Market Grammar

Chapter 25 – Market Grammar

Wet markets keep the city honest. By 7:10 a.m., Geylang Serai’s floor had chosen its usual sheen–hose water, fish melt, and the rinsed courage of early work. Fans made their weather; stall lights turned scales into confetti. Aleem stepped through the side entrance with a tote that had opinions and a Tupperware in his hand–the same one his mother had gifted last week, now returned with biscuit like an oath.

A: At the bus stop. Long sleeves, brave shoes, the text blinked. I brought exact change and apology face.

Aleem: I have tissue and an umbrella. Apologies accepted in advance by aunties, he typed back, then tucked the phone away. The auntie economy did not require screens.

His mother materialized with the inevitability of a timetable. Basket on arm, blouse designed by common sense, sandals that could out‑negotiate rain. “We start at fish,” she decreed. “If we are late, the eyes will sulk.” She clocked the Tupperware and tapped it. “Biscuit?

“Biscuit,” he confirmed.

“Stamp,” she said, satisfied. She glanced past him as Aoi arrived–white cotton sleeve, hair tied back, mask on until the room consented to her face. Aoi lifted a hand; his mother returned it in auntie dialect: chin up, approval provisional.

“Good morning,” Aoi said, bowing just enough for stalls to continue ignoring her. “Thank you for bringing me to where fish are citizens.”

“Morning,” Mdm Rahman said. “Today we test eyes. We see if you can tell fresh from gossip.”

Aoi smiled with relief at a test that came with instructions. “I will try.”

Fish row smelled like ocean that had read the memo on civility. Styrofoam boxes yawned ice; knives sang the soft clink of professional conversation. Kak Ros at Stall 34 lifted a pomfret with the pride of a woman who will not be outperformed by water. “Boy! Your mother’s son,” she greeted, which is how names operate here. “And this… girl?”

“My friend,” his mother said. “She wants to learn eyes.”

Aoi bowed a hinge bow that works on civilians. “May I… learn?”

“May, may,” Kak Ros beamed, already rearranging fish into a lesson plan. “First–don’t be shy. Touch. Fresh fish no smell like sorry. Eyes clear like bus timing that really come. Gills–red, not brown. Belly tight, not like me after lunch.” She laughed at herself and the stall laughed with her; humor is legal tender here.

Aoi reached. Not a poke, not a prod. Fingers along the flank, a respectful press. She tilted the head, looked into the glass marble. “Clear,” she said, not guessing. “And the gill… may I?”

“Open,” Kak Ros instructed, pleased with a student who asks. Aoi lifted the operculum like a book cover and Asterix‑red gills looked back. “Good,” Kak Ros approved. “You have hands that listen. This one can steam with ginger. Skin behave.”

“Pomfret?” his mother translated. “Bawal. Two small for steaming. And one ikan merah for curry, auntie. Fresh also?”

“Ikan merah also fresh,” Kak Ros sniffed, then smiled because the question had been asked in the proper tone. She plucked a snapper onto paper. “See–eye like truth. You make curry, ah? Thick or shy?”

“Thick,” his mother declared. “We feed people.” She looked to Aoi. “You like bones you can find? This fish is honest. You can see where to be careful.”

“I like honest,” Aoi said. She tapped two fingers to her tote in the signal that had become ordinary between them. Here. He returned one hold on the tote strap. Stay.

Money changed hands with the choreography of palm, receipt, plastic bag double‑bagged like a secret. A runner boy slid ice into a bag with a flick that should be taught in schools. “Next time,” Kak Ros said to Aoi, “you ask for gill check yourself. Aunties like brave customers.”

“I will,” Aoi promised. “Thank you for teaching me eyes.”

“Eyes are free,” Kak Ros said grandly. “If someone tries to sell you their eyes, run.”

Vegetable row sharpened the air–chives as punctuation, chye sim arranged like disciplined soldiers, bitter gourd pretending innocence. Aoi paused at the gourds and made the face of a person writing a treaty with a vegetable nation. “Hello,” she told them under her breath. “We are not enemies.”

The chye sim auntie, who treated greens like grandchildren, spotted a new face and threw the standard test. “You can tell old and young?” she asked, eyebrow a quiz.

Aoi’s fingers hovered. “Stems not dry. Leaves not yellow… and the cut ends not brown.” She looked to Mdm Rahman. “Correct?”

“Correct,” his mother said, allowing herself the pleasure of being teacher and auntie. “Also–the sound.” She snapped a stem; it broke with the note of a clean ‘C.’ “Old stem scold you.”

Aleem bagged garlic, ginger, two limes that had decided to be generous. He passed Aoi a small punnet of chili padi the color of ambition. “Do we dare?”

“We proceed by invitation,” she replied solemnly, taking three and letting the rest return to their community.

