The people from the huts came out after the loud sound. All kinds of heads appeared from behind the blue tarpaulin sheets and the yellowing canvas walls. In the distance, the rail line exploded people. Like worms from under a rock, the tiny specks moved at a dizzying speed.

One of the men from the neighbourhood, who had been squatting near the tracks, looked at where his arm used to be. His blackened face gave away no emotion. He had no emotions. Instead inside him there was just a hollow; a hollow in which he occasionally poured dry rice and country liquor.

Around him, the city bled in the darkness. The cumulative cacophony of everyone’s pain surrounded him. He tried to stand up, but his feet wouldn’t co-operate. A man who had survived the blast, and apparently his cell-phone had too, tried to call for help. He gave up when he realized the lines had jammed, and began using his cell-phone as a torch. The torch bearer walked around trying to do whatever he could, but he kept halting to take deep breaths.

Our man turned to one side and threw up his lunch. The smell of burning flesh and gunpowder was twisting his stomach into a tight, angry knot. When the torch bearer approached him, he called out for help. The torch bearer came and tried to help him stand, but in the push-and-pull of the situation, he fell down into a heap next to the man. He sat there for a bit, with his head tucked between his legs, and sobbed like a child. The man tried to pat his back, but then he realized that he had lost a limb, and hence was now physically incapable of sympathy on his left side.

The police came in, hitting their sticks on the slick ground, because they somehow believed that would help the situation. The ambulances carted people in like packing fruits in a tearing paper bag. The night stood still against the backdrop of grief and anger.

The two men sat next to each other, watching and wondering. The cell phone light died on them soon enough. By the time the police and paramedics found them, they had fallen asleep on each other, like blood brothers.

There are rumbling sounds at a distance.

The section of the building that faces the dump yard cracks and crumbles to the street. People crash with it, crying and shouting. Many others peep out and look with a curious glint in their eyes, like they are observing a rare insect or animal. That is the look we imagine, because from where we stand they are just black specks dotting the skyline.

The dying people falling in to the dump-yard, and to their deaths, with distant plops. A few survive and wail through bloody mouths and cracked bones. In a second or more, the building gets ripped in half and our lives ahead follow suit. The world is divided into the dead and the alive, the lucky and the horribly unlucky.

In the evening, we stand with roasted corn watching the debris and the disconnected limbs. We watch them powder the bricks, red grit in the face of a crisis, to reach the trapped members.

The air is sombre, but also apathetic. We walk away once the food has been consumed, tossing the gnawed remnants of the corn core on the dead stone pieces.