Note: this piece was written in November 2021 for my (now inactive) blog "basic banana". my 22-year old self is to blame for this rather unfortunate naming, but i want to retain this piece in my writing because romanticising delhi seems to be one of my life's few constants.

India is one of the largest producers of bananas globally, but exports less than .1% of its production. Bananas don't grow in Delhi. Special trains carrying bananas reach the capital city from Jalgaon district. This is the story of one such banana, of its time in Delhi and travels beyond. This is a story of love too, but we're getting ahead of ourselves. What you need to know is that this banana has an unusually broad emotional range. Almost as though it was conceived of and written about by a person.

Our story begins in Azadpur, New Delhi; in the city's largest agricultural wholesale market. This banana, along with dozens on dozens of others was loaded onto a tempo truck following an auction. Unattached from the rest of its bunch and atop the pile, this banana spends the next three hours moving from one edge of the tempo to the other. The driver gets into three squabbles through the course of the journey, each more absurd than the last. The city landscape is a reflection of the tumultuous nature of its people. The tempo truck can barely move through the lanes of North Delhi without near run-ins with rickshaws and cows. This quickly transforms to smooth roads paved by bungalows and greenery as the truck moves through Lutyens Delhi. No consistency, the city is whimsical. Almost dogmatic in its honesty, Delhi's appearance mirrors the inequality it houses. If there ever were a party for cities, Delhi would simply come as it is — no effort made. As our banana hits the edge of the tempo truck for the 9th time, it decides it holds nothing but disdain for the city.

The tempo truck finally halts in Mehrauli market, where the bananas are unceremoniously unloaded onto the road. Here, our banana, along with about 20 dozen others, is purchased by a fruit cart owner. The bananas are laid onto a cart, in between the apples and the grapes. The market echoes a medley of call-outs from various sellers. The fruit seller joins the cacophony as he pushes the cart forward, through Mehrauli's streets. As he moves, the sounds from the market slowly dim, while his voice continues to boom through the lanes of Mehrauli. Our banana, close to the edge of the cart, has several close calls with the road. The wheels of the cart frequently get lodged in potholes, and there is even one instance where a wheel nearly gets stuck in a drain. There are multiple encounters with shoppers. People buy apples, bananas, grapes, and oranges in different combinations and amounts. Some walk past with their purchases, some are loaded into cars too large to belong on Mehrauli's narrow lanes, others ride by in motorcycles. However, they all have one thing in common. Inevitably, no matter the amount, the customer haggles with the fruit seller. Those spending over 500 rupees at the stall leave with an air of smug satisfaction at having negotiated 20 rupees less than the initially stated price. Our banana's dislike for Delhi is validated in each step through Mehrauli.

At the end of the day, our banana remains unsold. The fruit seller stops his cart against the wall of his home. He packs up the unsold produce in a sack and takes it up to the roof of the chawl. The sun sets on Delhi. Through the November haze, all our banana can see is one tall gold-lit tower on the horizon — the Qutab Minar. In the night, it stands alone and imposing, as if it is the only thing in the world. Even Delhi's monuments are smug and egocentric.

Early next morning, the fruit seller sets out towards Mehrauli market for fresh produce. He lays out yesterday's produce on the cart in a final attempt to be rid of it. Our banana is taken up quickly by a woman inside a long white car. It is handed over to a young girl seated within. The girl looks as though the last thing she wants this morning is to consume a banana. At the woman's insistence, she keeps the banana in her bag.

'I hope you have your passport and other documents'.
'Yes ma, you've asked a thousand times already.'

The drive to the airport is short. Delhi's roads are merciful in the morning. Our banana finally gets a peek outside of the girl's bag over an hour later. The girl appears to be searching the bag for something, and in the process takes out the banana, and lays it on a chair, next to her boarding pass.

She is headed to London. This is a lot for our banana to take in. It had never quite imagined leaving Delhi, never mind the country. After all, less than .1% of bananas grown in India are ever exported. As our banana ponders on the odds of this having happened, it is stashed back into the girl's rucksack.

Over the next few hours, in the darkness of the girl's rucksack, our banana thinks about Delhi. Somewhere over Central Asia, it thinks that perhaps Delhi was not so bad after all. Flying above the Mediterranean it realises that it may have in fact loved Delhi. It seems strange to think about. But Delhi was all our banana had known. Somewhere between the disdain and the noise, and the movement our banana had fallen in love with the city. It's true what they say, nothing makes you realise love like losing it.

The last thing our banana remembers is this:

Moving through the roads of New Delhi, the city unfiltered and authentic
to be taken as it is — no pretense

The sound of Mehrauli market, the calls of different hawkers
coming together in symphony

Qutab Minar, still and serene in the November night
with nothing else in sight
as though it exists just for you.