The wall was a mere skeleton of old, craggy bricks. Morning's break would see a knot of students gathered by the wall to catch the bus that would carry them to the town's only college. At about nine a fragile looking man would set up his tea stall there and half an hour later an equally tender, vegetable vendor would sip his tea leisurely in a chukkad (a small mud pot) chattering with the Chaiwala (Tea vendor) about cricket and politics. As the afternoon sun would glare down at the street, a few labourers would line the wall bawling out every passing by auto-rickshaw to "halt!"
Then a rickshaw driver would stop. But the labourers won't get into the rickshaw until they've bargained enough for the driver to yell at them.
One rainy evening, blow of gusty winds shattered the old waterlogged wall. The Chaiwala's little stall was lost somewhere amidst the debris, so were the vegetable vendor's reviews of the previous day's cricket match. The labourers would now gather at a stationary shop, not far away, and continue to yell and yelp.
The next morning while the sky was still grey, four policemen sported in khaki wardi (uniform) under yellow raincoats, circled the debris. The bodies of the Chailwala and the vegetable vendor were recovered from under the scattered wreckage. The gusty winds blew, while the little town enjoyed the showers of rain, oblivious to the fact that there ever stood a wall that now had fallen...