It was the 14th of February, 2015.

Akileish and I ran across the crowded parking lot to the stage set up behind the mall. We were 10 minutes late. Thankfully the sound-check was still going on. Two men stood there fiddling around with a laptop.

“Is that Steven Tyler?” my friend quipped.

“No, that’s him”

“Happy Valentines Day” announced Shenkar, unapologetic about the delay. The other guy went ahead and hit “play” on his laptop. EDM blared out through the speakers.

“ This song is called ‘We Are All Champions’ “

That was when the doorknob broke.

My thoughts shifted to the day before. I had noticed a tiny advertisement of a music fest featuring obscure artists. There was a tiny thumbnail of L Shankar, the legendary Shakti violinist who had returned to Chennai after living in the USA for so long. Not wanting to miss out on a free concert, I called up the organizers immediately.

“Hello, Phoenix Market City? I want to enquire about tomorrow’s music festival”

“Yeah go on”

“When will L Shankar be performing?”

“Ravi Shankar? He will be on at 4:30”

“What?”

“4:30. Bring along some friends or a date. It’s free of charge”

Then he hung up.

So here I was, listening to a rechristened “Shenkar” singing thinly veiled Queen song-title references using Autotune. You could easily superimpose Rod Serling’s narration over shots of me on the phone and then of us running to the mall to create a Twilight Zone episode, because that’s how surreal this was. The DJ of the hour (AKA play button wizard) started signaling us to fist-pump, probably because we were the only ones paying any attention. We had to disappoint him though.

People were laughing at Shenkar. Some were pointing fingers and others were mimicking him. A little boy was playing Angry Birds in the front row. Who plays Angry Birds in 2015? You couldn’t blame them though. The music was terrible. Predictable bass drops, generic loops and yet another step closer to discovering the brown note. No wonder they “Played” with Skrillex. No one had the slightest idea that they were witnessing the slow crumbling of one of the greatest musicians of the last century. I’d heard that L Shankar was so busy with EDM that he couldn’t participate in Remember Shakti. McLaughlin called him up and got no response, so he let it go. This was still better than how Jimmy page handled Led Zeppelin’s reunion.

“Are you sure that’s him?”

Shenkar pulls out his double violin. We cheer. “Play”boy gets excited.

“That’s definitely him.”

Actually, this might make more sense as a Scary Door episode.

It’s that time of the week you get down and Sruti. Actually, bear down and boogie. You’re watching TV, or is it watching you? See those flutterbys feasting on your brains smeared on the wall? Actually, it’s a red door and as you paint it, black, you notice: The Scary Door

Unlike a Scary Door short, this performance was long and painful.

As the crowd thinned out, we kept switching seats and soon we were the only ones seated. Every other chair was empty. Shenkar descended into high pitched squealing, something to the effect of “Whole Lotta Yoko” with minced lyrics. Another guy joined us in the first row. Akileish pointed to his Whitesnake T-shirt.

“privettricker would have something nasty to say about that.”

“Don’t make obscure jokes. What if I happen to write a blog about it?“

“Sure you will. No one will read it anyway.”

“Yeah you’re probably right.”

The violin was barely audible beneath the thumping bass. Sadly, instead of being its usual divine self, it just served as an accompaniment to the noise. Shenkar maintained zero eye contact with the audience throughout the performance. The cameraman was uncomfortably close to him, trying to shoot in different angles and almost tripping over him once. Amidst this seething cringe, a tiny paper flew out of Shenkar’s book. It landed about five meters away from us. For the next thirty minutes I kept glancing at the paper, eager to know what was scribbled on it. Miraculously, despite the incessant wind (which even managed to dislodge Shenkar’s wig multiple times) the paper lay there unmoved.

The performance was finally over. I’d heard better applauses at Yoko Ono concerts.

We had to meet Shenkar in our quest to meet every Shakti member. So far we only had John McLaughlin’s autograph. (Later we would get Vikku’s). So I grabbed the paper and we went backstage. The organizer was sporting a fedora. He gave us an incredulous look.

