Memory Lane 3

Yesterday, I had to run out to the fence to stop the bread man. Lucky for me, the bread man’s hearing is as good as any in the profession. He stopped and made a u-turn 50 metres away. So I got my gardenia, butter buns and kaya mini buns.

My childhood bread man was a Punjabi. Large turban, big tall physiques, warm smile and neat grown beard. He would stop in front of the house every afternoon around 4-5 pm, regardless my calling him out or not.

Because he was the epitome of great salesman and service guy. He remembered his clients, and each client’s preferences. For this little girl, it would always be the ‘roti krim’. I must have fallen in love with vanilla then. Vanilla equals roti krim equals warm smiling bread man, or Bai, as I called him with my cheeky girlish grins.

I do not know if the bread man is still around. But he will always be be remembered everytime I come across another bread seller on a motorbike, tutting his horn and selling me another piece of roti krim.

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