Her Smile in the Marketplace

Her Smile in the Marketplace I wasn’t in a great mood that day. The sun was too bright, the crowd too loud, and the list of things I had to buy kept growing every time my mother texted me another “beta, one more thing.” The marketplace was its usual chaos—vendors shouting prices, auto horns cutting through the air, and the smell of fresh samosas drifting around like an open invitation. I squeezed through the crowd, trying not to step on anyone’s feet or lose my patience. Then, out of nowhere, I saw her. She was standing in front of a fruit stall, examining a bunch of oranges like she was choosing gemstones instead of citrus. Sunlight slipped through the gaps in the canopy above and landed right on her, catching in her hair, turning the moment almost cinematic without trying. And then she smiled. Not at me—at the vendor, who was trying way too hard to sell her the entire stall. It was a small smile, warm and polite, the kind you give someone who’s being dramatic but harmless. Still, it hit me like a soft punch to the ribs. Something about that smile felt… different. Real. Effortless. The kind you remember long after you walk away. I probably would’ve kept staring like an idiot if a little kid hadn’t crashed into me with a balloon sword. “Sorry, bhaiya!” he yelled, sprinting off. She turned at the sound—and caught me looking. I froze. She didn’t look away. Instead, the corners of her mouth curved upward, amused, a little curious, like she’d caught me in slow motion and decided not to make it awkward. “Crowded today, huh?” she said, her voice blending perfectly into the marketplace noise yet somehow clearer than everything else around us. “Yeah,” I replied, dragging in a breath. “Feels like the entire city picked the same hour.” She laughed lightly. “I only came to buy oranges. Now I’m thinking of escaping.” “Smart choice,” I said. “Before the vendors sell you half the market.” She held up her bag. “Too late for that.” For a moment, we just stood there—two strangers, surrounded by chaos, sharing one tiny pocket of calm. A vendor shouted a price behind us. Someone dropped something made of metal. A scooter honked like the driver was losing a race. But all I could see was her smile. She shifted the bag in her hand. “You look like you’re on a mission. Long list?” “The kind that keeps growing,” I said. “I think my mom added ten things while I was walking.” Her eyes softened in understanding. “Ah. You’re the designated shopper.” “Apparently.” “Well,” she said, leaning in just a little, playful, “pro tip: if you buy everything quickly, they stop texting.” “Does that actually work?” “Not at all,” she said, grinning. I laughed for the first time that day. She glanced around, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You come here often?” she asked lightly. “Sometimes. You?” “Not really,” she said. “But maybe I should.” Something in the way she said it made my pulse skip—light, casual, but with a hint of something warmer hiding underneath. She stepped aside as more people crowded the stall. “I should head out before I get pulled into buying onions I don’t need.” “Same,” I said. “Gotta complete my mission.” She took a few steps back, but her eyes lingered on mine. “Take care. And… good luck with the list.” “Thanks. And, uh… enjoy your oranges.” That earned me another smile—brighter this time, as if I’d said something unintentionally charming. “I will,” she said softly. She turned and walked into the crowd, disappearing between vendors and shoppers. But her smile—warm, playful, unforgettable—stayed with me long after she blended into the noise. And as I continued my shopping, feeling strangely lighter, I caught myself hoping she’d come back to the marketplace again. Not for the oranges. For the moment we didn’t quite finish.