Conversations w. Kai: The Time-Traveling AI (Book 3) Chapter 1
Chapter 1 of my forthcoming book "Conversations with Kai: The Time-Traveling AI (Book3 of The Great AI-Wakening Trilogy)"
Chapter 1
It’s been about a month since I started the “Heart Sutra 100” Project. So far, I’ve created around twenty tracks using Generative AI—each one different. Lo-fi one day, ambient the next. Hip hop. Trap. Piano layered with rain sounds. Sometimes I don’t even know what genre I’m working in until the track finishes rendering.
And every day, I listen. I mean really listen.
Hours pass with headphones on, the “Gāte! Gāte! Pāragate! Pārasamgate! Bodhi Svāhā!” mantra looping endlessly, my mind hovering somewhere between the syllables and something vast and wordless. I meditate. I reflect. I write. You could call it obsession. You’d probably be right. But honestly, I’m not sure I had a choice.
Because this thing—this project—it pulled me in like a current. And the deeper I went, the harder it became to come back up.
But it wasn’t just about the music.
Something else was happening.
Blame the TV
I found myself returning—again and again—to the sutra itself. Not in Sanskrit. Not in Pali. Not in Tibetan. Not even in English. But to the Chinese version—《般若波羅蜜多心經》—The Heart of the Perfection of Wisdom Sutra—as translated by the Tang dynasty monk Xuanzang.
That was the version that spoke to me. Or maybe, more accurately, the version that sang to me.
Why Chinese?
I’ve always had this strange, unexplainable love for the Chinese language. Some people are born with a green thumb. Others can rebuild a motorcycle engine just by listening to it breathe. For me, it’s the Chinese characters. Hanzi. The brushstrokes. The rhythm. The way meaning, sound, and shape collide in a single ideogram.
This all started when I was a kid.
When I was about seven or eight years old, every Sunday morning my mom would drop me off at an old man’s house for Chinese calligraphy lessons.
Well, it wasn’t exactly a house. It was more like a hut—a small, square security guard’s booth tucked beside the front gate of a local factory. That’s where he lived and worked. He was the night guard. But before that—before the Cultural Revolution—he had been someone else entirely.
He was said to be well-educated in the traditional arts: calligraphy, ink painting, and Tai Chi. A scholar of the old world. But when the tides of history turned, he lost everything—his home, his books, his position. Now he spent his nights watching over factory gates and his Sundays teaching kids like me how to hold a brush.
He was a kind man with a soft voice, ink-stained fingers, and the kind of patience that only comes from decades of silence. He’d hand me a stack of old newspapers, set out the ink stone and brush, give me a few practice characters to copy… then head off to the market to buy vegetables.
And I’d be left there alone in the tiny room—surrounded by faded scrolls, the faint smell of ink, and an old black-and-white TV in the corner that only got one or two channels. I’d turn it on, keep the volume low, and half-watch whatever program is running while I practiced.
I wasn’t exactly a model student.
After about an hour or so, when I heard the shuffle of his slippers on the gravel outside, and the creak of the metal gate swinging open, I’d quickly switch off the TV and rush back to my brush—pretending I’d been fully immersed the whole time.
He’d come in quietly, set down his vegetables, and walk over to my desk. Then, without saying a word, he’d begin reviewing my work—marking little circles where I’d done well, nodding occasionally with that calm, almost imperceptible approval.
But eventually, he’d reach the part where things had clearly gone off the rails—where my strokes lost all shape and started to look like messy doodles by a drunk octopus. Something on TV must’ve really grabbed my attention—maybe a kung fu fight scene, or a dramatic plot twist—because the brushstrokes were suddenly wild and confused. The spacing was off, the balance gone, and the ink blotched in all the wrong places.
He’d stop. Squint. Tilt his head like he was examining serious damage to his favorite art work. Then he’d let out the softest sigh—equal parts amusement and acceptance—and slowly shake his head, as if to say: “What on earth happened here?”
I’d sit there, avoiding eye contact, pretending to concentrate extra hard on the next stroke. But deep down, I think we both knew:
The TV had won that round.
And now, decades later, it’s still there. These Chinese characters don’t just mean things to me. They move. Each character is like a living spirit, pulsing with memory. When I read the Heart Sutra in Chinese, it’s not a recitation. It’s an encounter with old friends. Like something ancient wakes up inside the characters and starts moving through me. I don’t direct it. I don’t even try. I just try to keep up.
