Bowl of Indian Fish Curry

Singapore, Little India

I was wearing a black dress that day, simple, almost invisible in a place bursting with color. Marigold garlands hung from storefronts, spices perfumed the air, and conversations overlapped in languages I didn’t understand but that somehow felt comforting. I was exploring alone, the way I often do, present, curious, but alert.

Earlier, I had been chatting with a man on the Yellow app. He wanted to see me. Singapore is known to be safe, orderly, predictable, but still, there’s a quiet voice that never fully disappears when you’re a woman alone in a foreign place. The kind that whispers caution even when logic says you’ll be fine. The kind that jokes darkly that you might go home in a box, even when you know that’s unlikely.

Fear doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it just sits beside you.

Instead of meeting him, I asked a safer question, what food he would recommend,
“Fish head curry in Sakunthala”, he said.

It sounded oddly specific. Intimidating, even. But also intriguing.

So I went.

The restaurant was busy but calm, filled with the low hum of conversation and clinking plates. When I ordered the fish head curry, the cashier paused. She looked at me, then at the menu, then back at me, carefully confirming it was only for one.

There was no judgment in her eyes, just concern. Or maybe curiosity. As if she were silently asking if I knew what I had just committed to.

“It’s a big bowl”, she said. 

So I hesitated and asked, “Is it too big for me?”

She looked at me, assessing and me pausing for the verdict if it’s a “go” or a “no-go”. 

Then I interrupted her thoughts and said, “Do you have an average serving or you know, anything you would recommend?”. 

“No, it’s okay. The bowl is just average.”

I’m not quite sure what triggered the change of size from ‘big’ to ‘average’, maybe my hesitation since it’s a business, and the larger the purchase, the better. Or maybe it’s my ‘healthy-body-and-she-looks-hungry’ demeanor. 

“And I’ll give you free samosas”, she encouraged. 

But I’m almost sure that they were already free. 

So I nodded.

When the dish arrived, I understood why.

They placed a massive bowl in front of me, steaming, fragrant, unapologetically large. A whole fish head submerged in thick, fiery curry. Yellow curry glistened on the surface. Vegetables or maybe spices floated like an afterthought. It was bold. Excessive. Impossible to ignore.

I stared at it, stunned.

I love food. I love eating. But this…I wasn’t expecting a big-ass bowl meant for sharing. Not for one person in a black dress, sitting quietly at a corner table but more on three to four people who just recently caught up after months of postponing their catch-up lunch. 

For a moment, I felt ridiculous. Small. Out of place. And maybe a bit red from the mixed emotions. 

But then something shifted.

No one laughed. No one stared for long (but believe me there was staring). The world didn’t pause because I had ordered too much. The bowl didn’t apologize for its size. It existed fully, confidently, without asking whether I could handle it.

So I ate.

Silently chewing the freshly cooked fish, hoping I wasn’t making a sound. 

Slowly at first, then with more courage. The curry was rich, intense, overwhelming in the best way. Spicy enough to make my nose run (thank goodness I brought a handkerchief), comforting enough to keep me going back for more. There’s a cup of rice— and believe me, not a single grain was eaten. My whole being was fully occupied eating the fish hoping that nothing goes to waste because there’s no fridge in the hotel I’m staying in. And boy, the dish is quite expensive for me, it cost SGD 42 (roughly around Php 2,000). So it was now and NOW. 

I let myself take up space at that table. I let the bowl be too much.

As I sat there, alone but not lonely, I realized something quietly important.

So much of my life has been about shrinking, choosing smaller dreams, quieter wants, safer options. Convincing myself that taking less would somehow keep me safe. That being modest with my desires would make the world kinder.

But that bowl of curry didn’t believe in moderation for the sake of comfort.

Neither, maybe, should I.

I didn’t meet the man from the app (but he was laughing when I texted him that the curry bowl was ginormous 🥲). I didn’t need to. What I found instead was a reminder that courage doesn’t always look like grand decisions. Sometimes it looks like ordering the thing that scares you a little. Sitting alone. Trusting yourself. Letting abundance arrive without immediately questioning whether you deserve it.

When I left the restaurant, the streets of Little India were still alive. I walked back into them, full of food, of thought, of a quiet sense of self-trust.

I went back to my hotel and laughed with my friends as I shared my adventure with the BIG Bowl of Indian Fish Curry. 

I didn’t go home in a box.

I went home carrying the warmth of spices, the weight of a lesson, and the understanding that maybe Ikigai isn’t about playing it safe.

Maybe it’s about choosing to live fully even when the bowl is bigger than expected.