The vegetable uncle saw me from two stalls away and called my name before I reached his counter. Not my full government name — the shortened version friends use, the one that means you again, good.
I had not planned to buy much — ginger, tomatoes, maybe kai lan if it looked lively. He had already pulled kai lan from the ice box when I was still weaving through the crowd. “Today fresh,” he said, which is what stallholders say, but his hands backed it up — stems snapped clean, leaves unbruised.
We talked about nothing important: whether the afternoon would rain, whether the new payment terminal was faster (mixed verdict). Another customer joined the queue; he switched languages without thinking, then back to me in English with a tease about my reusable bag finally replacing plastic.
Being remembered in a market is a small fame — not influencer fame, neighbour fame. It means you showed up often enough for someone to file you under regular. In a city that moves fast, regular is a compliment.
I paid, slipped produce into the bag, and walked out into heat that smelled of cut fruit and exhaust in equal measure. My name still rang in my ears the way a good greeting should — brief, warm, gone before it becomes obligation.
I am writing it down so future me remembers that recognition does not require social media. Sometimes it is an uncle at Teck Whye market, ice on his table, knowing your name and your kai lan preference in the same breath.
On the MRT home I counted how many transactions still use my name aloud — barber, clinic reception on good days, this uncle. Not many. Each one feels like a tiny broadcast on a local frequency only you and they tune to.
Tomorrow I might buy only ginger. He will still greet me. That predictability is not boring — it is the sound of a place saying you belong without a membership fee.
I double-checked my reusable bag for holes before sleep — ridiculous, domestic, true. The kai lan survived the trip upright in the side pocket, stems still cool against my leg. Groceries as punctuation on an ordinary day.
He will not remember this post. He remembers faces and bags and who buys kai lan on weekday evenings. That is enough fame for both of us.
Next time I might try his ginger recommendation. He mentioned a sharper root from a box near the back — said it without selling, like sharing a radio tip. I will report back if it changes my soup.
Until then, this post is only a name spoken over kai lan — small, audible proof that regular still means something in a city of strangers.
The ginger can wait. Recognition could not.
Market closed nine. I was home by nine-fifteen. Ordinary timing for an ordinary post.