Mantou Mountain

This world, it's getting harder and harder to understand.

I rubbed my groggy head and climbed out of the creaking wooden bed. Outside the window, the sky was a murky gray, like a giant rag sloppily smearing the city.

From the alleyway, I could vaguely hear the cries of vendors, sharp and hoarse, like a rusty saw grating on people's nerves.

"Mantou! Freshly steamed mantou! Big and white mantou!"

I chuckled bitterly. Mantou? Who cares about mantou these days? And yet, strangely, Shanghai's mantou has become a rare commodity, a symbol of being "far ahead."

I remember when I was a child, mantou was the most ordinary of foods. You could buy four for a yuan, fluffy, warm, and carrying a simple, wholesome wheat fragrance. But now, this mantou, it's changed.

First, it was "improved," they said it was to "align with international standards." The flour had to be imported, the yeast specially made, even the steamers for the mantou had to be handcrafted by "inheritors of intangible cultural heritage." Naturally, the price also soared, more than doubling.

Later, mantou began to be "rationed." Every morning, long lines formed in front of each mantou shop, stretching for several blocks, even more terrifying than the gold rush back then. I heard that some people, just to buy a few mantou, would line up at three in the morning, only to find out by noon that the mantou was sold out.

That's not all. Mantou was also divided into grades: "Premium," "Collector's Edition," "Supreme," and the prices skyrocketed accordingly, reaching astronomical levels. I heard that the most expensive "Supreme" mantou could cost thousands of yuan each, supposedly (naki) containing gold leaf and bird's nest, promising "longevity and rejuvenation."

Bah! It's the biggest joke in the world!

But strangely, some people believe it. Those wealthy people take pride in eating "Supreme" mantou, feeling that it's a symbol of status, a manifestation of "superiority." They eat these sky-high priced mantou while talking about "quality of life," completely ignoring those who can't even afford ordinary mantou.

I once saw an old man in ragged clothes, trembling as he walked up to a mantou shop, looking with pleading eyes at the mantou displayed in the window. But the shop assistant just glanced at him coldly and said, "Go away, go away, you can't afford the mantou here!"

The old man left dejectedly, his hunched back appearing particularly desolate in the dim light of the sky.

I don't know where this "far ahead" mantou is actually ahead. Is it ahead in price? Or ahead in absurdity?

All I know is that this mantou is no longer a food to fill the stomach; it has become a symbol, a distorted and suffocating symbol. It's like an invisible mountain, weighing down on the hearts of every ordinary person, making it hard to breathe.

I walked to the window and opened it. A gust of air, mixed with the smell of mold and sourness, rushed in. In the distance, skyscrapers stood tall, brightly lit, but I felt that this city was increasingly like a giant cage, a cage built with mantou.

I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. I know I can't change anything, but at least I can record all of this, so that future generations will know how absurd things happened in this era.