On your reluctance to tender change.

So i get off the auto and check,
The metre reads 42.
I hand over 45 because i don't have change,
And pray, Mister Auto Driver, what do you do?

You pocket the money
And turn away your face,
Pretending i've handed you the right amount.
While i stand there in disgrace

Because, whoaho, waitaminit
I don't care if its three rupees,
I've given you more than the metre.
So can i have the excess back please?

Isn't it enough that you ask copiuos sums
Of money, even in broad daylight?
Shouldn't you have some shame, some decency
Instead of gearing up for a big fight?

And fight you will, if i do so much as ask
For the coin you have so happily pocketed
Stretching lazily, you'll spew some paan
While you say, "Madam, prices have sky-rocketed."

"Whaaaat Madam you do like this?
For three rupees also you will fight!
I have so many mouths to feed, auto rent, petrol kharcha
Have some pity on my plight."

"Pity?" I spit out,
My blood slowly boiling.
"What pity? Why pity?
You think you're the only one toiling?"

And so it begins, the series of insults
The name-calling and reckless rampage
Till finally he sighs, shakes his head,
And gives his pocket a perfunctory rummage.

Out emerges the hand,
I wait, holding my breath
He holds out his palm, displaying nothing
And i instantly wish him violent death.

"No change Madam", he remarks smugly,
"If i had i would give, but what to do?"
Admitting defeat, i give him my parting shot:
"If I didn't give change you would create a ruckus, wouldn't you?"