Our first glimpse of Lou Majaw comes just outside the Guwahati airport – his face is building-sized, emblazoned high above the multi-lane expressway to Meghalaya, on an advertisement for Star Cement. These billboards turn out to be ubiquitous. By the time we wind our way up from the Brahmaputra floodplain into the cloud-wreathed Khasi hills, the legendary rocker of the Northeast seems a reassuringly familiar fixture on the landscape, unmistakeable even in the fading light that slowly obliterates the thick pine forests lining the road to Shillong.
But when we set out to find Majaw the next morning, the rocker turns out to be as elusive as the fast-rising mist of his hometown. We knew that he could not be contacted via the Internet, but now learn that he does not have a permanent contact number or even a fixed address. Then we discover that you cannot buy a copy of his albums in any of the music stores in Shillong, because he prefers to remain his own sole distributor. One day goes by, then two, and still no sign of the Khasi cowboy in his signature cut-off jeans, as we console ourselves with innumerable plates of addictive smoked pork and fermented soybeans from the jadoh stall he is rumoured to frequent.
'Just chill out on that street in the evenings, and you'll see him walking down towards you before too long,' we are told by more than one of his old friends. And so, we return at sunset again to Laitumkhrah, our little group of five trailing happily up the hill past the packed churches and colleges in this buzzing neighbourhood of young people from across the Northeast; schoolgirls resplendent in matching cardigans and kilts, teenagers head-to-toe clones of Soho hipsters. As we approach the looming cathedral, the toddler on my shoulders suddenly grows silent as we catch the soaring sound of a choir in full voice. I realise with a start that it is Sunday, and we linger on the hillside until the throbbing Khasi hymn comes to an end.
***
And that is when we see him, head thrown back and laughing, in the middle of a busy sidewalk with a stream of quick-moving college students forking around his broad back. My son leaps with delight on my shoulders: 'Loulie! Lou Majaw!' We walk up and tell him, excitedly, 'We've come to Shillong all the way from Goa just to celebrate Bob Dylan's birthday with you!' The rocker is visibly unimpressed. 'They're coming from all over,' he tells me finally.