The road was blocked by an electric wire hung loosely over a treetop on one end and tied to a cone on the other. A bike was parked in the middle of it. There were two men standing atop the carriage, hooking bags of cement with an iron rod and jutting them on the ground. A couple of policemen directed the traffic. One talked on the phone walking the barren patch amid the colourful cacophony at the junction where masked faces and screened eyes from the bikes turned. The ones in cars looked everywhere but at the wreck at the early hour of a Monday trying to squeeze it across to another stoplight. Inside the truck turned on its flank with its wheels off, a few clothes still hung from the night before. The windscreen was intact; the front hinged like a door while being half hedged across the divider. On the other side, two wheels lay flicked around a narrow, golden black stream that trickled its course seeping through the cracks on the road. One side of the bus had been hollowed out and its windows fringed around the head of the truck like a splintered crown hovering over an immense void.


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