A grain of dust blew, tumbling over the hills and the plains. It was one of millions of pieces of dust, blowing, blowing, ever blowing... It blew and blew, clinging to the grassy carpet that coated the earth, occasionally sticking in a tree, or a pelt, but this was meaningless; the dust would blow on eventually, as it had always blown on.
Until one day.
Harsha blinked, a tear forming in his eye. Gods be cursed, he swore, as he blinked again. He dug a grimy finger into the eye and realized what he was doing only shortly thereafter, and withdrew it, cursing again.
He walked unsteadily over to the almost clear water channel that lazily flowed past his worksite, and briskly washed his right hand. He dug the grain of dust out, this time succeeding, and cast it into the irrigation ditch.
Blinking and annoyed, he walked back to the workplace.
It was rather quiet in this corner; he was somewhat isolated from the rest of the workmen by the mudbrick wall that had gone up. It was odd, he mused, that he was the only one on this side, when every other side of the building had a veritable dozen working on it. Gingerly, he mixed more mud and straw, pouring some into molds every so often.
By the time he was done, a practical roads worth of mud bricks lay glistening wetly before him. He smiled slightly... His days work was done here.
Washing his muddy hands again, he told the administrator that he was done, and left at a brisk walk through the streets of his native Mohenjo-Daro.