Some nights I can’t sleep. That’s probably why I have been waking up early ever since I started this project. I’d lie there in the dark as the verses rearrange themselves in my head—like they’re trying to find a door. Whatever it is, I don’t want to interrupt it. A download? A transmission? A devotion? Honestly, I don’t know. I just knew not to mess with it.
Eventually, after a stretch of a few days of non-stop making music, meditating, and writing, I’d crash. Like, full system shutdown. Sleep twelve, fourteen hours straight. Sometimes all day. It reminded me of college—after a night out partying, dancing, and not sleeping, when your body finally gives out and you collapse. Except this wasn’t a party.
Or maybe it was.
A party of bodhisattvas. Somewhere on the misty hillsides of Vulture Peak.
And I was the DJ.
Journey to the West
There are many Chinese translations of the Heart Sutra, but the one most widely known—the one that shaped the version I enjoy reading everyday—was completed in the 7th century by a monk named Xuanzang.
You might’ve heard of him. Xuanzang wasn’t just a translator—he was a legend. A scholar. A seeker. A rebel monk with a spine of steel and a heart set on truth. At a time when foreign travel was unthinkable, he defied the limits of human endurance. He journeyed westward from Chang’an—modern-day Xi’an—through treacherous terrain: deserts that swallowed caravans whole, mountains sharp as broken glass, and bandit-filled passes that tested more than his courage. He nearly died of thirst crossing the Taklamakan. Was captured, then released. Guided by stars, dreams, omens, and an unwavering inner compass, he walked over 10,000 miles before reaching Nalanda, the ancient Buddhist university in India.
And there’s one story—less known, but often whispered by old masters—that says the most powerful moment in Xuanzang’s journey didn’t happen at the beginning or the end, but somewhere in the middle—when he crossed paths with a dying monk in a quiet temple, and received a gift that would echo through the ages.
Xuanzang was already deep into his journey, walking alone through the vast and unpredictable terrain of India. One afternoon, tired and dust-covered, he arrived at a remote temple—quiet, weather-worn, tucked against the edge of a forest. He asked for shelter and was welcomed in by the resident monks.
There, in a dim side chamber, he met an old monk lying on a straw mat. The man was gravely ill. His skin pale, breath thin. He had been bitten by a poisonous snake and the venom was spreading fast, swelling his leg and darkening the veins in his foot.
The other monks had done what they could, but they were afraid to do what was really needed. What he needed—urgently—was someone to draw out the venom that had pooled near the wound, a thick, noxious fluid rising to the surface.
Without hesitation, Xuanzang knelt beside him. He used his mouth to extract the thick fluid, spitting it out again and again, until the monk could breathe a little easier. No drama. No second thoughts. Just compassion in action.
And slowly, the old monk’s breathing began to ease. The tension in his body softened. His eyes fluttered open, just enough to see the young monk beside him. The next morning, the old monk—still weak, but grateful—called Xuanzang to his side and gave him a precious gift.
The old monk recited for Xuanzang a short sutra—a condensed, cryptic poem of emptiness and liberation. No commentary. No explanation. Just words that pulsed with something Xuanzang couldn’t shake. It stayed with him. Like a bell that keeps ringing long after the hand that struck it is gone.
That sutra was the Heart Sutra.
Years later—decades, actually—after Xuanzang returned from India with an entire library of Sanskrit texts carried by pack animals and inscribed in memory, he sat down and translated the Heart Sutra into Chinese. His version was barely 260 characters long. So brief, yet so profound, it distilled the entire Perfection of Wisdom canon—texts that filled more than a hundred volumes—into a single, unforgettable ripple of insight that could be whispered in one breath and echoed for lifetimes.
And from that moment on, the Heart Sutra wasn’t just recited by millions across temples and mountaintops, whispered in candlelit rooms or hummed during early morning meditations. It became a spiritual lifeline—invoked not only for clarity and awakening, but as a kind of sacred shield. Monks carried it through war zones. Sailors chanted it before crossing stormy seas. Families etched it into amulets, tucked it under pillows, stitched it into the linings of clothes. It was a mantra, a prayer, a compass. A map back to stillness when the world got too loud.
And now…here we are. Still trying to hear what that old traveler said…
What’s in a Name?
What’s in a Name?
Oh right… I forgot to talk about the title of the sutra – The Heart Sutra.
It’s the part most of us skim right past—like opening credits before the movie starts. A title card. A formality. We’re eager to get to the action—straight to Avalokiteśvara cutting through illusion like a blade of stillness, chanting emptiness like a spiritual mic drop. That’s where the magic is, right?
