For 108 days I sat at the same hour, with the same mala, repeating the same name. Nothing dramatic happened on day one. Or day ten. By day forty, the chant began to follow me through the day. By day eighty, I noticed I was less reactive — to traffic, to delays, to the small frictions that used to consume me.
The mala became less of a tool and more of a thread connecting hours together. The 108th day was just another day. But the practice had quietly rebuilt me.