The morning sun had just started to push its golden fingers through the cloudy skies over Curepe Junction. The hum of early traffic blended with the chatter of schoolchildren and the call of vendors setting up along the pavement.
Chaguanas taxi drivers hustled passengers out of maxis into their seven-seaters to head to Chaguanas. At the corner by the old hardware, Ravi’s doubles cart stood like a loyal sentry, bright red canopy, steaming bara, and that unmistakable scent of channa simmering in curry and garlic.
It was Friday, and Budget Day was coming on Monday. The whole country seemed to be holding its breath. Ravi wiped his hands on a towel, his fingers moving with the rhythm of years of experience. Bara in hand, he shouted, “Next! Pepper or no pepper?”
An attractive young Venezuelan woman, lipstick red like a pomerac, collected the cash and probably was the reason for Ravi’s long line of Trini men customers. First in line was a woman in a crisp blue shirt, ID badge dangling.
“Lil’ pepper, boss. Don’t burn me today, eh.”
She worked at a ministry in town and her talk was quick and heavy with worry.
“Ravi, I hope they raise the tax threshold, oui. I working ten years and still fighting to pay bills. Food gone up, rent gone up, everything up except my pay!”
Ravi smiled kindly.
“Miss, you know how long people saying that? Every Budget Day we wait for something to drop, only thing that drop is the dollar.”
A few chuckles rippled down the line. Behind her stood a taxi driver named George, sweating from the morning heat, a towel around his neck.
“Ravi boy, give me two with slight pepper and extra channa. Hear nah, if gas price raise again, I might park up the car for good. Can’t make it no more. Yuh see groceries? Milk and oil reach sky high.”
Ravi handed him his order.
“Gas, food, everything climbing, but salary still on the ground, Ravi doubles not raisin ok!”
Next came a young construction worker, boots splattered with cement, hard hat dangling from one hand.
“Big man, give me two heavy pepper. I need to wake up proper before this wuk kill me.”
As he ate, he grumbled to no one in particular.
“They say they go build more houses and fix roads. Every year same talk, same potholes. Man still waiting for a lil raise on site. Ten years now same pay. I tell yuh, only doubles price holding steady, bless up, Ravi.”
Laughter broke out again. Ravi’s stall was more than a food stop, it was a morning news forum, therapy session, and political town hall all rolled into one.
Then came the “bank girl,” neat bun, manicured nails, gold chain glinting in the light.
“One no pepper, please. Trying to behave today.”
“Long time no see, Miss,” Ravi said, pouring the channa. She smiled weakly.
“Bank short-staffed, boy. Everybody leaving, can’t handle the pressure. Loan applications piling up, people begging for extensions. You could feel the tension in the air. Everybody waiting to see what the Minister go say Monday, if they cutting, taxing, or borrowing again.”
An elderly man sitting on the side sipped from a cup of tea he brought from home. His name was Mr Albert, a retired postal worker, proud and tired.
“All yuh young people still have hope. I done see too much of these budgets. Promises sweet like sugarcane, but when you taste it, is all bark and no juice. Pension can’t stretch far again. I cutting tablets in half just to make them last. Pharmacy shelves empty half the time. Imagine that.”
The “housewife” in the floral dress nodded beside him.
“True talk, Mr Albert. My grocery bill double in two years. Tomatoes, cabbage, everything like gold. Sometimes I just buy two doubles for breakfast and stretch it till lunch.”
Ravi paused for a second, the ladle in his hand trembling slightly. He wasn’t just hearing complaints; he was feeling them. Every word echoed what he lived too. The flour, oil, and peas he used all went up. His propane tank cost more. Even the old van he used to haul goods needed a service he couldn’t afford. But still, he smiled. That’s what Trinidad people did, they laughed in the storm.
“Yuh see this?” he said, raising a bara dripping with channa.
“This is the real Budget, oui. Doubles is how the people surviving, rich or poor, it feeding we soul.”
A young man from the university joined the crowd, laptop bag slung over his shoulder.
“Boy, the economy rough. The government talking about diversification and digital transformation, but when yuh check it, half of the country don’t even have proper wi-fi.”
Ravi laughed.
“So you saying is ‘digital divide and conquer,’ eh?” Everyone laughed again. Even Mr Albert cracked a smile. Soon, the radio from Ravi’s cart crackled to life with the morning news.
The announcer’s voice filled the air: “As Budget Day approaches, the Finance Minister promises a people-centred fiscal plan focused on growth, resilience, and innovation …”
“People-centred?” George scoffed.
“Well lemme see if ‘people’ mean the taxi man, or just the big contractors and friends.”
The housewife muttered, “All I want is cheaper gas and a lil grant for schoolbooks.”
The ministry worker sighed.
“And a wage increase. Ten years is too long.”
The conversation melted into the rhythm of Ravi’s ladle hitting the pot, the shuffle of money, the paper rustle of brown bags, the music of everyday survival. Ravi looked up from his cart. The sun had climbed higher now, glinting off car roofs and the passing maxi taxis.
A gentle breeze carried the scent of pepper and promise, or maybe it was just another morning of wishful thinking. He looked at his customers, government worker, taxi driver, housewife, bank girl, construction man, and old Albert and thought how, despite their different stories, they were all standing in the same line, waiting for something better.
He sighed softly, whispering almost to himself, “This country full of good people, you know. Hard-working, fed-up, but still hopeful. Lord, help we all come Monday.”
As the line began to form again, Ravi called out, “Next! Pepper or no pepper?”
The crowd answered with laughter, and life, like the doubles, hot, messy, and full of spice, carried on.
