The ceiling fan resembled a middle manager who had lost his passion for work, simply waiting for time to pass

The market in Seremban turned out to be far larger—and far more contained—than I had imagined. I had pictured the kind of open-air sprawl so common in Malaysia’s provincial towns: improvised stalls, uneven roofs, a cheerful mess. Instead, everything sat neatly inside a single, expansive building. The floor was wide, the small shops laid out at regular intervals, each guarding its own territory of fish, vegetables, and dried goods whose identities resisted easy classification. What was missing were the people. The place felt anything but crowded. Now and then, a woman in a hijab finished her shopping and walked off slowly with a bag in hand, but that was about it.

There was no sign of air-conditioning, that ultimate badge of modern comfort. In its place, several ceiling fans hung from above. Yet none of them seemed especially motivated. They gave off the impression of middle managers who had lost their enthusiasm years ago and were now merely waiting for the day to end. The air barely moved. Humidity, by contrast, did its job with commendable diligence, making its presence known without hesitation.

Still, this heaviness was probably part of the market’s design, intentional or not. Markets in Southeast Asia have long existed in negotiation with heat rather than in defiance of it. Perhaps there is an unspoken logic here: that choosing ingredients while sweating slightly sharpens one’s judgment, or that food somehow stays truer to itself without the artificial chill of machines. In any case, the market seemed content to let time and temperature take their course, asking its visitors to do the same.