“You want to meet him?”

“Yes please”

“Wait for ten minutes and I’ll see what I can do”

We sat by the stage-side, watching the next act ready their instruments. They looked like a mellowed out and about to hit their mid-life crisis Sex Pistols. Also, the lead singer had tattered jeans with holes in the wrong places. From almost nowhere, around two hundred people appeared. The Whitesnake guy was giving them the metal sign and the fedora guy was jumping. John-Lyndon-with-average-teeth was pointing towards Mr. Fedora, who seemed to have totally forgotten about our request.

I pulled out the paper.

“Can you read Sanskrit Akileish?”

“Let me try. I think yoni means vagina. Padma means lotus. This might be a dirty little Sanskrit poem.”

“Hmm… lotus vagina… fascinating”

Interestingly, we were holding a music artifact twenty meters away from a Hard Rock Café. Maybe one day I’d donate it to them. Sadly, Bono’s pubic hair is far more valuable to them than some Indian musician’s saucy snippet. I had already decided to keep it.

For the record, we’re not sure what it means to this day. I would appreciate it if some generous netizen translates this for us.

We went backstage anyway. Shenkar was giving an interview. We stood there like fan-girls, at a nauseating distance. A cue ball walked in, his voice had a Slink-Johnson-in-Black-Jesus vibe.

“So this is the smoking and chilling spot huh?”

No one responded.

The reporter went away. Shenkar smiled at us.

As I shook Shenkar’s hands, I couldn’t help but think that He and Mel Gibson probably shook hands while working on The Passion of the Christ. I was indirectly shaking hands with a man who pinches his own nipples everyday for pleasure.

I had lots of other thoughts. I didn’t know what to say.

“That was like Dylan going electric”

“Lou Reed would’ve liked it”

“I stole your poem”

“I get why Frank Zappa produced you and Captain Beefheart”

“Will you perform with your brother soon?”

I could only manage to say this.

“We met McLaughlin last year and now you sir. I’m so Happy.”

Which was still better than what I had said to John McLaughlin the year before.

“Can I shake your hand sir?”

“Of course.”

Akileish was in a similar position. What if he said something insulting? What if Shenkar went all Joe-Pesci-in-Goodfellas on us?

“Sir, I watched this interview where you told that you often talked to yourself in Tamil to soothe the alienation you felt in America. It must be nice coming back to Chennai. Also, Ungala sandhichadhula romba sandhosham sir”

“Romba sandhosham”

Awkward silence ensued for the next ten seconds.

I had to interrupt.

“Could you sign this for us?”

Then we took a picture with him and left. No one else gave a fuck about him.

We went into the HRC and ritualistically drooled over each display item without buying a single thing to eat. This HRC had Les Paul’s Les Paul, A Self-Portrait by Michael Jackson (Way better than Dylan’s), Lennon’s camera and the gold record given for Bohemian Rhapsody. The Bangalore HRC was streets ahead of the Chennai one though. Lou Reed’s Telecaster, Clapton’s Dobro and Page’s Les Paul all in one place. Every little item was significant there. Dylan’s Gibson acoustic was hung high over Donovan’s coat. Maybe it was clever placement, or I was just reading too much into it. Anyways, after our scouting we decided to leave because of all the sappy couples infesting the mall.

As we were coming out, an African group was performing. I’d had enough of new music by then and so I started walking faster. Akileish pulled me back to show me the most bittersweet thing.

It was Shenkar, standing among the crowd and enjoying himself. It was as if God liked obscurity and consciously sabotaged his own divine aura just to melt into an oblivious crowd. Coming to think of it, he is a God to people like us who love music.

Fans can never control their favorite musician’s artistic direction. In Dylan’s case Highway 61 might have changed the world but it still alienated his folk followers. You can’t please everyone. Shenkar loved what he was doing. Nothing else mattered.