A man, a woman and their roti

Dear Mr and Mrs Mohgan, 

It’s good to get in touch with you at last. Where do I even begin?

Wading through the humidity and heat of a summer morning, pass men puffing away on their cigarettes, I arrive at your roti prata stall at Crane Road. 

There is no signboard. But there you are, thankfully. Mr and Mrs Mohgan, undeniably. 

For most of us, getting to eat your prata feels a lot like striking the lottery. You cross your fingers and hope the stall is open. After all, the coffeeshop draws its shutters on random days of the month. And when the sun is brightest overhead at noon, and the street packed with people heading for lunch, you wind down your business. 

I make a beeline to the only available table in sight. The thin veneer on the wood table was chipped; the red plastic chair was wobbly. 

For more than a decade, you two have been here flipping pratas. 

You told me you had learnt the trade from your mother who ran a prata shop at Alexandra. After the army, you worked at the old Satay Club, before starting out on your own here.

But how did everyone start to find out about you? Even without a signboard, people still manage to locate you in the Google Maps of the mind.

For one thing, it feels a lot like food from appa and amma. You told me you met your wife through an arranged marriage, not a love marriage. But if your roti prata is not a product of both of your love, then what is? 

Your roti – a flatbread that is at once soft and yet crisp, eaten together with mutton or dhal curry – is a staple here.

What is your secret? You experimented with your own recipes and techniques. 

You grease your work table and hands with oil. Then, you flatten the dough on the table and with sure, swift movements, whirl and twirl the dough until it is paper thin. It has stretched four to five times its original size. 

You tell me this is the most difficult step in prata making; it is considered an art in itself. 

After folding the stretched dough into a rectangle or a circular disc, you toss it onto the hot and well-greased griddle. 

You never skipped a beat.

Then, one day, you did. You said you were taking a break. 

But, why? I asked selfishly, defiantly.

You just smiled, and patted my back. 

Forgive me, for how could I expect that I could have your roti prata forever?