Where's The Taj?

Six weeks into our trip in India and we were seamlessly on our way to Agra, waiting at the Sarai Kale Kahn bus station for the Volvo Deluxe bus.
"That was all pretty straightforward," from my optimistic newly Indian boy.
Looking very pleased with himself, he had returned from the bus stand kiosk carrying two tiny takeaway teas on a piece of cardboard, and something wrapped up in newspaper.
"I don't know about the sugar in the tea, but look what I got for you!"
He proudly unrolled two rotis and handed me one ... the inside one.
"And our best yet.  Only Rs 3 each!  You know what would go well with these? Some honey."
No honey, but I produced some green mango jam out of my backpack. 
"Don't you just love a good bus stand?"
Backpacks stowed under the bus.  Air conditioning and seats fully functional.  Sure we left 15 minutes late because some of the local passengers didn't allow time to get through the Delhi traffic, but complimentary water and a tollway, should have been a breeze for the 3 hour trip.  But this is India.  Just 20 kilometres before Agra, we stop for a rest break for half an hour!  Seriously?  We could have been there by the time we got moving again.
The closer we got to Agra, the more dust and smoke.  I've experienced that everything and everyone here coasts along in cruise control until the last minute, then it's a frenzied crush to get on or off, arrive or leave.  As we came into the city, the conductor started calling out stop names. 
"Fatehabad. Fatehabad."
"That's us. There's the sign."
'Taj Mahal - 3.5 km'  Left arrow.
Indecision, negotiation, miscommunication?  We were still on the bus and off again.
What seemed like a long way later we get the chance to escape.  Now it was the auto tango.
"You want auto?"
"Where you go?"
"Rs 200!"
It's always Rs 200 for foreigners!  Weariness or hardening up, I just walk away.
"Come on, honey! Rs 150. Put your bag in.  We're going."
It's getting dark.  It's almost impossible to tell though because the air is thick with dust.
"I can't do this anymore," with tears.
We bump and zigzag through the back alleys.  Come out at the river.  Follow Taj Mahal signs.  Pass the Western Gate.  Peer anxiously along Fatehabad Road for 'Love Kush Hotel'. 
"It must be here somewhere.  You're supposed to be able to see The Taj.  We must have gone too far."  Stifled without access to GoogleMaps!
"There it is!"  Relief from Brian, and I suspect our auto driver.
Brian tips the driver anyway, and we walk through the guard-opened door into the cleanest place I've been in since I left home.
"You can get up onto the roof.  I saw someone up there as we came in. I think you can eat up there on the rooftop terrace."  I'm optomistic.
"How about we eat in the room and breathe, and go up and check it out after dinner?" Brian coughs.
On the roof we find the kitchen through the haze.  The cook, who'd come to our room to take our order, easier than on the phone, is excited to see us.
"Where's The Taj?" Brian is always happy for the opportunity to talk to the locals.
"Yes. Yes. Best view. Morning 6am!". Pointing vaguely across the road.
We could barely see across the road.  Deciding to flag the sunrise Taj visit and check from the roof in the morning, Brian sets his alarm.
At 6.30am I consider yoga on the roof and climb the stairs.  I point my camera across the road and take a picture.  Back downstairs, Brian asks about the view.  I show him the photo of dust and smoke haze.
"Where's The Taj?"