Banana Stories

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 I wish to share a funny incident — or rather two — both involving the humble banana.

Some days ago, while walking through the Sleater Road market at Grant Road, I suddenly heard a loud shout: “Eh kela!” At that, a man holding a bunch of bananas actually turned around. It took me a second to realise that he was the banana vendor, probably returning after making a delivery.

What amused me was not the shout itself, but the casual way a human being had been addressed simply as kela. On the street, identities shrink to whatever one is dealing with at that moment. It reminded me of how a cyclist is often addressed as, “Eh cycle, baju ho!” This kind of street shorthand creates instant, vivid images, and I find it quite hilarious.

The second incident happened today, again on Sleater Road, at a shop that sells only bananas. As I was making my purchase, a Parsi lady walked in with her son, who looked to be in his twenties. She asked for three ripe bananas and three unripe ones, and then, with great emphasis, instructed the vendor:

“Teen karak kela dena. Tumhare dukan mein sabse karak kela hai, woh dena.”

The son was visibly mortified. He even glanced at me briefly, perhaps to see whether I had noticed anything odd in what his mother had said. Sensing his discomfort, I maintained a monk-like expression and, with deliberate care, placed the bananas into my bag.

I should clarify, in fairness to the lady, that Parsis don’t say kadak — they say karak.  A small linguistic difference, but one that, in that moment, seemed to carry extra force.


You may also want to read my piece on:  To Use Or Not To Use The Word, "and"

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