At the Taj Mahal.(Poem)

 
AT THE TAJ MAHAL 
 
   Krishna stopped the car. "See those gates? 
   On the other side are rickshaws, 
   you must take one to the Taj. 
   Please return in an hour, before 
   it gets too dark. I must not linger, 
   sir, mum, this is a bad place." 
   So we saw. A thousand grubby fingers 
   plucked our sleeves as soon as our feet 
   touched pavement. Touts, flashily dressed, 
   heads shiny with brilliantine, 
   swarmed all over us: "Please choose 
   my rickshaw, sir." "Pay no heed 
   to him, sir, use mine, mine is best." 
   Annabelle, anxious to thwart 
   them, quietly chose a rusty 
   bike and ancient rickshaw wallah, 
   no one to spruik on his behalf. 
   An urchin girl slid aboard 
   when we sat, trying to sell her 
   rubbish, I tried to push her off. 
   The old man strained on his dusty 
   chariot: slowly it awoke, 
   creeping one painful centimetre 
   after another 
   when a tout jumped on the bike, 
   grabbed the old man's throat, throttling him, 
   demanding a cut of the fare. 
   "Let him go, you fucker!" I yelled. 
   The little urchin girl was thrilled, 
   she couldn't believe her luck, her 
   vocabulary had increased: 
   "He's a fucker! He's a fucker!" 
   she shouted to anyone who cared. 
   The tout gave up strangling, released 
   his grip, grabbed the old man's scarf 
   and ran away. Its aggrieved 
   owner didn't want to leave, 
   we ...