Lost Between the Market Stalls

The heat in Bangkok didn’t just sit on you; it hugged you like a sweaty auntie who wouldn’t let go.

Chai wiped his forehead with a sleeve already soaked through. He was twelve, lanky, and currently vibrating with pure, unadulterated panic. Beside him, Arun was busy trying to fan himself with a plastic plate, while Mei, the smartest of the trio, was staring at an empty, felt-lined travel pouch with a look of impending doom.

“He’s gone,” Mei whispered. Her voice was flat, which was way scarier than if she had been screaming.

“Who’s gone?” Arun asked, mid-fan. “My dignity? Because I think I left that at the grilled pork stall.”

“Bento!” Mei hissed, holding up the empty bag. “The sugar glider! He unzipped the mesh! Chai, you were supposed to be holding the bag!”

Chai’s eyes went wide. “I was holding it! But then that uncle shouted about the 20-baht coconut ice cream, and I got distracted! It’s not my fault Bento is a tiny ninja!”

They were standing in the heart of the Chatuchak Weekend Market. Around them, thousands of people swirled like a human soup. There were stalls selling vintage boots, stalls selling aggressive-looking cacti, stalls selling silk, and stalls selling things that smelled like fermented fish and heaven at the same time.

It was the biggest market in the world. And their tiny, bug-eyed, gray-furred sugar glider was somewhere in the middle of it.

“Look at the time!” Arun pointed at a massive clock tower. “It’s 4:00 PM. The market security starts clearing everyone out at 6:00 PM. If we don’t find Bento by then, he’s going to be a permanent resident of Section 7.”

“We need a plan,” Mei said, snapping into “Class Monitor” mode. “Chai, you have the best eyes. Arun, you have the most… uh… loud voice. I have the snacks. Sugar gliders love dried mango. If we find him, we lure him. Let’s move! Chop-chop!”

Phase 1: The Clothing Maze

The trio sprinted—or rather, shuffled quickly—through the narrow alleys of the clothing section.

“Bento! Come here, you little furball!” Chai yelled, peeking under a rack of “I Heart BKK” t-shirts.

“Aiya, boy! Don’t touch the silk!” a shopkeeper barked, waving a feather duster at Chai.

“Sorry, Auntie! Have you seen a small, flying squirrel-thing? Very cute, smells like apples?” Chai asked desperately.

“I see many things, boy. I see kids making trouble! Go, go!”

They pushed deeper. The market was a labyrinth. Every turn looked the same. Blue tarps, golden Buddha statues, and the endless clack-clack of hangers. Suddenly, Arun stopped.

“Wait! Look up!”

High above, clinging to a colorful Thai boxing shorts display, was a tiny gray puff with a long tail. Bento. He looked down at them, crinkled his pink nose, and did what sugar gliders do best. He launched.

“He’s gliding!” Mei screamed.

Bento soared over the heads of a group of tourists, his little skin-flaps extended like a tiny paraglider. He landed squarely on the shoulder of a very serious-looking man wearing a security uniform.

“Oh, no,” Chai groaned. “Not the Big Boss.”

The guard was “Uncle Somchai,” known for having the loudest whistle in the district. Bento, apparently thinking the guard’s shiny badge was a toy, started nibbling on it.

“Excuse me, Uncle?” Arun stepped forward, his voice cracking. “That’s… that’s our snack. I mean, our pet.”

Uncle Somchai turned slowly. He didn’t see the glider on his shoulder yet. “No pets allowed in the market, kids. Go home. Closing soon.”

Bento chose that exact moment to jump from the shoulder onto a nearby mountain of stuffed elephants. He disappeared into the plush pile.

“Run!” Mei whispered. They dived into the stall, digging through the stuffed toys while Uncle Somchai blew his whistle. WHEEEEEEEET!

“Hey! No playing in the merchandise!”

Phase 2: The Spicy Escape

They escaped the guard by ducking into the food section. The air changed from “dusty fabric” to “chili-garlic-explosion.”

“I lost him,” Chai panted, leaning against a pillar. “He’s too fast. He’s like a tiny, furry lightning bolt.”

“Don’t give up!” Mei said, though she was sweating buckets. “Think like a sugar glider. If you were a hungry, scared animal, where would you go?”

Arun sniffed the air. “The fruit stalls. Section 3.”