At tau kwa stall, the uncle in a singlet and smile lifted a slab like a hymn. “Today very smooth,” he bragged. “Like radio DJ voice.”

“We buy two,” his mother said. “For sauce to talk to.” She eyed Aoi. “Do you drain tofu like a person who has time?”

“I can be boring,” Aoi said gravely. “I will press with patience.”

“Good,” his mother said. “Marriage material is people who drain tofu correctly.” She said it loud enough for a nearby auntie to cackle; she said it softly enough for Aoi to laugh and not hide.

They made a lap for aromatics because Singapore cooking is a negotiation with fragrance. Lemongrass tucked itself under their arms like batons. Aoi learned the ritual of asking for curry leaves with a smile that promises future business. A spice stall auntie thrust a small paper packet into Aoi’s hand: “For fish curry–my blend. Free first time. Next time you pay in gossip.”

“I have very boring gossip,” Aoi apologized.

“Boring is safe,” the auntie said, wise. “I like safe. Go, go.”

They stopped at the drinks stall that had been making barley since people forgot what year it was. “Less sweet,” Aleem ordered for his mother. “One kopi‑o kosong. One barley cold.”

“Girl?” the uncle asked, pen hovering.

“Barley also,” Aoi said, earning a micro‑nod for restraint.

They leaned at the standing table while the market rehearsed lunch. A security guard walked by with the pace of men paid to observe; a boy dragged a carton of ice like a hero in training. Aoi lifted her mask to sip; air touched her face and decided to behave.

“This place has laws,” she said, admiring. “None written. All obeyed.”

“Auntie constitution,” his mother agreed. “You pay; you say thank you; you return tray; you don’t disturb fish.

“And you listen to auntie,” Aoi added, eyes bright.

“Correct,” his mother said. She touched Aoi’s wrist with a brief press–the market’s version of a hug. “You will do fine.”

At the chicken stall, a near‑miss arrived wearing friendliness. The stall assistant, who had the eager energy of someone new to both knives and gossip, glanced at Aoi, then at Aleem. “Eh, you two… couple?” he asked, grinning, phone already fidgeting in his palm like a sparrow that wanted to fly.

Aleem did the choreography that had saved many rooms–palm up, hinge bow, the gentle point at the sign that existed only in decent people’s heads: No filming strangers’ mornings. “We’re just buying dinner,” he said, tone designed by librarians. “Thank you.”

Aoi added the public sentence that closes doors softly. “Please keep this ordinary,” she said, smile small. “We like ordinary.”

The assistant laughed at himself, chastened without being bruised. “Okay, okay,” he said, tucking the phone away and attending, at last, to chicken.

Mdm Rahman bought six wings with the speed of a woman who can bone them in her sleep. “Tonight we fry with turmeric,” she announced. “And fish we steam. Girl, you will cut spring onion like prayer.”

“I will pray slowly,” Aoi promised.

At the dry goods lane, the auntie who sells everything from pegs to plastic bags spotted the Tupperware in Aoi’s tote. “You returning? Good girl.” She swapped lids like a magician. “You bring back, I give you better one. We recycle style.”

“Thank you,” Aoi said, charmed by the barter of everyday kindness. She slid the old container across. “Biscuit inside, as promised.”

“Aiyoh, correct,” the auntie crowed. “The economy is functioning.”

They made their last stop at the fruit stall where watermelons auditioned to be chosen. Aoi performed the polite knock and looked to his mother for the answer. “Sweet,” his mother declared as if reading tea leaves. “We take quarter. Cut in shop. Less mess at home.”

“Home,” Aoi repeated, a word tasting good in her mouth without daring anything dangerous.

They carried their treaties to the taxi stand because ice respects physics. In the cab, Aoi placed the fish on her lap as if it were a document. The driver, who had decided to be part of the chorus, inspected them in the mirror. “Cooking competition?” he joked.

“Family dinner,” his mother said, and the word family passed through the cab without either of the younger two choking on it.

At the lift lobby, a neighbor asked if the rain had behaved. “Rain knows me,” his mother said. “We are in a long relationship.”

Home arranged itself like a stage manager who likes making actors look good. Plastic tablecloth, chopping boards, bowls that remember onions. Aleem placed knife and towel in their places; he set the Bluetooth speaker to the only volume neighbors forgive. Aoi stood at the sink and practiced the market lesson with water as tutor: rinse, pat, check again.

“Team,” his mother said, assigning roles without ceremony. “Boy–paste for fish: ginger, garlic, spring onion white, one chili padi, sesame oil, a little soy. Girl–slice the spring onion greens long‑long, like hair for fish to wear. I do curry. We meet in twenty.”

Aoi glanced at Aleem, eyebrows a small hand signal: We good?