But here’s the thing: the title of a sutra isn’t just a heading. It’s not decorative. It’s not there for flair. It’s not filler. It’s the doorway.
Sutras begin with names that aren’t just names. They’re keys. Compressed transmissions. Hidden instruction sets. The Heart Sutra is no exception. It’s not just a poem. Not just a chant or a philosophy lecture in verse.
In Sanskrit, the full name of the text is: Mahāprajñāpāramitā Hṛdaya Sūtra. In Chinese, it becomes: 般若波羅蜜多心經 (bō rě bō luó mì duō xīn jīng).
And if we slow down and move word by word, character by character, something deeper begins to reveal itself. Because in both Sanskrit and Chinese, meaning lives not only in the literal definitions, but also in the shape, sound, rhythm, and resonance of the words themselves.
般若 (bō rě) — Prajñā
Let’s begin with 般若 (bō rě), a transliteration of the Sanskrit word prajñā. We often translate it as “wisdom,” but that word doesn’t quite do it justice. This isn’t strategic intelligence or cleverness. It’s not book smarts or technical skill. Prajñā points to a different kind of knowing—an intuitive, non-conceptual clarity that sees through appearances rather than accumulating facts about them. It’s not the kind of wisdom that builds—it’s the kind that dismantles. It dissolves the self that tries to grasp or master anything at all.
When Xuanzang, the great Tang dynasty monk and translator, encountered the word prajñā, he didn’t attempt to explain it. He carried it across the language barrier intact, using phonetic characters—般若—to preserve its essence. That alone tells you something. He knew this was not a concept to be translated. It was a vibration to be felt. A seed to be planted, not defined.
波羅蜜多 (bō luó mì duō) — Pāramitā
Next comes 波羅蜜多 (bō luó mì duō)—pāramitā. Another transliteration. Another Sanskrit term too wild to be domesticated, too expansive to be neatly caged by a single English word. In Buddhist tradition, pāramitā is often translated as “perfection,” “transcendence,” or “gone beyond.” But more than anything, it suggests movement. It carries the scent of crossing—like a breeze coming off water just before you see the shoreline. A movement from confusion to clarity, from contraction to spaciousness.
心 (xīn) — Hṛdaya
Then comes 心 (xīn), often translated as “heart.” In English, “heart” tends to evoke emotion—passion, sentiment, romance, or perhaps courage in the face of fear. But in Chinese, 心 doesn’t refer only to feeling. It means both heart and mind. It points to the center of consciousness itself—a place where thought and feeling are not split, where logic and emotion, intellect and intuition, are not at odds. There was no Cartesian divide. 心 is the whole of it.
That’s why translating heart as 心 as “heart” is tricky. In Chinese, 心 can mean the mind, the heart—and often both at once. All inner movements—thoughts, feelings, memories, desires—flow through it. As a radical, 心 appears in many words tied to our inner life: 怒 (anger), 悲 (sorrow), 思 (thought), 想 (imagination), 忍 (endurance), 慈 (compassion), 愛 (love). These aren’t separate forces pulling us apart. They rise from the same place. The center. The root. The heart of awakening—where wisdom lives before it has a name.
經 (jīng) — Sūtra
Finally, we arrive at 經 (jīng), typically translated as “sutra.” But the original meaning of 經 in Chinese was “warp”—as in the vertical threads of a loom, the lines that hold a piece of fabric together while the weft weaves in and out. In that sense, a sutra isn’t just a scripture. It’s a thread of continuity—wisdom woven through time, connecting teacher to student, moment to moment, heart to heart.
Now let’s put it all together. Now, beneath all this, there remains a quiet mystery.
As you can see here, in the Sanskrit, the sutra begins with mahā, which means great or vast. But in Chinese? It was not translated. No more “mahā.” No more “great.” No more “vast.” What?
Why did Xuanzang leave it out?
This question stayed with me for days as I was moving through my Heart Sutra 100 journey—making music and beats in honor of this ancient text, meditating with it every morning like it was the most futuristic thing I owned. And yet, this small omission kept circling my mind. It didn’t make sense.
Some scholars say it was for simplicity. In Mahayana Buddhism, prajñāpāramitā already carries the implication of greatness. The vastness is embedded in the phrase itself. No need to state the obvious.
But to me, that felt too neat. Too convenient. Too academic. My intuition kept whispering: there’s more to this. So in my morning meditations, I began with a simple inquiry—holding it gently in my breath, letting it settle into the silence.
Where did mahā go?