The farmers’ market is truly a magical place.
Just as dawn begins to break, the area beneath the corrugated iron roof comes alive. The fishmonger arrives first, yanking open the plastic tarp with a loud *whoosh*, like drawing back the curtain on a grand performance. Water in the tanks gurgles and splashes; fish tails thrash, sending droplets flying onto blocks of ice, where they instantly freeze into tiny flecks of frost. The vendor grabs his net, quick and precise—*swoop*—a silvery crucian carp lands with a slap on the chopping board, tail still twitching, eyes wide and round, as if protesting the morning’s brutality.
Next door, the “tofu beauty” isn’t one to be outdone. She lifts the lid of her wooden tub, and immediately a warm, mellow fragrance of soy fills the air. Snow-white tofu rests gently in pale yellow soy whey, quivering slightly—like freshly solidified clouds. She slices it with a bamboo spatula, one clean stroke producing perfect cubes, neither too big nor too small, as if each piece had been measured by an invisible ruler in her mind.
The real bustle begins around eight o’clock. Office workers clutch briefcases, housewives carry woven baskets, elderly men push rickety carts—they flood in like a tide. Haggling echoes from every direction, an unorchestrated chorus of voices.
“Can you make it cheaper? The leaves are already wilting!”
“Wilting? That’s freshness! Just pulled from the field—sunlight makes them ‘shy’ and bow their heads! Five yuan, not a cent less!”
“Three fifty!”
“Four eighty! One yuan less and I’m going home to babysit!”
“Four!”
“…Fine! Take it! But come earlier next time—by late morning, all the tender ones are gone!”
They exchange a smile. The deal is sealed. In that little dance of bargaining, there’s a warmth, a human touch.
In the corner sits an old cobbler named Master Zhang, wearing thick-lensed reading glasses perched on his nose, the arms wrapped repeatedly with tape. He speaks little, but his hands are nimble—awl, hammer, needle darting through leather like he’s playing a silent symphony. A sole coming loose, a worn-down heel—under his hands, in minutes, the shoe is reborn. He never shouts for customers, yet loyal patrons always find him. When asked his secret, he doesn’t look up, muttering instead: “Shoes know the road. The road knows the shoes. Once repaired, they’ve still got a long way to walk together.”
By noon, the noise begins to fade. Most of the ice at the fish stall has melted; the tofu seller has packed up and gone home. Only Master Zhang remains, slowly putting away his tools. Sunlight slants in through gaps in the metal roof, casting beams across the damp floor. Dust motes swirl in the golden light, like countless tiny sparks.
I walk past, grocery bag in hand, through a market now half-empty. As I pass Master Zhang’s stall, he’s bent over, sewing a child’s cloth shoe, each stitch tight and careful. Suddenly, it strikes me—this market isn’t merely a place of commerce. It’s a moving temple. Not dedicated to gods or Buddhas, but to the taste of being alive—the fish’s struggle, the tofu’s tenderness, the cunning and sincerity in haggling, and those calloused hands offering patience and respect to an old, well-worn shoe.
It’s not grand. It’s even a bit noisy, greasy, unkempt. Yet it’s precisely this raw, unpolished truth that makes you feel, deep down: to be alive—is good.
菜市场
菜市场真是个神奇的地方。
天刚蒙蒙亮，铁皮棚子底下就热闹开了。鱼摊的老板第一个到场，哗啦一声掀开遮雨的塑料布，像拉开一场大戏的幕布。鱼缸里的水哗哗响，鱼尾拍打着，溅起的水珠落在冰块上，瞬间凝成细小的霜。老板抄起抄网，眼疾手快，一条银光闪闪的鲫鱼就“啪”地一声被摔在案板上，尾巴还在抽，眼睛瞪得溜圆，仿佛在抗议这清早的粗暴。
隔壁的豆腐西施也不甘示弱，掀开木桶盖，一股温润的豆香立刻弥漫开来。雪白的豆腐躺在淡黄的豆汁里，颤巍巍的，像一块块刚凝固的云。她切豆腐用的是竹片，轻轻一划，方方正正，不多不少，仿佛那不是豆腐，而是她心里的尺子量过。
最热闹的是早八点。上班族夹着公文包，主妇挎着菜篮子，大爷推着小推车，像潮水一样涌进来。讨价还价声此起彼伏，像一场没有指挥的合唱。
“青菜便宜点嘛，叶子都打蔫了！”
“打蔫？这叫新鲜！刚从地里拔的，太阳一晒，叶子自然要‘害羞’低头！五块，少一分都不卖！”
“三块五！”
“四块八！再少我就回家抱孩子去！”
“四块！”
“……拿去！下回早点，嫩的都被挑光喽！”
两人相视一笑，买卖成了。那点算计里的烟火气，竟也透着股人情味。
拐角处有个修鞋摊，老师傅姓张，戴副老花镜，鼻梁上架着，镜腿用胶布缠了又缠。他话少，手却灵巧，锥子、锤子、针线在他手里翻飞，像在演奏一首无声的曲子。一只脱了胶的皮鞋，一块磨破的鞋跟，在他手里，不消片刻，便“起死回生”。他从不吆喝，可熟客都认准他。有人问他秘诀，他头也不抬，只嘟囔一句：“鞋知道路，路也知道鞋。修好了，它们还得一起走很久。”
中午时分，喧嚣渐歇。鱼摊的冰块化了大半，豆腐西施收摊回家。只有张师傅还在，慢悠悠地收拾工具。阳光斜斜地照进来，穿过铁皮棚的缝隙，在湿漉漉的地面上投下几道光柱，灰尘在光里飞舞，像无数微小的金点。
我拎着刚买的菜，走过空了一半的市场。路过张师傅的摊子，他正低头缝一只小孩的布鞋，针脚细密。我忽然觉得，这菜市场，哪里是买卖的地方？分明是座流动的庙宇。供奉的不是神佛，是活着的滋味——是鱼的挣扎，是豆腐的柔嫩，是讨价还价里的狡黠与真诚，是那双布满老茧的手，对一只旧鞋的耐心与尊重。
它不宏大，甚至有些嘈杂、油腻、不修边幅。可正是这粗粝的真实，让人觉得，活着，真好。