Agra Near the Taj

AGRA NEAR THE TAJ / David Ray 1. In the States when we pass a field we never see these figures bobbing up revealing populated towns in corn nor would we see beds and tents edged up beside the road. And when we get to Agra, city of the pure white Taj, we walk the evening streets through bedrooms of pavement-dwellers. Their children sleep on charpoys, warped wood that sags with twine while their low fires die. 2. I go native, buy pajamas white and thin like those worn by the native men. And what a breeze then strikes— Tm almost naked, and accepted by the locals. They say to throw away the hat, then entirely pass. But there's still my Jack Armstrong walk that will always be All-American. I've moved a step away, though, as the tourists clearly show me— They treat me like a wog now, just another wog to mock—they guffaw at our transactions with the waiter, horrified that we drink the local water. 3. At the five-star Clark quite near the Taj they've put the Russians up, engineers they say (much like the C.I.A.)— We see them line the pool 40 · The Missouri Review with bodies fat like babies, sucking their secret mission out of mint julep glasses. Upstairs their wives have hung huge brassieres from windows and their perfect children, Ivans and Angelicas, slam into the water, turquoise and amethyst. 4. The moon was out last night and thousands jammed the walks, arcades, and waded in the pools to see love's monument, the Taj, which captured one orgasm for once and all, and many went within to see by a single candle where Mumtaz lay beneath the inlaid stone, her carnation of cornelian, its stem of emeralds. But we stayed in our cheap hotel to worship our unlit imperfect love, later thought we should have gone at least to say we saw it, in all its awesome, full-moon splendor. 5. Ladies carry jugs on heads. Millions ride their bikes. Traffic is pure terror. My body's cool as Gandhi's diaper. The peacocks stroll a little closer to me now, as if to give a feather. My exile is a fact, one more damn fool thing I've done. I can't go back unchanged. Music for the morning David Ray The Missouri Review · 42 is coo of pigeons. The people fling their love, the only coins they have. 6. Our rickshaw wallah writes How come he hasn't heard and hopes we're well. How about the photograph? And he hopes we'll come back soon. This time, buy a model Taj that's marble, not the chalk. He told us just to look, not buy, so he could get a rupee: Ram, the other rickshaw man, he's fine. Sends best regards. He's working late these days, bought himself a new bike tire. 42 · The Missouri Review David Ray ...