The moment I got off at the taxi stand at Police Bazaar, I was greeted with a poster in the middle of the street that read “Dylan’s Café”. It piqued my curiosity and was the perfect welcome to Shillong.

For someone who had spent the last nine days in the mountains, the news of the musician being awarded the Nobel Prize for literature was quite overwhelming. There was so much to read, so many opinions, but I thought he deserved it, simply for ensuring my lazy afternoons over beer were well spent.

In most of India, a cafe dedicated to the American would have been quite unusual. But here in Shillong—often referred to as the “Rock capital of India”, which most say it isn’t—it made perfect sense.

So despite the initial disgust of walking through the kwai-stained streets of Meghalaya’s capital, I set out in search of the cafe. Riding in a shared cab, I inquired with a fellow passenger about live music in Shillong. He wasn’t more than 40 years old, but his disheveled salt-and-pepper mop hinted he might know a thing or two about music (don’t look at me like that, it’s true).

He suggested a couple of places that I had been told of before, and said those were my best chance of catching a gig. Other than that, he didn’t know of any regular events. Then he mentioned a name that rang a bell—Lou Majaw, the grand old man of rock and roll. The original rocker of Shillong. The Indian Bob Dylan. Meeting him was a must for a Dylan fan in these parts.

A 10-minute ride took me to Dhankheti, where a hoarding guided me to Dylan’s Café. Right below the sign, it read: Est. 2016. Surely, the owners were either clairvoyants or just plain lucky.

It turned out to be the latter, as Vatsala Tibrewala, who quit her corporate job to join her brother’s dream, later told me. While thinking of an artist they could dedicate a cafe to, it was Dylan’s songwriting and his appeal in Shillong that made him a natural choice.

Finding a venue was the easy bit, but collecting the memorabilia that line up the interiors was anything but. Hunting in markets from Shillong’s Bara Bazaar to the bylanes of Kolkata and buying, printing and framing posters of Dylan was a work started almost a year ago, and the collection continues to grow. Visitors are even invited to paint their own Dylan, which then becomes a part of the cafe ceiling.

“I don’t think we had to think much beyond Bob Dylan. It’s just his influence over the years, the lines he’s written and his connect with Shillong—it had to be him,” Tibrewala said.

Walking up the first floor, I was greeted by a wall lined with vinyl records and a ceiling with an art installation of some more. From there on, it was Dylan wonderland. From cushion covers, to album artwork, merchandise and a menu that opened to his magical lines, the place was every Dylanian’s delight, as his songs filled up the crisp evening air.

As I awaited my coffee and pancakes, it was time to start stalking Lou. A long string of Facebook posts on Dylan’s Nobel. I contemplated sending him a message to check on his coordinates as I continued searching.

Then, there it was. To celebrate Dylan’s success, he was playing at Café Shillong nearby that very day, in an hour.

I scarfed down the pancakes; the coffee almost singed my throat. It was a double march to the venue, some 20 minutes away, even as Sunday church meant clogged roads. It’s the time of the week Shillong takes the day off, and the believers and fashionistas make their way to spend sundown with the Lord.

Finally, across the road from my destination—Café Shillong, a favourite with Lou and locals alike—a bright light from a camera radiated from the balcony. Lou sat there with a beaming smile, his trademark white mane flourishing in the breeze. The interviews were on before the main event. I was going to watch an Indian legend at a Dylan gig.

He had his trademark denim hot pants on, the jade beads around his neck and the leather wristbands adding to his evergreen appeal, and was patiently answering questions. As I called for my first coffee of the night (the cafe didn’t serve alcohol and all wine shops take Sundays off, perhaps to get their own fix) and settled down. Almost instantly, Lou sprang up from his seat as if struck by lightning—he had realized he was 15 minutes late.

There was a spring in his step as he approached the guitars. He could have well been a trekker in the hills around Shillong, with his worn-out shoes and short socks. For all the years he had spent as a performer in the country, he had no airs. He plugged in his guitar into the single amplifier and jumped on to the stool, eager to get going.

He took off after a sound check that lasted less than a minute, Mr Tambourine Man getting it started on an evening that saw musician friends coming in from around town and all the way from Kolkata. I’ll admit that I had expected it to be another one of those ridiculously overpriced nights with a cover, as is the case at the swanky new spots in Mumbai these days.