I referred to her as “my papaya lady” although technically she was not mine and she did not only sell papayas. That’s all I bought from her though, juicy red-orange slices of papaya wrapped in crinkled pink plastic.

Her fruit stand was opposite the cafe where I worked most days on my six month break. It wasn’t a proper stall, just two off-white plastic chairs and an ice cooler filled with fruits sitting atop a wooden table. I’d start my shifts at seven a.m, before the sun had fully risen. In the blue dawn I’d see her sitting there alone, table set up, fruits already sliced.

The papaya lady was very elderly and always had a silky scarf wrapped around her small head. She couldn’t speak much English but she called me Pretty, like it was my name. Shamefully, I didn’t speak Malay either- the native language of our country- so our exchanges were always short:

— Hi Pretty, how you?

— Good! How are you?

— Very good. Papaya?

— Yes please, five,

— Thank you, Pretty Girl. Tomorrow,

— See you tomorrow!

Nothing more, nothing less.

And yet I looked forward to seeing her in the afternoons. Her eyes were perpetually squinting from sitting in the sun all day, her face falling a few shades lighter than tree bark. Sun-spots and moles spilled like flour on her cheeks. Her movements were both swift and gentle as she slid the papaya slices into its packaging and handed them to me. The first few times I visited her stand, she’d offer me a plastic bag for ease of carrying my fruits. I was trying to reduce my waste and always declined. She soon understood. She laughed at my attempt to juggle multiple slices in my hands.

I’d still check up on her when the day was cloudy and I wasn’t craving fruit. I’d make a coffee in a takeaway cup, telling my co-workers it was for my father. They probably wouldn’t be too pleased knowing I was giving away free coffee to the fruit seller down the road.

A few weeks later, my routine remained the same. On my lunch break I went to the stand. I greeted my papaya lady, and not receiving the same response I usually got, I asked her what was wrong. She told me her father was in hospital with cancer and her family couldn’t afford the medical bills.

I thought about my papaya lady all week, asking my coworkers whether I should help, lend her some money, perhaps even collect a few Ringgit from everyone as sort of a fundraiser for her. I got raised eyebrows and smirks in return.

Even my father, who I viewed as the most giving man I had ever known, told me all I could give was my support.

“Sometimes, there’s nothing else you can do,”

So each time I saw her, I’d simply ask her how her father was doing. She’d tell me he wasn’t doing well, but did I want to buy papaya?

Seeing her response made me feel even more helpless, and selfishly, I stopped asking.

Caught up in university applications and preparing for my move, I buried my worries about my papaya lady and her sick father. I stopped working at the cafe and moved shortly after.

—