impressive.
And yet, the sentence returned—unchanged.
"Do not worship me. Worship my Father."
This time, it felt heavier.
He began reading on his own. Theology books. Commentaries. Online articles written by people who sounded certain and disagreed with one another completely.
Each answer seemed to create two more questions.
One afternoon, exhausted by thinking, he wandered into a public park near campus. Students lay on the grass. Children ran in careless circles. Old men played chess, arguing without anger.
Then he heard something unexpected.
Music—but not the kind he knew.
Voices rose together, repeating words he did not understand. There were drums. Cymbals. Laughter that did not ask for permission.
He stopped walking.
A small group stood beneath a tree. Some wore simple clothes. One of them danced—not dramatically, but freely, like someone who had misplaced fear.
The words floated toward him:
Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna,
Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare…
He frowned slightly.
It was strange.
And yet—it felt calm.
Not the calm of silence.
The calm of meaning.
A student beside him muttered, "Those Hare Krishna people are always here."
"Who are they?" the boy asked.
"They're from India, I think. Religious. Happy for no reason."
The boy watched longer than he meant to.
No one seemed to be performing. No one was convincing. They were simply… present.
Later that night, curiosity won.
He searched. Read. Followed threads of information like a trail of quiet clues. Ancient texts. India. Vedic philosophy. A movement called ISKCON. A man named A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada.
One title stopped him.
Bhagavad-gita As It Is.
The words As It Is stayed with him.
Not explained.
Not softened.
Not adjusted.
Just—as it is.
He ordered the book without thinking too much about why.
When it arrived, he did not open it immediately. He placed it on his desk and stared at it for a long time, as if it might speak first.
Outside, the city continued its noise.
Inside, something waited.
And somewhere between the cross he had grown up with
and the unfamiliar sound of a flute he had yet to understand,
the question prepared to change shape.