Dahanu Road: A novel by Anosh Irani Read Free Book Online

and took a large gulp. He felt better when the whiskey went down his throat, as though a great river had entered him to give him strength.
    Night would fall soon. Shapur Irani always thought of dusk as a beggar. It had no light, it had no darkness; it lived on the scraps that were fed to it by day and night.
    He bent down and placed the whiskey bottle in the hole.
    Prohibition was a curse from God, and the government was a pawn in God’s cruel joke. Perhaps God really cared about his liver, but Shapur Irani did not. This was the thirty-first bottle he had hidden in the ground. He knew exactly where each bottle was, under which tree. There were no markings on the trees, but the shape of their trunks was enough. Some were mere saplings, but the older trees were more or less the same height, and their trunks resembled human legs. They had swellings on them like knees, some puffy, some as smooth as a woman’s. He knew each tree in the way he would know a brother, and because he didn’t have a brother, he loved the trees even more. After all, he had watched them being born. He had watched them being planted by the local tribals, under his supervision, and he remained patient for years until some of them were finally old enough to give fruit.
    Thirty-one bottles of whiskey during prohibition was an achievement. Shapur Irani had made contact with a man named Raghu who worked at the Royal Brewery in Bombay, which brewed special whiskey for the British officers. Raghu stole RB whiskey from the stockroom and sold it to Shapur Irani for a good price. He would also occasionally stay in Shapur Irani’s bungalow, take back as many chickoos as he wanted, and drink as much coconut water his bladder could hold.
    Shapur Irani breathed in the cool air, which never failed to comfort him.
    If only his father were alive. Vamog would be proud to see what Shapur Irani had become. He owned fifty acres of land, he was fit, he had the large forehead of an intelligent man, hisblack eyes were small like a rodent’s so nothing escaped him, and he had the legs of a Persian wrestler.
    Look, Father, Shapur Irani would have said. This is your land, all yours, and it does not matter where your shadow falls.
    Vamog’s thick sideburns would have rushed to meet his beard in celebration, the creases on his forehead would have relaxed, and he would have walked every inch of the farm, praising Ahura Mazda for his benevolence, whispering to the chickoo buds the prophet’s teachings,
Manashni, Gavashni, Kunashni.
    Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds.
    There was no doubt that Vamog was in safe hands now.
    He had surely been one of Zarathushtra’s most loyal followers. Vamog spoke of Zarathushtra with such adoration and respect, it would not have surprised Shapur if his father had served the prophet himself 3,500 years ago.
    “In the beginning, no one had faith in our prophet,” Vamog told his son. “Except for one man. He was Maidhyoi-mangha, the prophet’s cousin. For years, he was the only disciple.”
    Then Vamog peeled an orange, slipped a juicy slice into his mouth. The tanginess of the orange always gave his eyes a delightful squint. Even though Shapur knew what was coming next, he cherished his father’s stories; each time, there was something new to be learned.
    “One day Zarathushtra challenged the priests in the court of King Vishtaspa to a spiritual debate,” he said. “When he defeated them, those hyenas imprisoned him.”
    He flung the orange peel over Shapur’s head. A moustache of sweat was forming over Shapur’s lips in anticipation.
    “While Zarathushtra languished in prison, King Vishtaspa’sbeloved white horse was paralyzed. Our prophet declared that he could heal the horse. All Zarathushtra did was touch the horse like this” —Vamog placed his hand on his son’s shoulder—“and the horse was able to walk again. That was when King Vishtaspa embraced our prophet’s teachings and thus started the rise of