MARKET SUNDAYS WITH Grandma were always an exhilarating experience. I am always a four-year-old when I gingerly shuffle across the slippery pitted concrete. The floor was marbled red. Chickens wailed in panic, while my nose was hit by the smell of caramelising coconut and sugar cooking. There was life pulsing through the air.
“You’ve increased your prices again!” Grandma protested aloud at the vendor from whom she has purchased spices for over half a century.
As we trotted toward the live catfish monger, Grandma continued her disgruntled nag, having paid half-a-ringgit more than she had expected. The spice vendor has two university-educated children in high-income positions, and could easily do without raising prices.
The market was a central component of Grandma’s social life.
