The wet market early in the morning was an organized orchestra of chaos.
The sound of knives hitting wooden cutting boards, the shouts of porters asking for space, and the roar of vegetable trucks created a noise loud enough to deafen those who weren’t used to it.
The fishy smell of chicken blood mixed with the smell of vegetables starting to rot in the corners of the narrow alleys, creating a warm steam that made your chest feel tight in the cold morning air.
Anom walked through the crowd with his blue plastic bucket.
His steps were steady even though his shoulders still slumped…a natural posture he had formed from years of carrying life’s weight.
Inside the bucket, five Plecostomus fish from his latest catch moved calmly.
The water inside the bucket looked much cleaner than the sewer water those fish came from…a detail Anom actually noticed but chose not to think about too deeply.
His goal was only one: a stall in the back corner of the market, covered by the shadow of an old building.
That stall belonged to Pak Haji.
A middle-aged man who had a reputation as the single ruler of low-class fish commodities.
Pak Haji was the only person who had the network to distribute fish from under the toll bridge into raw material for fishmeal or animal feed outside the city.
And because of his position as the only buyer, Pak Haji always had full control over the price.
Anom already knew the procedure he would go through very well.
He would put down his bucket, Pak Haji would peek in with a sour face, then a series of complaints would come out of the old man’s mouth.
Pak Haji would usually criticize the fish for being too small, blame the skin texture for being too hard, or complain about the diesel smell being too strong.
After that, Pak Haji would cut the scale price however he wanted.
If the market price was ten thousand, Anom might only go home with seven thousand rupiah in his hand.
Anom never had a choice but to refuse.
For him, a little money was better than no money at all.
Anom arrived in front of Pak Haji’s big wooden table.
The old man was sitting on his high chair, wearing a white prayer cap that had turned yellow from sweat and a checkered sarong draped over his shoulder.
He was counting sheets of money inside a small wooden box.
“You’re here again,” Pak Haji mumbled without looking away from his money.
His voice sounded heavy and full of permanent exhaustion.
“I brought good ones today, Pak Haji,” Anom said, placing his bucket on the wet cement floor.
Pak Haji closed his money box with a loud thud.
He sighed deeply, as if seeing Anom was an extra workload that was very tiring for him.
He got down from his high chair, walked closer to Anom’s blue bucket.
Usually, he would give the bucket a soft kick to see how agile the fish were inside.
But today, Pak Haji stood still in front of that bucket.
He didn’t kick it.
He just stood frozen, staring into the clear water, holding the five Plecostomus fish.
The flickering neon market light bounced off the water’s surface, showing fish scales that looked very healthy and shiny.
Pak Haji bent down.
His wrinkled face looked tense.
He pulled an old hanging scale from its hook.
With slow movements, he took the fish one by one and put them into the scale container.
Anom had prepared himself to hear phrases like, “but the sizes aren’t uniform” or “this scale must have something stuck in it.” He had prepared his mind for the usual cruel price-cutting.
He watched the scale needle swing slowly, then stop at a number showing a fairly significant net weight.
Pak Haji stared at that number for a few seconds.
He didn’t complain.
He didn’t try to shake the scale to make the number go down.
He just took a deep breath, then put the fish back into his own holding container.
“Twenty-five thousand,” Pak Haji said briefly.
Anom was stunned.
He blinked a few times, thinking he had misheard.
Twenty-five thousand rupiah for five Plecostomus fish was the full price…something he had never even imagined.
That was a price without cuts, an honest price, the price that should apply in an ideal world, but rarely happened in this market.
“All of them, Pak Haji?” Anom asked to make sure.
“All of them,” Pak Haji answered shortly.
He immediately reached into his sarong pocket and pulled out several bills.
Anom received the money with slightly trembling hands.
He counted in his head.
Twenty-thousand-dollar bills, and one five-thousand-dollar bill.
All in relatively clean condition.
No small coins that Pak Haji usually added to complicate the calculation.
Everything was exact.
Everything was honest.
Anom stood frozen for a few moments.
He waited for Pak Haji to say something else…maybe a warning that today was an exception, or a request for Anom to do extra work as compensation.
But Pak Haji just turned his face away.
The old man immediately went back to his high chair and busied himself with his notebook, as if he wanted Anom to disappear from his sight.
“Thank you, Pak Haji,” Anom said quietly.
Anom turned around and walked out of that stall.
Throughout his steps toward the market exit, he kept looking back.
He felt like he had just committed a theft in broad daylight, even though he only received what was rightfully his.
A strange feeling crept up the back of his neck.
The good luck that had kept coming since he met Inem was starting to feel like an unnatural pattern.
The money in his pants pocket felt heavier than usual.
Even though he knew it wasn’t physically heavier, but mentally.
That money clearly represented a shift in his life, which had always been flat and full of bad luck.
Anom felt as if he was carrying something that wasn’t his…a “blessing” he didn’t ask for but was forced upon him.
…
Meanwhile, at his stall that looked a little dark, Pak Haji was still holding his pen but not writing anything.
He stared at his own palms, which had just touched Anom’s fish.
There was a strange sensation still lingering there…a kind of sharp coolness that made him uncomfortable.
Pak Haji himself didn’t know why he didn’t cut the price earlier.
The habit of cutting prices was part of his identity as a market trader.
For him, bargaining and lowering prices were a way to survive in the middle of cruel competition.
But when he saw the fish in Anom’s bucket earlier, something stabbed at his chest.
Every time he was about to open his mouth to complain, he felt as if a pair of clear eyes were watching him from inside the water.
A stare that didn’t threaten, but gave a very heavy psychological pressure.
That stare seemed to demand honesty from him…an honesty he had buried long ago under piles of trading lies.
“Just get it done quickly,” he said shortly.
Something’s strange about that kid, Pak Haji whispered to himself.
He felt there was something wrong with Anom.
That scruffy man brought something maybe invisible…something that could change the perception of people around him.
Pak Haji got goosebumps for no clear reason.
He immediately called his assistant to move Anom’s fish to the back storage room.
He didn’t want to see those fish too close to him for too long.
…
Anom left the market just as the sun started to peek out from behind the concrete buildings.
Pale golden light shone on his dirty face.
He stopped in front of a small coffee stall, tempted to use his money to buy something fancy like a full pack of clove cigarettes.
But he remembered Inem.
If he was getting more fortune, shouldn’t he share it back?
That was the unwritten law starting to form in his head.
Since Inem arrived, Anom felt his life was no longer about surviving alone.
There was a new responsibility growing in the middle of his poverty.
He didn’t buy cigarettes.
Instead, he walked toward Mpok Lela’s stall with quicker steps.
He wanted to pay off his remaining debt and maybe buy something better for the woman under the toll bridge.
Along the way, Anom noticed the people passing by him.
Usually, people would cover their noses or move away when they saw him.
But today, they just passed by without giving any strong negative reaction.
The world seemed to give him a little space to breathe.
Anom touched the money in his pocket once more.
He remembered the wound on his hand that had healed almost perfectly.
He remembered the shiny fish.
He remembered Pak Haji’s sudden honesty.
All of it was puzzle pieces that he himself didn’t know how to put together.
Maybe this is what they call luck, Anom thought skeptically.
But luck usually comes with a high price later on.