AT
CENTRAL MARKET WITH AMMA
-
Malachi Edwin
Vethamani (Malaysia)
It’s a Saturday morning.
Amma needs an assistant.
I’m the lucky son to be chosen.
We board the Number 5 Sri Jaya bus
from our home in Thambapillai Kampung,
Brickfields.
Our destination: Central Market.
Kuala
Lumpur’s bustling wet market.
A short ride from the stop across the
Lido Theatre,
alighting just before Foch Avenue.
Amma has drawn up her list.
I shadow her from stall to stall,
Her steps familiar,
her vendors regular, almost old
friends.
First, the vegetable section.
Dry, steeped in plant scent,
nothing unpleasant assails my
nose.
“Amma, vangge,” her usual stall owner
calls out.
Amma nods,
she points to vegetables in her list.
An assistant fills a sack,
prices noted,
curry leaves tossed in, free of charge.
I brace myself.
My Japanese slippers are no match,
for the slosh of mucky water
from the fish stalls we’ll pass.
Amma heads to the poultry section.
The air is thick,
shit, blood and boiled feathers
assault my nose.
I pull out my handkerchief,
its knotted corner soaked,
with MinyakKapak, Chinese medicated
oil,
a shield against the stench.
Chickens and
ducks
huddle in
cramped cages,
awaiting their fate.
Amma gestures,
a nod, a
choice.
The chickens
are weighed,
price agreed,
necks slit,
bodies thrown
into boiling water.
Feathers
plucked,
innards
discarded.
I watch,
wait,
collect the
clean cuts.
Amma has been spotted.
Her friends are out marketing too.
A short conversation.
She heads to a fish stall now,
her trusted fishmonger sees her.
“Akka, mau ikan tenggiri?”
Amma smiles but pays no heed,
chooses from her list.
Her final stop: fruits galore.
Papayas, mangoes, watermelon –
local bounty in vibrant hues.
The imported fruits sit stately –
no apples, oranges or grapes, today,
no special occasion.
Just papaya and watermelon.
Both my hands full,
we return to the
vegetable stall.
The owner offers
Amma a seat.
She declines.
He signals an assistant
to help with our
load.
He hails a trishaw.
Amma haggles the
fare
with practised ease.
The sack of
vegetables is hoisted behind.
Amma and I share the
seat,
fish, chicken and
fruit
laid at our feet.
I’ve survived
another trip
to the wet market with
Amma.
There will be a few
more trips.
Then, we left
Brickfields,
and Central Market
was closed,
its vendors
relocated.
Years later,
I return alone
to a refurbished
Central Market.
It’s now Pasar Seni.
But to many it
remains Central Market.
The once chaotic
charm,
teeming with local
daily life gone.
Now a heritage site,
more a tourist
attraction.
Livestock replaced by souvenirs,
collectors' items and local cuisine.
Neatly laid out pop-up stalls,
in the middle corridor.
Restaurants and homegrown boutiques
in the new floor above.
Sanitised and sterile
for those like me
who knew its glory
days,
the mingle of stench
and sweetness
of flesh, fish,
fruit and flowers.
Looking over these
stalls,
I still see Amma
walking ahead
towards the poultry
stalls,
her silhouette in
memory’s mist.
I, a few steps
behind.
****