Khichuri

Someone decided they'd try to lift a 150 tonnes girder with an 80 tonnes crane and they did—then crushed a private car, killing all the passengers. Death lurks in the city of Dhaka so casually, in every corner, under every shadow. Likely nothing will be done, nothing will change, as expected. Things will go back to normal (if 'normal' actually exists). We are all frogs, boiling in hot soup. We won't lift a hand, or think about doing something—it doesn't concern us after all. Perhaps, in the end, we'll end up making a tasty meal. You know what? Things are fine. We are going just like a very fine civilized nation. Things happen in developed nations, right? Unjustified price hikes are quite normal everywhere. It's the standard procedure to suppress everyone who tries to raise the voice of reason. It's the norm to steal and siphon the resources of the country any way you can. It's expected people should be brutalized, traumatized, tormented and when they even try to make a peep, they should be severely vilified. Yep, everything is fine. There is no need to be concerned.

I've been making plans to move to a different city. A new home, a new neighborhood, a new circle of acquaintances. A whole new world to traverse. Perhaps this is a good decision for me to move into the world, perhaps it is the worst possible idea and I will end up regretting. I don't know what the universe has in store for me. I envy people in situations like this, who are codependent, and who can rely upon the support of their loved ones. Trying to tackle everything on your own is a false messiah the media fed us over the years.

Young Hans Castrop visits a peculiar sanatorium on top of a faraway mountain for a few weeks where his cousin is staying. Days pass by really slowly there, things aren't all that they seem. The sanatorium is a cosmopolitan one, people from all over Europe went there to get cured. There is a group that can whistle with their stomach. Someone died in Hans Castrop's room before he moved in, while he is not moved by that, he is disturbed by the wild lovemaking of the loud newly Russian couple next door. He's perplexed by the young woman Clavdia Chauchat, who slams the door, waking every dead soul in the vicinity, then proceeds to glide on the ground, noiselessly. He's intrigued by the Italian skeptic whose idealistic zeal pours out discussing politics, humanism, and art. The Magic Mountain, while it captivated me with its characters and discourses, it is me at fault for not being able to make time for it. On top of that, I've picked up Rushdie's Midnight's Children.
I've been suspecting for a while I've grown docile, more so than before.

title photo created with midjourney Ai