your passing glimpse of someone’s tragedy

You see a big yellow steam shovel. You see a crowd. You see a shuttered paan stand: a single square meter of thin corrugated walls that, at three rupees a piece, is some man’s livelihood. This you see from your car as you pass. You twist in your seat and see the rest: the shovel comes down, the paan stand crumples. You see it, but you don’t hear it, because you’re already down the road.