In the crevices in the wall, live people that have lives worth mentioning because aren't all lives worth a mention?

There's Govind with his drying moustache that he oils every night. And his wife with the belly as brown as a stone. She smells of food, like dal perhaps or maybe oil. It's hard to tell. 

Aaram sells mirrors, because he thinks it's fascinating. He tells stories about his mirrors, like how film stars buy them off him because his mirrors are clear enough to reflect the future.

Sarika is the brightest student you've seen but all she really wants to do is be a part of a film where she can sit in a plane. Strange enough, just a plane ride won't do. It has to be a part of a film.

Lilavati, who calls herself Lala, does things she doesn't talk about for the fear of judgement but she enjoys them all the same. In the nights, when she comes home, she soaks her feet in lukewarm water and massages her neck which is terribly sore. 

In the cracks in the ground live people whose stories are as fascinating as their narrative, peppered with words that you'd fear to ask the meaning of. 

As the curtains are drawn, and the cracks are filled with plaster, these stories become rubble because the voices that tell them are unceremoniously silenced.