The translation problem was honest work that rarely makes it onto a sacred wall: the brick kiln, the seasonal labour many Rathwa families travel for. A scatter-village layout let the kiln sit as one anchor — a stepped brick mound with a folk smoke-plume — while the single-file line of women carrying head-loads of bricks gives the picture its rhythm, each load drawn with the same dot-and-dash care as the deities riding above. The bricks became a quiet repeating grid, a folk pattern that happens to be the work itself. The tractor-trailer and bus stayed because that is how bricks and people actually move now; rendered in the same outline and flat colour, they read as part of the working village rather than breaking the grammar.