He subsequently lived in overcrowded Bombay for five years studying architecture; hitch-hiked around Europe and North Africa with tent and haversack for two-and-a-half years, singing and passing a hat around in underground stations and pedestrian streets, composing songs and writing poems, sketching and absorbing invaluable multicultural influences—experiences which also mark a man and his music for life.
While almost settling in the West for good he realised that home was Goa.
He returned and wrote some of his most memorable socio-political songs, only to face rejections from Indian record companies.
Rejections tend to mark a man and his music even more deeply.
They tend to make him do things for himself. Like record an album in the bedroom, write and illustrate a book of poems, design postcards and t-shirts, and drive around on a yellow scooter distributing all three.
So that when the album becomes an instant hit and invites contracts from India's top music companies and film directors, it seems like a natural extension of an already dreamlike existence.
And what follows seems more and more credible as incredible things unfold.
Like turning into India's leading and highest-selling rock musician and being the only one in the country to be awarded Gold Discs in this category.
Like moving into Hindi pop and Hindi film music and reaching the top in that realm too, having song after song go Platinum and Double Platinum.
Like endorsing international brands such as Pepsi and Shure Microphones [USA].
Like winning awards at international song festivals.
Like meeting and performing for Presidents and Prime Ministers and Mother Teresa and George Harrison.
Life then seems like one long, wonderful, magical hitch-hiking trip.