They raced toward the fruit zone. The smell of ripe durian hit them like a physical wall. To some, it smelled like custard; to Arun, it smelled like an old sock filled with onions.

Suddenly, they heard a commotion near a mango sticky rice stall.

“Chai-yo! What is this monster?!” a vendor yelled.

There was Bento, sitting right on top of a pile of premium Nam Dok Mai mangoes, happily licking the juice off his paws. He looked like a king at a banquet.

“Bento! Stay!” Chai commanded, reaching out slowly.

But Bento wasn’t finished with his adventure. A stray ginger cat, the unofficial king of the fruit section, had spotted the intruder. The cat hissed. Bento’s eyes went wide—total “owl mode”—and he scrambled up a wooden pole, jumping onto the roof of the stalls.

“He’s on the roof!” Mei cried. “We can’t go up there, the tarps will rip!”

“We have to follow him from below!” Arun shouted.

They began a high-speed chase through the crowd. It was like an action movie, but with more tripping over flip-flops. They dodged giant pans of bubbling green curry, ducked under hanging birdcages, and squeezed past a line of people waiting for hand-stretched noodles.

“He’s heading for the clock tower!” Chai noted. “If he gets into the rafters there, we’ll never find him!”

Phase 3: The Final Countdown

5:45 PM. The overhead speakers began to crackle with the evening announcement.

“Attention shoppers, the market will close in fifteen minutes. Please make your way to the exits.”

The trio reached the base of the clock tower. It was the meeting point for everyone, a massive brick structure that stood tall over the chaos. Bento was perched on a ledge about ten feet up, looking confused. The noise of the closing market was spooking him.

“He’s going to bolt into the trees outside the gates,” Mei said, her voice trembling. “If he gets to the park, he’s gone forever.”

“I have an idea,” Chai said. “Arun, give me your shirt.”

“What? No! It’s my favorite ‘Cool Cat’ shirt!”

“Give it to me! It’s big and soft. Mei, the dried mango! Now!”

Chai climbed onto Arun’s shoulders. They wobbled dangerously. “Steady, steady! Don’t drop me, you buffalo!” Chai hissed.

“Hurry up, you weigh a ton!” Arun groaned.

Mei stood back, holding the dried mango pieces. “Bento! Look! Sweetness! High-quality sugar!”

The little glider looked down. He saw his humans. He saw the mango. But he also saw a giant flock of pigeons landing nearby. He stayed frozen, terrified.

“He’s too scared to jump,” Chai realized. He reached up, stretching his fingertips. “Almost… almost…”

Suddenly, Uncle Somchai appeared again. WHEEEEEEEET! “You kids again! Get down from there! It’s dangerous!”

The whistle blast sent Bento into a frenzy. He leaped—not toward Chai, but toward a passing decorative umbrella held by a tourist. He bounced off the silk, tumbled through the air, and began to fall toward a large trash bin.

“NO!” the three friends screamed in unison.

Chai dived off Arun’s shoulders. It was like slow motion. He spread his arms, the “Cool Cat” shirt stretched between his hands like a fire-rescue net.

Plop.

A tiny, vibrating weight landed in the center of the fabric.

Chai hit the ground with a thud, skidding on the dusty concrete. He immediately curled his body around the shirt, protecting the contents.

Mei and Arun rushed over. “Did you get him? Is he okay?”

Chai slowly opened his hands. A tiny, dizzy gray face poked out. Bento let out a soft crrr-crrr sound and immediately burrowed into Chai’s warm palm.

“Got him,” Chai breathed, a huge, dirty grin spreading across his face.

The Aftermath

The sun was setting, turning the sky a dusty pink and orange. The iron gates of Chatuchak were creaking shut.

The three friends sat on the curb outside, sharing a single bottle of cold orange juice. Bento was safely zipped inside the bag, fast asleep and dreaming of mangoes.

“We are never,” Mei said, wiping a smudge of dirt off her nose, “bringing him here again.”

“Agreed,” Arun said. “Next time, we just go to the mall. With air conditioning. And no angry uncles with whistles.”

Chai looked at the bustling street, the lights of the city starting to flicker on. He felt tired, sweaty, and his knees were scraped, but he looked at the pouch and smiled.

“Best. Saturday. Ever,” he said.

They walked toward the Skytrain station, three friends and one very tiny adventurer, disappearing into the Bangkok night.