When walking into his shop, I often had to search for him among the suspended bananas and banana plantains. Deep inside the long, dark room and from behind the desk, he would emerge like a character from a Baroque painting, fair-skinned amidst the black. Although he knew that I would buy a one-kilo banana, he still preferred to ask every time in Kannada - 'heli sir.' As he packed the bananas, he wouldn't forget to ask - 'coffee ayitha sir?' (Have you had coffee?), a routine that continued for almost ten years since I reached Yelahanka in 2011.
It is not that I always buy bananas from him, but I make it a point to buy from him at least once a week. I love bananas, and there are many embarrassing childhood stories in my family about my love for bananas. Every time I went to his shop, I used to see a lot of bananas getting spoiled, and the air inside his shop would always be filled with the pungent smell of rotting bananas and a few flies. Our conversations have never gone beyond those two or three courtesy Kannada sentences. My late colleague and friend Sudipto always had a piece of advice on buying fruits and vegetables. One should buy only the fruits and vegetables that have flies on them. He told me the flies on fruit are a sign that it doesn't have too much pesticide on it. He was correct. It was a golden piece of advice!
The curious thing about this banana seller was, although he would never smile at you from his shop, whenever we met outside of his cycle, he would stop the cycle to greet you as if we hadn't met for a long time. Last month, during the lockdown relaxation period, when I went all the way back to his shop near my campus, a young man in a bright pink shirt emerged from behind the desk. Everything seemed the same, the way bananas are placed, hanged, darkness, smell, except my friend and the question 'coffee ayitha sir.' The young man in a bright pink shirt, with all seriousness in tone and although he only had bananas, asked me 'en bekhu sir?' (what do you want).
'Ek kilo banana,' I don't know why, but I replied to him in Hindi.
He silently packed the bananas on a piece of Kannada paper, and after paying the money, without asking what happened to my old friend, I walked out of the shop. Actually, I didn't have the guts to ask the question as I see a lot of shops these days around Yelahanka with the signboard 'to let' and the shutters down
Invisible -4
Yelahanka banana seller
Acrylic on paper
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