Having been successfully push-started, the bus brought them in due course to the terminal on the outskirts of Agra. There, they sought transport to our hotel some kilometres away, near the Taj Mahal, and soon found a three-wheeled taxi: not a pedal-powered rickshaw but the motorised version.
        In that particular place at that particular time, a standard taxi fare was something in the order of three rupees per kilometre. Jelly computed the distance then made the taxi driver an appropriate offer. To Jelly's surprise, the driver accepted immediately, without haggling. This was anomalous. Jelly was suspicious.
        Something must be wrong.
         Well, maybe. But paranoia has to be kept in check. You can't worry about every person you meet, you'd go mad within half a day. And, anyway, there were no other taxis in sight.
        "I guess this is okay," said Jelly doubtfully, getting into the taxi.
        Trish sat down beside him.
        Ten minutes later, Jelly made an interesting observation. They were not going anywhere. In fact, the taxi driver was still standing outside, talking to a friend. Then Jelly made another discovery. Though fatigue had sapped his powers of observation, he finally noticed that the engine was in pieces. He decided that he should bring this mechanical defect to the attention of the taxi driver. He got out of the taxi and walked over to the conversation.
        "Yes?" said the driver.
        "The engine is in pieces," said Jelly.
        "Yes," said the taxi driver, with a radiant smile, a beatific smile befitting a holy saint. "We are fixing it!"
         Ah. Yes, well. That made sense ... sort of. And so, as evening settled upon India, Jelly settled back into the taxi. He had discovered, at last, the art of giving up. And, with that discovery, the peace of the Buddha descended upon his soul.