In 2003, the Chinese, with their legendary generosity with viruses, gifted the world SARS. The Rolling Stones, who were in the middle of a world tour, promptly cancelled their Hong Kong concert and flew to India a few days earlier than expected for their Bangalore show.

The next day, I happened to be at TGIF with a sweet Canadian friend, Karen McHarg, who worked at a community radio channel for local farmers. We were busy helping the beverage industry avoid a recession by downing beers by the keg. For some reason, Karen mentioned that she was a crazy Stones fan and had been one from when she was 13. That’s when the countless beers we’d consumed that evening decided that we should find out where the band was staying and maybe get an autograph or two. The papers had mentioned that the band was staying at a local 7-star hotel. And so, we headed to the only 7-star hotel in the city – Leela Palace.

At the Leela’s Library Bar we ordered a round of beers. The bill looked like we’d just purchased a mini brewery. We scanned, with gradually waning hope, the face of every white man in the room. No luck. We moved to Jamavar, a Leela restaurant that serves Indian fare with each dish costing roughly the price of a Raffale aircraft. By carefully studying the right side of the menu, Karen finally found something we could afford.

Time crawled. Our food arrived. Our food didn’t crawl. On account of it not being Chinese. We desperately looked for Karen’s childhood idols. After aeons, a gypsy donning colourful clothes, a stole, turban and a whole lot of tattoos arrived. He exchanged Heys with a bunch of people at a table and left. We asked the waiter what was Johnny Depp doing at the Leela. He lowered his voice and said, that was Keith Richards, from some Rolling band. He made a joint-rolling motion with his fingers. Then he lowered his voice even further and said, we have CCTV cameras here, hinting, no doubt, that escape without paying was futile. We asked where we might find this ‘Rolling band’. Try the Library Bar, he said. And added, if you can afford it.

Back at the Library, we were lounging by the bar counter for a fair while, when a cheerful American turned to Karen and said ‘hello’. Karen, by the way, is an attractive blonde and is quite accustomed to male attention. She hello-ed him back and said that we’d come here hoping to meet the Rolling Stones. The kind gentleman said that maybe he could help. His name, he said, was Bobby Keyes. Karen squealed in delight. Her usually broad smile broadened by a mile. My god, she said, The Bobby Keyes?

Mr. Keyes nodded and said that he had been playing and touring with the Stones as their saxophonist for a good 25 years. He told us that he’d introduce us to the Stones, for a small return favour, some pot.

Before he could finish his sentence, we were already in Karen’s flat, where she grabbed every shrivelled leaf of grass from her roommate’s stash. We raced back to the waiting Mr. Keyes, who then led us to his suite in the Leela. A little gang joined in and soon a party was on. Among this merry, impromptu group was a friendly back-up singer called Blondie and the head of the band’s security. We smoked, drank beers, listened to Bobby Keyes’ favourite music – Howling Wolf. At 3 am, he said that he had to retire for the night as he had a 7 am game at the nearby golf club. (That’d leave him with, at best, 3 hours sleep that night.) Bobby Keyes was gracious enough to let us continue partying in his room while he slept.

Karen, with her dazzling smile asked the head of security if we could come to the show sans tickets. The good man, high on beer, and Karen’s attention, replied with bravado that he wouldn’t mind carrying us (though he may have meant just her) on his shoulders for the whole duration of the show. Blondie, the backup singer, asked if we knew where he could purchase Kashmiri carpets for Mick Jagger. My agency happened to have, at that time, a smart, young, Kashmiri copywriter called Atish. I told Blondie I could send someone over the next day to help negotiate at Kashmiri shops.

And so it went for the next few days. Atish would escort Blondie all day to various carpet dealers, helping him strike the best deals. In the evenings, we’d all meet at Citrus at the Leela. A day before the show, the handsome security head informed us that we had been invited to the sound check. My smile almost matched Karen’s.

Sound checks are something bands do hours before a show to check that everything is in order. They are pretty exclusive affairs with only the band’s crew being present. The sound check took place around 3 pm. The band got on stage. Mick Jagger, in a white untucked shirt, belted out snippets of songs. Everyone was in a wonderful, relaxed mood. Except for the few Bangalore cops present who were looking as bored as Dead Heads at a Yesudas concert.

Blondie introduced us to a Japanese Stones’ fan who he said had been to every one of their shows for the last 21 years. Where did you last watch the band, he asked her, for our benefit. Maryleberon, she shouted, proudly. She means Melbourne, said Blondie helpfully. For once, Karen tried to hide her smile.

The band left after the sound check. We hung around. By 6, the gates opened. Crowds poured in.
Behind the stage was a makeshift lounge designed for the band to congregate minutes before the show and to have cigarettes, beers, water, snacks, etc. We bumped into Bobby Keyes here. Mick Jagger brushed past us. Ron Woods nodded cheerfully at us. Then, Bobby introduced us to Keith Richards.

These are our benefactors, said Bobby to Keith Richards, obviously referring to the stuff Karen had provided a few days back. Keith Richards grabbed our hands and said, ‘I love benefactors. In fact, my middle name is Benny.’ I had absolutely no idea what he meant, but I laughed politely and mumbled, ‘Mmmmbzzttt bzzkkktt’. The great Keith nodded politely at me, looked at Karen’s by now 50,000 megawatt smile, wondered if he could use it as a power source for future stage lighting purposes, and swept away.

The concert began. As if on cue, it began to pour. Karen and me were in the front row amidst thousands of jostling, shoving, screaming fans. Mick Jagger came out with his guitar into the pelting rain and began to sing. Brown Sugar, Angie, Jumpin Jack…. He danced, jumped, pirouetted, strutted, pouted and discarded costumes. Ron Woods and Keith grooved with him shoulder to shoulder on some numbers. Charlie Watts pounded on the drums with the ease that comes naturally after 40 years’ worth of performances.

Karen looked like a 13 year old dancing blissfully, unabashedly to her favourite band in her home in Toronto. The soaked-to-the-bone 21 thousand strong audience screamed, swayed, danced and sang madly into the night. Which ended with an exclusive after party at the Leela that Blondie sweetly invited us to.

At the party the band was awash in the afterglow of having pulled off yet another flawless show. I reminded Karen of how it all began for us with her pot that Bobby Keyes snuck under Keith Richards’ room on April 1 with a note that read – ‘Something to bring a smile to the face in the morning’. You couldn’t have seen a girl with a broader, happier smile.