The “cock-cock” sound of roosters and the chanting sound of prayers from a nearby mosque began another day—another busy day in the market. A fish monger struggled against the time. The salty smell from the sweat which gave a sticky yellowish colour around the armpits of his shirt mixed with the fishy odor of the seafood in that crowded store. The fish was so fresh. Its skin was slippery when I touched it. I finished my business and rushed out immediately to catch some fresh air. Hmmm . . . the smell of tropical fruits touched my nostrils: the sweet and fresh smell of mangos, the soft and mushy smell of durian meat and oh, look—the inviting red rambutans (fruit with hairy rinds) with juicy but crunchy flesh. My greedy eyes searched for the best. My taste buds couldn’t stand it. I swallowed my saliva. I moved on to the next stand. I needed some spices to cook my curry chicken. The fresh spices made my tummy grumble. My basket was getting heavier. As I walked home along the road, I smelled people’s cooking. I heard the pounding sound of the stones grinding the spices and the sizzling sounds of people frying food. In a backyard, a child was crying. In my garden, the sprinkler was sprinkling frantically. The day became ripe. The sun shone its brightest and hottest light. Mothers were preparing to pick up their preschoolers. Half of the busy day had almost past. Just another ordinary day.