600 words on a hole in a roti bread

A young man in a small suburban Thai restaurant was shocked to hear that his aunt likes writing. A little on the eccentric side, she was telling her nephew that she loves to write and will happily string together sentences on any topic. In humourous disbelief he inadvertently set her the challenge to write six hundred words on a hole in a roti bread; the first thing that came to mind considering he'd just eaten the centre out of a roti and was staring at it when the conversation ensued. Challenge accepted.
Roti, an Indian flatbread originating in Malaysia, is crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. Made from kneading and flattening a mixture of flour and water that is intermittently oiled with butter (or, more traditionally, ghee) and repeatedly folded before being cooked; roti is generally served with curry dishes. Designed to be eaten with the hands, roti is a staple in Thai, Indonesian, Malaysian and Singaporean cooking.
Roti is generally served plain but there are filled and dessert versions with condensed milk the sweetener of choice.
That’s enough history and culinary descriptors, for this is a story about a hole in a roti. Table manners aside, roti is a delectable treat eaten without utensils. I say treat because, in a modern diet where food is plentiful and we are spoiled for choice, it is not essential for maintaining weight. Loaded with saturated (read unhealthy) fat and refined white flour, roti offers almost no nutritional value. Far from the wholemeal grounds on which roti was developed, the modern take is designed for economies of scale. Moreover, the standard modern diet in a western country has not need for such a fat laden food source.
Regardless of how much mains are eaten on a Sunday night, the two serves of roti are always devoured.
Nutrition notwithstanding, roti is delicious. Served warm, roti is pure comfort food. In fact, it is the perfect thing for a cold, rainy winter Sunday night following a victorious football win. And, when you're onto your forth in a single sitting, what else would you do but take the flatbread and bite the fold before opening it up to display your chomping prowess. A Sunday ritual, the last roti of the night is always consumed in this manner. Take folded roti. Nibble on fold. Unfold roti. Inspect hole. Refold roti into a small ball-shaped piece of cooked dough. Eat remainder in a single mouthful, overfilling the available space and forcing the cheeks to resemble those of a chipmunk.
On this particular night the last roti was taken from the communal plate and held, almost lovingly, before a couple of munches were taken from the folded roti. After unfolding the rot, inspection showed the resultant hole. A lopsided chasm, the hole had a large bulbous circle to the bottom right and a small nodular bump on the top left. Roughly a third of the roti was missing from the centre. Held delicately by two corners, the young man looked through the hole, rotated the bread slightly then tilted it from left to right like it was doing the twist. With greasy fingers from the buttery residue of the still-warm roti the boy craftily commenced refolding the bread into the obligatory ball. Rolling it around in his hands for a while he felt the crispy texture of the outside of the bread where it had been grilled and scorched in a hot pan. Then, in a flash, he popped it into his mouth and it was gone.