Bishan · Wet market
The Long Way to Bishan Wet Market
My mother gave me three items and implied a fourth. Fish paste for soup. Ginger. Something green. The fourth was understood: do not come back without checking the tofu stall, because last week I forgot and she had to send my brother. I wrote the list on my phone and then ignored the map because the direct route along Marymount Road always feels like rushing, and rushing at a wet market is how you buy the wrong fish.
I cut through the park connector instead. Longer. Cooler under the trees. A cyclist rang his bell twice — polite, not angry — and I stepped aside onto the gravel edge. My tote was empty on the way out. That never lasts. The connector joins the estate near Block 22 and from there I know every turn by foot, which is the whole point of living in the same heartlands long enough.
Bishan wet market was loud in the good way. Water on tiles. Knives on boards. Someone calling a price I did not catch. I bought fish paste first because it melts in the bag if you carry it too long. The auntie wrapped it in double plastic and tied the knot with one hand. Ginger next — she picked a knob without me pointing, which means I have been coming here long enough to be predictable.
Then the long way inside the market — not the shortcut through the middle, but the outer lane where the tofu stall sits next to the man who sells bananas by the hand. I checked tofu. Firm. Two blocks. Added to the list in my head: bananas, because my niece likes them and because the bag still had room. Errands breed errands. That is not wisdom. That is just how a Tuesday works.
Chye sim from the auntie who saves the last bunch. Pak choy because my mother said green and did not specify. A plastic bag of onions that shifted and bumped my knee on the walk back through the lane. I stopped for kopi at the hawker corner even though I did not plan to — the cup was too hot to hold and too good to skip. One hand for the cup, one for the tote handle, no free fingers. The usual arithmetic.
The long way home added one block because I wanted to avoid the construction hoarding that spews dust when the wind picks up. A plastic bag caught on a railing spun until a boy on a scooter knocked it free. I watched it float toward the drain and thought about nothing useful. That is also part of the errand chain — the mind goes where the feet go, which is sometimes nowhere in particular.
At my mother's flat I unpacked in order: fish paste in the fridge, ginger in the tray, vegetables in the sink. She checked the tofu and nodded. The bananas went to my niece, who was already peeling one before I washed my hands. Success measured in small domestic units.
The tote went back in my handbag folded flat. The list on my phone had every item crossed off and one added in my handwriting on the receipt I never threw away: bananas, again, for next week. The long way cost twenty extra minutes and one kopi. Worth it, if you measure worth in a bag that pulls evenly on both arms and a mother who did not have to send my brother.