Oh Lord, Stuck In Lodhi Again

Michael ‘Burnsie’ Burns
Columnist

I was just passin' through
Must be seven months or more
Ran out of time and money
Looks like they took my friends
Oh Lord, I'm stuck in Lodi again

– John Fogerty
Creedence Clearwater Revival
Lodi (1969)

I was in New Delhi, India. The year was 1972 and I was just 24 yrs old. I had $10 in my pocket and no passport: my pack had been stolen with traveler’s checks and documents inside.

I went to the US Embassy to send a wire to Dad asking him to forward me some money. The staff gave me $10 to tide me over until Dad came through – as he always did. But the passport was a little more complicated: I needed a police report regarding the theft before they could put the paperwork through.

I had come to India with my high school buddy, Dan. The trip was to get out of town, shake up our lives, and have a bit of adventure.

The intuitive purpose, I think, was to grow up.

Arriving in New Delhi via New York, Paris, Tel Aviv, and Tehran, we found ourselves in The Ford Foundation’s Lodhi Garden Park. We had no knowledge of how to navigate in such a foreign environment. We did have sleeping bags however, so we chose to stay right there rather than search for a hotel.  

We were just settled on the lawn to sleep when three night-watchmen, patrolling the grounds, roused us and warned of the threat of malfeasance. There are a lot of people in India, everywhere, and many are desperate.

They graciously invited us to sleep at their station inside the park’s Conservatory. The two older watchmen were government-registered opium users; the youngster used medicinal pot to deal with an infected eye. India dealt with drugs and their users with treatment, not as crime. We were well cared-for by these guardian angels and had a safe night’s sleep.

In the morning we headed for Goa, a Portuguese fishing port on India’s Arabian Sea coast. We took first-class seats on the train, New Delhi to Bombay (Mumbai) and thence by boat to Goa. We saw a lot of India through the train windows and a good deal of open sea water from the ship.

In Goa we rented a hut for a few days but the very next morning we split up. There was disharmony over the proper use of drugs: I wanted to get high all the time, while Dan wanted to treat it as a ritual. So, he took off for an ‘alone time’ trip.

This left me with some alone time of my own while he was gone, and my alone time led me to wonder what the heck I was doing halfway around the world. I realize what I wanted was to follow in my dad’s more conventional footsteps, and that meant no more bumming around.

My plan was to get back home to my fiancé as soon as possible, get married, start a career, and have a family. And so, it was homeward bound for me.

I didn’t even wait for Dan. (I was probably impatient from being high.) Instead I enacted the trip in reverse: boat ride, Goa to Bombay, train to New Delhi, and scooter cab right back to the Lodhi Garden Park.

To save money, I chose to sleep on the same lawn I’d been advised to avoid. Even more oddly, despite the explicit warnings I’d been given, I left money and passport in my backpack rather than keeping it with me in my sleeping bag.

Unsurprisingly, I awakened to find my pack – with funds, documents, and all my clothes – gone.

This was not the first time, or the last, that I’d do something this boneheaded. It always turns out that I do it because I really need some serious survival experience, and/or a lesson to grow from.

Be that as it may, what to do? I used the one resource I had: I went to the conservatory and revived the relationship I had with the night watchmen. Again, I was graciously taken care of.

I found my way to the Embassy, did the paperwork, got the ten bucks, and learned that I must go to the police station to report the theft as validation for the passport renewal. The report would also prove my claim that my traveler’s checks had been stolen.

I found the police station and gave the details to a detective. He said we needed to go to the scene of the crime, so he fetched his bicycle.

“Do you want to sit on the handlebars? Or on the rack in the back?” he asked. I thought that was humorous. I chose the rack.

I had to wait a few days for the passport, so I spent the time hanging out in my temporary home, the Lodhi conservatory and park.

A couple of husky-sized dogs were wandering around loose, and were attracted by my welcoming attitude and gestures. As a dog owner, I liked friendly dogs and they liked friendly people. Their owner followed them to me and sat down to chat. He was also a foreigner, and was used to the locals being intimidated by his dogs, so he appreciated someone liking his best friends.

After hearing my story, he invited me to move from my temporary digs to the patio of his 4th-floor apartment. He was a photographer, from what was then Yugoslavia, and his wife was a history professor at the University of Delhi.

While I was lolling on their patio, I heard Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s first album wafting up from a nearby window. Wow! Hearing this beloved, magical music floating through the air was ambrosia. The feeling of being all alone in a far country was so powerful I felt sick

Homesick.

I got the passport and the cash, flew to Manhattan so Barclay’s could replace my checks, then it was home to California.

Homesickness cured, I put my plan into place. I married my fiancé and looked for a solid career to pursue.

Three years later, my career had bogged down. I needed another wake-up call. This one wasn’t a theft but a near-death experience: a car accident complete with concussion, broken bones, damaged lungs, and seven days in a coma. Once again, the wake-up call was was a clear signal for me to grow up.

To really grow up.

Did it work? Did I grow all the way up?

Stay tuned.