Row three is where I buy fruit because Mrs Lim from 03-36 told me to, years ago, in the lift, without context — "Row three, the left stall, tell them you want heavy." I followed the instruction before I understood it, the way you trust neighbours on practical matters because they have already tested what you are still guessing.
The stall uncle recognises my face now but not my name. He selects mangoes with wrists that move faster than his expression — weighing, tapping, setting aside rejects into a box that will become tomorrow's juice cart. The market bag on my arm already holds onions and kai lan; fruit goes in last so it does not bruise.
Heavy is a language. A mango that weighs more than it looks often carries more sun inside — my neighbour's lesson, passed without a classroom.
I used to choose by colour — the blush on cheeks, the even gold — and came home with fruit that looked beautiful and tasted like polite water. Mrs Lim watched me once at the corridor plant, said nothing, then the next week walked with me to row three and stood beside me while the uncle picked three mangoes I would not have chosen. They ripened in two days, sweet enough to make my mother close her eyes on the first bite.
Today I asked for heavy again. The uncle nodded as if confirming a password. He added a papaya because, he said, "today's good" — not a discount, not a promotion, just information offered the way you tell someone the lift is slow this morning. I accepted. The market bag grew warmer against my hip.
Row three smells of cut pineapple and damp cardboard. Floor tiles are always slightly wet; your sandals make a small sound that belongs to Saturday mornings. Aunties compare prices in voices that carry without shouting. A boy counts coins for rambutan while his grandmother pretends not to watch. None of this is remarkable except that it is — the same scene every week with different fruit, different coins, the same patience.
Walking home I thought about handed knowledge: not recipes written down, but weight in a palm, the give of skin, the uncle's silence while he chooses. Mrs Lim moved to Yew Tee last year. I still buy from row three. I still say heavy. The lesson continues in my arm even when the teacher is elsewhere — a story the market tells every time fruit lands in my bag, still warm from the stall.