Change
Beneath a sun cloaked in the ashes of a faded love for humanity, Dhaka stirs. Rain falls sparingly, clouds a constant annoyance against the city's relentless rhythm. A cold breeze dances amidst the cacophony, carrying the early chirps of birds that haven't yet witnessed dawn. Crows caw, one leading the chorus with a mocking hump. Car horns blare, drivers sour-faced as they navigate the May Day chaos. Back in the room, an avalanche of books awaits. Medical and non-medical tomes stacked precariously, their bumps a testament to a quiet quest for knowledge. A Sutra, draped in an orange scarf, whispers the wisdom of long-gone Buddhist masters. A large fan hangs uselessly from the ceiling, a relic of a warmer season. On the wall, an old calendar declares 2014 a distant memory. Yet, a deafening silence prevails. The closet, five bars of soap, the study table, even the badminton rackets - all stand frozen in a silent tableau. Only the rhythmic tick of the quartz clock breaks the stilln...