Electric Guitars, Scooters, and the Parikrama Marg (an elongated tale)

At first I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go to the trouble of trying to bring a guitar to India. I didn’t want to carry another piece of baggage, especially since all I could imagine when envisioning our trip were swarms of scruffy, red toothed, wild-eyed coolies with dirty plaid rags wrapped around their heads demanding to carry every ounce of our luggage, perhaps even us. My dreams were filled with scenarios of being carried aloft by such coolie swarms, with the end result that I either wound up getting cheated out of money or baggage or my very life.

It wasn’t until the last week before we left Florida that I considered that, since I do write songs, and I am in the active process of writing at the moment, and guitar has become such an integral part of my life, that I ought to look into my options for how to stow some kind of guitar onboard a plane without breaking my bank (baggage fees have gone mad) or breaking the guitar itself (the freezing temperatures in cargo holds have ruined many a fine instrument in the air).

My dear friend and inspiration in guitar and amp building suggested he could throw together just the kind of portable guitar that would be suitable for the rigors of air travel to the Indian subcontinent. From parts he had lying around his well-stocked workshop, he created the Bharata Varsha Super Stratosphere Jet Force Special (picture soon to be included). Another dear friend and fellow musician, Purusartha dasa, lent me his headphone amp, so I’d be able to groove along in the ashram without disturbing the ether.

I packed the above guitar in socks, sweatshirts, and wool chadars after I unbolted the neck. The disassembled monster fit neatly into one of our large suitcases. Yay.

Today’s the day I finally unpacked and reassembled the machine for actual use. The temple president in Vrindavan, Panchagauda dasa, is a longtime friend from Alachua with whom I spent many hours chanting hare Krishna on the campus of the university of florida. When I arrived, he invited me to sit in with him and some other devotees for a couple of events he had planned in Vrindavan and Delhi—kirtan programs he thought might could use a little guitar. Not wanting to foolishly blow such a Holy Land Service Opportunity, I said OK.

So this afternoon, after re-assembly, tuning and re-tuning the strings, and packing my backpack for a walk to our place of rehearsal ( to which I had only sketchy directions) set out with the guitar over my shoulder, without a case, lightly wrapped in wool.

I both liked and disliked how conspicuous I felt, carrying an electric guitar around the back alleys of this highly populated holy village, where gaping, pointing, and shouting crowd scenes can explode into existence with slight provocation) but considering all the various babas with begging pots and walking sticks and beards, as well as all the cows, pigs, dogs, monkeys, two- and three-wheeled bicycles and motor rickshas incessantly quacking and beeping around every corner, I figured one skinny white guy in a dhoti with a blue gamcha draped over his head carrying a funky-looking Frankenstein Monster of an electric guitar wouldn’t be able to stop traffic.

After asking around to find directions to our rehearsal spot, I finally found someone who knew how to get there. “turn right on Bhaktivedanta Swami Marg, left on the Parikrama Path, and go straight for five or ten minutes until you get to a Durga Mandir in the middle of the road. Right after that, turn left and look for the biggest house in the area. Krishna has a plan. You’ll find it somehow.”

Sure enough, in no time (considering the Parikrama Marg is jammed with pilgrims, Ladies With Big Things On Their Heads, motor scoooters, cows, kids, and now huge tractors with shovels for reconstructing the road) I found the Durga Mandir and looked for the left turn. I found a path going down an unmarked alley that looked promising. Sure enough, I got to the end and found the Big House. It was surrounded by walls and gates, and at the gate was a Big Cow, trying to get in. I wasn’t even certain I was at the right place, but I figured I’d just open the gate and find out, a maneuver which turned into a dance I’ve never done before, called “Open Huge Iron Doors With One Hand While Twisting Upper Body To Avoid Destroying Guitar While Pushing Cow Out With Other Hand.”

The owner of the place told me I was right on time, and we’d have to go to another place, and I should now get on the back of his scooter. Completely suspending my usual absolute refusal to ride on motorcycles of any kind, I figured it was part of Krishna’s plan for the day. I got on the back, sidesaddle, with both flip-flopped feet pressing hard on a side shelf so my sandals wouldn’t fall off. With one hand I grabbed the opposite side of my seat for dear life, and with my other hand I held the guitar neck upright to avoid clotheslining unwary pilgrims as we scooted by.

The back alleys we drove on were medium-dangerously passable on foot, but on a two wheeled motor vehicle, with no helmet, holding on with one hand only, barely able to keep my shoes on, driving over the most blasted, muddy, broken dirt roads in between bullock carts, old ladies, milk rickshas, and avoiding open sewage ditches for me was an exercise in Going Beyond What I Thought Was Insanely Dangerous. But apparently this is just business as usual for Brijbasis on Scooters.

We bounced and tooted, swerved and zoomed, and somehow no one was left hopelessly maimed as a result. When we arrived at our destination, about twelve blocks and twelve years off my life later, I smilingly hobbled off the back of the scooter, covered in sweat, white as a sheet. Smiling because I was riding around on a motorcycle slinging an electric guitar on the Vrindavan Parikrama Marg.