Everyone has a character in their life who defies logic, routine, and sometimes gravity. For me, that person was Mr. Joshi from the 8:32 a.m. Churchgate local. He boarded at Borivali, carried a black leatherette office bag that had seen better decades, and always—always—had two bananas and one mystery inside it.
Now, I never officially met Mr. Joshi. We weren’t what you’d call train friends. But over the years, we were consistent co-passengers. I’d find my corner by the window; he’d settle near the door, his bag balanced on his knees like an heirloom. The bananas were the first thing you noticed. Perfectly yellow, no spots. Tucked in the mesh side pocket of the bag, their stems neatly clipped. Always two. Never one. Never three. Just two, like a quiet superstition or a ritual he refused to explain to the world.
The mystery was what got everyone. Because besides the bananas, Mr. Joshi never opened the main compartment of that bag in public. Not once in the six years I saw him. Never reached inside for a wallet, never took out a file, not even a handkerchief. And this is a man who wore full-sleeved shirts in peak Mumbai heat. A mystery wrapped in sweat and starch.
The Slow Art of Banana Timing
His routine was clockwork. Somewhere between Marine Lines and Churchgate, he’d eat one banana. Always the one on the left. He peeled it with the elegance of a violinist tuning a string—no sudden movements, no mess, just a quiet precision. He ate like someone who respected fruit. Not like us, who treat it as a placeholder until the real meal arrives.
The second banana? That was trickier. Sometimes it went uneaten. Sometimes it vanished between Charni Road and Grant Road. Once, I saw him offer it to a street child outside the station. Another time, he simply placed it on the bench and walked away. A man with a banana donation drive no one asked for but everyone admired.
Theories and Tea Stall Speculation
Now, you put anything on public display in Mumbai trains long enough, and people will build a mythology around it. Mr. Joshi’s bag became the stuff of low-stakes legend. Some believed he was a retired detective. Others said the bag contained original Bombay maps from before the reclamation. A few said he was hiding snacks from his wife’s diet plan.
Raju from the tea stall at the station once swore he saw a glint of gold when Joshi-ji dropped his bag once. “Bhai, pura sona tha andar,” he whispered dramatically while handing over a cutting chai. I didn’t believe him, of course. But I appreciated the flair.
Time, Trains, and Disappearing People
And then one day, he didn’t show up.
No advance warning. No farewell banana ceremony. Just an empty spot near the door and the eerie realization that something routine had ended without permission. We kept looking for weeks. I even craned my neck at Borivali station like some amateur detective. But no black bag. No neat bananas. No mystery.
It felt absurd to miss someone I’d never spoken to. But that’s how Mumbai works. We live parallel lives that overlap in train compartments, at vada pav stalls, in the back row of movie theatres. Sometimes, all it takes is a fruit and a face to build an entire story around someone.
Bananas as Biography
It’s been years since Mr. Joshi vanished. But I still carry two bananas to work sometimes. One for myself, one for the seat next to me. A quiet homage. A fruity nod to a man who knew something we didn’t. Maybe the mystery in the bag was never meant to be solved. Maybe it was just a metaphor—like all good stories are—for routine, for resilience, or for the quiet poetry of sharing a train ride in a city that never stops to explain itself.
And maybe, just maybe, some bags are better left unopened. Especially when they carry more than just things. They carry stories. Like Mr. Joshi did, every single morning, without saying a word.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