He tapped the bench–two, one, three on wood. Here, stay, air. “We’re good,” he said aloud. “We’re a team.”

She smiled without teeth, then set to work. Spring onion became thread. Ginger became perfume. Her knife moved like someone who respects fingers and time. He mashed the paste in a mortar, the pound‑and‑turn rhythm older than any recipe card. The kitchen smelled like bravery translated into domestic.

His mother toasted curry spices until the room remembered a river. She instructed without hovering. “Fish belly up on the rack; pour hot oil last to wake it. Don’t drown.” Aoi nodded like a student who is allowed to please the teacher and not required to audition for sainthood.

They steamed the pomfret in the wide pan that has seen generations of birthdays. Paste–thin layer; soy and sesame whisper rather than shout; fish wearing spring onion hair. Oil smoked in a small pot; Mdm Rahman poured in a ribbon that pretended to be rain and became applause. The fish flinched politely. Aoi flinched a little and then bowed to hot oil’s authority.

“Correct,” his mother approved. “We let fish talk.”

On the other front, the snapper curry decided to be art without saying it. Lemongrass performed, lime leaves contributed, coconut milk took the last word.

Chicken wings, turmeric flirting with salt, entered pan like friends who know their way around a house. The sound they made called neighbors by name.

“Table,” his mother said, and Aleem laid it out as if building a small shrine: rice, plates, the good chopsticks, three spoons that behave. Aoi placed water like a promise and adjusted the fish platter by one centimeter without admitting to it.

They ate as if auditioning for a quiet award. The fish was exactly itself–flesh that left bone with dignity, skin that apologized for nothing. Aoi took small bites and then braver ones. “Honest,” she said, which is the highest compliment she knows for food and people.

“Honest,” his mother echoed, content.

They traded jobs mid‑meal with the unshowy choreography of people who intend to last: Aleem refilled rice; Aoi lifted the last spring onion onto his mother’s plate because mothers feed others and forget themselves; his mother topped Aoi’s barley and pretended not to notice whether she needed it.

“Girl,” his mother said at one point, eyes kind but direct, “you know I will keep my son even if you go. I also know he will be fine if I go one day. We choose each other for eating days. Not for drama days.”

Aoi put down her chopsticks and did not reach for speech. She raised her palm slightly–may I speak. “Yes,” his mother granted.

“I like him in ways that make rooms better,” Aoi said. “If I cannot do that I will step back before the room breaks.”

“Good,” his mother said simply, not negotiating with fate, merely telling it the house rules.

Dishes are the last exam of love. They passed by being tidy, not heroic. Aoi wiped the stove with the respect due to a surface that has fed. Aleem scrubbed the curry pot because coconut is stubborn. His mother sat for three minutes and let the universe continue without her, which is the hardest job in the house.

In the living room, the radio reported rain with no ideology. Aoi handed back the Tupperware lid, washed and dried. “I will fill this next time and return,” she said.

“With biscuit again,” his mother teased.

“With something brave,” Aoi compromised. “Maybe kueh lapis. Many layers.”

“Many layers is correct,” his mother said. “Nice to eat; nicer to live.” She stood, the ceremony for ending a good day. “Next week–market again. We test your fish alone. I follow behind and judge in my head.”

“I accept,” Aoi said. “Public exam.”

“You two walk her out,” his mother instructed, which is how blessings disguise themselves.

The corridor smelled like rain planning. The lift offered its usual opinions. At the void deck, Aoi set her palm to his–flat–two taps, one hold; three light taps. “Here. Stay. Air.”

“Here,” he said. “Stay. Air.” He didn’t reach for more because the market had taught them the pleasure of adjacent lanes.

“Thank you for team,” she said.

“Team,” he repeated. “We choose together.”

They bowed, not deep, not brief, correct. She walked toward the bus stop with the stride of a person who has learned new nouns. He returned upstairs to a kitchen that smelled like decisions made together.

He opened the locker door’s paper museum and added a new square cut from the corner of a calendar that had given up on months in favor of wisdom.

Feed people first.
Choose together.

He slid the new one under Feed people first and above Hold the room steady. The stack rearranged itself, polite clatter.

His phone chimed once.

A: Home. Fish exam passed. Auntie constitution respected. Thank you for being my teammate.

Aleem: Home. Kitchen reports morale high. Next: you choose fish; I carry ice. We proceed by invitation.

A: Our favorite rebellion continues. Good night.

He set the phone face down. The fan rehearsed rain. He lay on his side toward the wall that had memorized his breath and kept the count that had turned ordinary into prayer.

Two in, hold, three out.

Respect. Distance. Gratitude.

Outside, the market hosed the last scales into the drain, a boy learned the exact weight of ice, and a city counted itself lucky to have aunties who could teach eyes to anyone willing to look.