In sleepy Bananapur, nestled in Kavre’s foggy hills, the Banana Mahotsav, a noisy festival celebrating the village’s lifeline fruit, was set to unveil the grand Banana View Tower, a bronze symbol of wealth. But in Nepal, where plans always falter, chaos loomed. The village square buzzed with noise and colour, draped in banana leaves; the air was thick with fruit and incense. K Prasad Dai, a portly politician with a twirling moustache, boasted that the tower would make Bananapur famous. “From London to Cambodia, they’ll flock to our banana!” he declared, gesturing like a Kollywood star.

But trouble was growing faster than weeds.

At sunrise, when the hills were still misty, Prithvi Kancha, a skinny banana farmer with a face like a storm cloud, marched into the square, holding a bunch of rotten bananas like a sword. He stomped right up to K Prasad Dai, who was chilling under a banyan tree, sipping tea with his sneaky party buddies.

“K Prasad Dai, you’ve ruined me!” Prithvi yelled, shaking the bananas in the politician’s face. “My whole crop’s gone because of your stupid Banana View Tower!”

K Prasad Dai fixed his fancy topi and grinned. “Prithvi Kancha, don’t act like a drama queen. How’s my tower messing up your bananas? Are they jealous or what?”

“It’s not the tower, you greedy pig!” Prithvi shouted, his voice cracking. “It’s the monkeys! Your party workers left banana peels all over the site, saying it’s for Hanuman. Now, every monkey in Kavre eats my farm like a free buffet!”

K Prasad laughed, his belly bouncing. “Monkeys are Hanuman’s friends, Prithvi. You should be happy they’re blessing your land.”

“Happy?!” Prithvi threw the bananas at K Prasad Dai’s feet, splashing juice on his clean Dhaka topi. “I’m broke! The festival’s today, and I’ve got nothing to sell but monkey poop!”

K Prasad Dai’s buddies giggled, but his smile dropped. “Watch your mouth, Prithvi Kancha. I’m making progress in Bananapur. Without me, you’d be feeding bananas to rats.”

“Progress?” Prithvi spat, stepping closer. “Your tower’s a joke! The base is cracking, and Gopal, the sculptor, told me your ‘bronze’ banana is just cheap plastic!”

The crowd around them gasped, whispering like wind in the trees. K Prasad Dai’s face went red. “Lies! Who’s spreading this nonsense?”

“Gopal!” Prithvi pointed at a nervous guy hiding behind a banana fritter stall. “He said you stole the money and got a fake banana, plus a shiny watch for your girlfriend!”

“You’re finished, Prithvi Kancha!” K Prasad bellowed, pointing a fat finger. “I’ll lock you up for this! The Banana Mahotsav will make us legends!”

Prithvi leaned in, eyes burning. “Legends? You’ve made us a laughingstock, K Prasad. Wait till your ‘tourists’ see your plastic banana—a perfect symbol of Nepal’s rotten republic!”

The crowd roared, some cheering, others shouting insults. An old man yelled, “This republic’s a sham! Bring back the king!” A woman snapped back, “Kings were no better, you fool!”

By noon, the square was packed with angry villagers, a few confused tourists, and a news crew from Kathmandu, ready to film the next big disaster. A giant tarp covered the Banana View Tower, and a priest was chanting prayers, waving banana leaves like he could magic away the mess. But the tower’s base was splitting, and whispers about “plastic” spread like fire.

K Prasad, sweating in his tight suit, climbed onto a stage. “Namaste, great people!” he shouted, trying to sound holy. “Today, Bananapur becomes a star! Here’s the Banana View Tower of Prosperity!”

He yanked off the tarp. The crowd gasped, then groaned. The “bronze” banana was plastic, with paint peeling off like harmful makeup. The base was leaning, ready to fall any second.

A tourist in a loud shirt laughed. “I came from Canada for this? It’s a fake!”

K Prasad forced a smile, his moustache shaking. “Just a small problem! It’ll… uh… look better soon, like good wine!”

Prithvi jumped up, pointing. “Better? It’s plastic, K Prasad! You’ve turned us into a Banana Republic, worse than the clowns running Kathmandu!”

The crowd laughed, but then the base let out a loud CRACK. The plastic banana wobbled and crashed onto the priest’s table, sending banana leaves, coconuts, and flowers flying. The priest dove away, yelling, “Hanuman’s angry!”

“Hanuman’s not angry; you’re just a thief!” Prithvi shouted, grabbing a banana from the ground. He threw it at K Prasad, hitting his chest with a splat. “That’s for my farm!” He grabbed another. “And this is for lying!”

K Prasad ran, slipping on banana peels. “Stop this madness, Prithvi! You’re ruining the festival!”

“Ruining?” Prithvi chased him, throwing more bananas. “You ruined us with your fake tower and your republic’s lies!”

The crowd went wild. Some threw bananas at K Prasad, others at each other. A young guy shouted, “This republic’s garbage! We need a king again!” An old lady screamed, “Kings stole too, idiot!” Fists flew, and the news crew filmed it all, the reporter giggling. “Live from Bananapur; a festival for prosperity is now a banana war!”

The square was a wreck by night—banana peels, crushed flowers, and broken dreams everywhere. K Prasad Dai sat on a bench, his suit covered in goo, looking like a beaten dog. The tourists were gone, posting #BananaRepublic and #KingComeBack on X, making Bananapur a global joke.

Prithvi walked up, still mad. “You’ve killed us, K Prasad. The festival’s a disaster. Nobody will buy our bananas now.”

K Prasad looked down, his voice small. “I wanted Bananapur to be big, Prithvi Kancha. I thought a tower would make us like the old kings’ palaces.”

“Big?” Prithvi laughed bitterly. “You made us a Banana Republic, a mirror of Nepal’s useless republic. We don’t need your plastic towers or fake promises. We need roads, bridges, markets, and no monkeys eating our crops!”

K Prasad nodded, ashamed. “You’re right. I messed up, chasing republic dreams when maybe a king’s rule would’ve kept things straight. But what now? Everyone’s laughing at us.”

Prithvi Kancha’s eyes narrowed, his voice hard. “We fight, K Prasad, not for your republic or your lies, but for Bananapur. We’ll make our way—bananas, blood, or a crown. I’m done with your games.”

The next day, Bananapur was a powder keg. Villagers crowded the square, shouting and shoving. Some waved bananas like weapons, demanding K Prasad Dai’s arrest. “Thief! Liar!” they screamed. Others followed Prithvi Kancha, chanting, “No more republic! Bananapur for us!” A few old men waved pictures of the old king, yelling, “Monarchy was better!” Young kids spray-painted “Down with the republic!” on the tower’s broken base, while women argued, “Kings were crooks too!”

The priest, shaking, burned more incense, muttering about Hanuman’s curse. K Prasad was nowhere—some said he fled to a temple, others said he was plotting with his party goons. Prithvi Kancha stood in the square, shouting for a new Bananapur, but his words drowned in the chaos. Fights broke out—fists, bananas, and even coconuts flew. The news crew came back, filming the madness, while tourists watched, snapping pictures.

As night fell, Bananapur was a storm of anger and confusion. The square was littered with debris, and the air stank of bananas and rage. Some villagers whispered about burning the panchayat office, and others crowned Prithvi as their leader. A few prayed for a king to fix everything, while others laughed, saying only Hanuman could save them now. Prithvi Kancha stood alone, staring at the chaos, his face unreadable. Was Bananapur doomed to fall apart? Would they fight for something new? Or would the spectre of a crown—or a god—step in?

Nobody knew, and the hills stayed silent, leaving the mess for the world to guess.

Kalwar is a writer from Chitwan.