This is written for a module NM4247 Creative Writing in the Marketplace, about a place from childhood/ a place I would like to return to and that holds significant meaning to me.
Rows and rows of stalls are crammed next to one another. The air is thick with sweat, seawater, and fresh blood. People are yelling, people are bargaining, people are chatting, and people are shoving each other while holding red or white plastic bags on their arms. My 6-year-old self stood at the entrance of this unobtrusive market with pouting lips and arms crossed, thinking to myself, "Ah ma lied to me, there are no snacks here".
Nonetheless, I pressed my fingernails into my grandmother’s arm for fear of getting lost in the crowd. I trudged behind her as she made her way through the various sections buying meat, fish, vegetables, and other food stuff while getting me to greet the stall owners as auntie and uncle.
Our bags got heavier and heavier, the sky got brighter and brighter, and the crowds seem to have dispersed. My grandmother finally declared, “Okay we’re done buying what we need!”.
I let out a huge breath while lugging the bags wearily. I was glad to finally be able to head home and watch my cartoons in peace. To my surprise, she brought me to the dry section of the market.
“Ah mei, come take what you want, don’t tell mummy that I brought you here ah,” said my grandmother in Chinese.
I squealed with excitement as I saw the array of snacks on display at the storefront, wondering which ones to get.
“This, this and this”. I pointed at the snacks with my short limbs which the stall owner kindly packed for me. I skipped home, clutching on to my bag of happiness.
When I got home, I gingerly opened the packaging so the chips will not fall out. I took a whiff first and slowly savoured on each chip as if it was a delicacy. Sometimes, I even eat a few pieces a day and hid the rest from my parents so that it will last till my next grocery trip.
Every Monday morning since then, I looked forward to tagging along my grandmother to the market.
However, I stopped visiting the market when I entered primary school since there were classes in the morning. I began to spend more time with my friends in malls and the joy I felt at the market faded into the back of my mind. Snacks could no longer compare to iPhones, branded school bags, and fancy stationaries. My grandmother, on the other hand, continued her routine without fail.
2014. That was the year when the image of my fit and boisterous grandmother came crumbling down. She could no longer walk. It was the stroke and old age; I heard the doctors say. I was 17 then.
We had not spent time together in more than a decade, but her collapse still strikes me. For a long time, I loathed myself for neglecting her. A thousand and one should-haves popped into my head – I should have insisted on accompanying her to the market during the weekends, I should have taken her out when she could still walk… It was too late.
Oddly, it was my grandmother who comforted me. Behind her frail body was still her positive and reassuring self. That was when I realised that nothing had to change. I could still go to the market and take her out even if she is on a wheelchair.
At 17, the market no longer appears to be such a frightening place. Instead of clutching my grandmother's arms and being dragged around by her, I am clutching on to the handles of her wheelchair and pushing her through the various sections.
I was astonished to see that some of the stall owners had not changed, albeit with more wrinkles and white hair. The market layout, which I could navigate with my eyes closed before, is now unrecognizable with the multiple rounds of renovations.
Of course, a trip to the market would be incomplete without a stop at the provision store. Bags of chips still hung in the storefront, along with preserved fruits in the first row and sweets in the second. A wave of nostalgia swept through me, and I smiled. I am glad to be back.
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