The translation problem was the village bus: the rural lifeline that gets a Rathwa family to the fair, the market, the town, and the single most modern thing most people here actually ride. Procession-flow made it natural — the bus simply takes the central band a deity rider's horse might hold, drawn as a flat folk panel with rows of small passenger faces in the windows and pots roped to the roof, so it reads as the wall's main traveller. The smoke-plume at the back echoes the folk clouds elsewhere in the tradition rather than a photographed exhaust. Around it the cyclist, the walkers, the tea-stall and the tractor-cart keep the journey grounded in the ordinary day, all in the same outline, so the bus belongs to the painted village instead of crashing into it.