Going on Record: Pandit

It was a little after five, plenty of time I thought. I walked across the hall to Joe and Bob B's dorm room, and stuck my head in the open door. "They're on their way," I said.

But that was over two hours ago. Granted, making good time, the drive was a solid hour, and allowing for the usual folderol in everyone getting their shit together, it was still getting late. I made sure for the hundredth time that I had my ticket and student ID. I looked at the alarm clock on my desk just as there was a knock on my door. I called,"Come in."

"Anything?" Bob B asked.

I shook my head no. Bob B came in and sat down on my desk chair with a sigh. A few minutes later, Joe came in, followed by a few other friends from the floor. We waited anxiously. Time was passing quickly.

The concert started at eight. Bob B and I had reserved seats, and the Student Center was only ten minutes away if we hoofed it, but we'd be cutting it close.

Weeks ago we had camped out overnight with a few dozen other kids on the green in front of the Student Center to be first in line for tickets. No one pretended to get much sleep, so we sat wrapped in blankets, and passed around joints and a bottle of peppermint schnapps. In the morning we roused ourselves, and when the building opened and tickets went on sale, we were rewarded with two seats third row center.

Bob B and I had put away one small bud, maybe two bongs each, just in case we couldn't score before the concert. Everyone else was dry, and my buddy Bob from Chicago, and a party of favorites, were, theoretically, on their way with smoke and MDA.

We all faced the realization that they weren't going to make it in time. Bob B got up dejectedly, but we heard a loud banging. Bob B hustled out of the room and down the hall. He pushed open the bar on the crash door, and Bob, Jack, Vito, and Vito's cousin Sully who I didn't know, piled in. In something out of a slapstick comedy, with arms flying in all directions, money and drugs changed hands.

Everyone scurried out of the room, and I left my buddies to fend for themselves and make their own way to the Student Center to buy last minute tickets at the box office.

Bob B and I rushed into his room. Joe was long gone. We carefully unfolded tiny squares of paper, and inside was a small amount of a plain white powder. We tilted back our heads and poured the contents onto our tongues and washed it down with a swig of water. The powder had an astringent chemical taste.

Bob B took out the bud we had saved, and we each rifled down two quick bongs. We stepped out into a brisk, late October evening. It was Saturday night and there were a lot of people out. We made our way up front (down front?) and excused ourselves past people in our row. We got settled in our seats, and I became aware that we were surrounded by professors, administrators, and other adults who had arranged for VIP seating. They were wearing suits and ties, and most of the women were in gowns. I wore my typical concert attire of gym shoes, blue jeans, and a Blue Oyster Cult T-shirt, topped with my bushy, reddish-brown hair.

The stage, close enough to touch, did not display the usual jumble of drum kits, microphones, amplifiers, and electrical cords. A beautiful, Oriental rug covered the floor. The scent of jasmine, and maybe roses, far more pleasant than the sandalwood we burned in the dorms, wafted up from large, brass incense burners on both sides of the stage.

I was feeling a little strange. The din of the crowd grated in my ears. I felt trapped in my seat, surrounded by an impenetrable ring of hostile strangers. I turned to Bob B and said, "If I have to leave will you go with me?"

"Sure," he said. He whispered, "I'm really getting buzzed."

His simple reassurance allowed me to relax. An announcer stepped on stage and said, "It is the great honor of the NIU Faculty Concert Committee to introduce from India, the world famous sitar master, Ravi Shankar."

The audience clapped enthusiastically. Two small barefoot men and one woman wearing sandals took the stage. They were all wrapped in white linen and reminded me of pictures I'd seen of Mahatma Gandhi. They formed a wide triangle and sat on the rug. The man on my left held a set of bongo-looking things in his lap, that I would later find out are called a tabla. The woman sat to my right. She was young and pretty in an exotic sort of way. She bore the ubiquitous dot in the middle of her forehead. Her thick raven hair was tied back in a ponytail. She held a tambura, a lute-like instrument with a long, thin, tapering neck. The man in the middle plucked lightly at the strings of an instrument that looked like a mandolin with the neck of a giraffe.

Ravi Shankar was well-known, well-respected, and well-credentialed. He had appeared at the Monterey Pop Festival and at Woodstock. He had played with the likes of Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, and the Beatles. This was the kind of esoteric experience I reveled in. He looked out to the audience and spoke in a soft voice. "We have one request this evening. We ask that you refrain from smoking hashish during the performance. We have nothing against it, but when you are doing that you are not listening to the music, and it is distracting to us. Thank you and enjoy the show."

The lights went down. He turned his head to the left and right and mumbled something to his band mates. A rhythmic tapping began, then a bass-like drone picked up the rhythm. A sweet, sharp twang flowed from the stage as Shankar plucked the strings of his sitar. I was mesmerized, the music lifted me to higher planes of existence. The drugs may have helped. Then I had a frightening thought. I quickly whispered in Bob B's ear, "Am I floating out of my seat!?"

"No, you're fine," he whispered back.

That took a load off my mind.

The rest of the concert was dream-like. The music and the trip blended magically. Waves of positive energy washed over me. Shankar used his sitar as the means to take me to the farthest edge of conscious existence, then send my spirit soaring to the farthest reaches of the cosmos. It was like that.

I remember turning around once and seeing Bob, Jack, Vito, and Cousin Sully horsing around in the back of the theater.

I still have vivid impressions from that night. I think it's the closest I've ever gotten to bliss.

Happy Birthday Pandit.