minds barren of any intellectual thought

Dust swirling in the distance and nearby. This storied street was a national treasure, should have been one, but it had no upkeep, no maintenance. Years of neglect by those who demanded money for the state - to what end? A had left it dry, barren, derelict, and unkempt. Much like the rest of the country. It’s resources dry, the compassion of its people dry,  their minds barren of any intellectual thought, it’s buildings and historical monuments derelict, and the people’s appearances unkempt. It was a symbol of what had happened elsewhere in this country. The market was held up by thin sticks of wood, dirty cloths serving as walls of the stalls. Plastic tables covered with cloths as the counters and displays that held the wares. Men in beards and long flowing robes stalked the stalls. Stopping by every now and then, bending slightly to look closer at the wares on display. The sun was harsh. The areas were tribal. Here, law and order did not exist. The state was not strong enough. The state did not care enough. People did not care for the state’s rules. Here, law was upheld by the strong. Here, the rule of the jungle reigned supreme. There was a murmur in the market. People weren’t too loud. People were just the right amount of noise. They were comfortable. Not raucous. Not bawdy. There were no fights here. The government was non-existent. But did you really need it? This place seemed to prove that without government interference, the world did not fall into anarchy. That there was peace before mankind invented governments. Tribes lived in mutual harmony. Blood for blood. There was peace. No anarchy. No chaos. Just tribal law and order. The sun was harsh. It was hot and humid. As the sun fell, it would begin to get colder. The night would be frigid. The day was unbearably hot. The men didn’t complain. Neither did the few women that were allowed out, even though they had the most reason to be hot, covered as they were from head to toe. The market was quiet and soft, peaceful. No undertones in danger, even though they should be expected here of all places. The storytellers sat around the edges, each telling stories for a price. Of the old days, back when the Mughals still ruled. Back when sorcerers and magicians and mages, and everything still existed. And when the world had not succumbed to the pressure of what they now called reality. The men went from stall to stall. A white Mercedes drove up. Men stopped and stared. Two armed guards jumped out. A chauffeur opened the door and bowed. The men in the market looked down deferentially. The rich man, the lord, in a manner of speaking went from stall to stall, clicking his fingers when he wanted to buy something, and the chauffeur would hurry to the shopkeeper to pay as the ma’alik moved on to another shop. In the end, there were quite a few bags to carry. Filled with assault rifles, a couple of rocket launchers, some semi automatics. He drove off, the men continued to shop in the market.