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

Zoroastrianism.”
    Vamog’s face went into an exaggerated squirm. He was trying to show his son that he was in deep thought.
    “Can you tell me who the hero of this story is?” he asked.
    “King Vishtaspa,” replied Shapur.
    “No,” said Vamog. “The king, in my opinion, was not the hero. It was Maidhyoi-mangha. Only he was the true Zoroastrian.”
    “Why is that?” asked Shapur.
    “He did not need a miracle to believe.”

    Banu could not wait to tell her husband. She could not sit, she could not stand. She was an excited melon ready to burst. The grandfather clock ticked away in front of her, but she knew that time had no meaning in Dahanu. In Dahanu, all that mattered was light. The sun was mighty and its position of utmost importance. Shapur Irani never owned a watch because he felt it was meaningless. Looking at the sun, he would be able to tell the time five minutes this way or that.
    The grandfather clock chimed seven times and she knew he would be home soon. Banu did not like him wandering about the farm after sunset. There were too many snakes. Just a day ago, the workers had killed a huge cobra. They beat it todeath with sticks. It would be hard to spot a black cobra at night. That is why she always kept all the windows closed. They lived on the farm and a cobra could easily enter the bungalow through one of the windows. But the more she tried to shake off the thought, the more the cobras fanned their fangs before her eyes and danced like banished angels, once having the power to grant wishes and heal, now reduced to creatures that were hunted and burned.
    She carried the lantern with her to the mirror and looked at herself. She was a pretty woman, she knew that. She was fair, her black hair was long and wavy, and according to her husband, whenever she looked at him with her brown eyes she made him feel as though he would be forever protected in their glow. He made fun of her smile all the time—he teased her that it was so mischievous, she must have been a nymph in a previous life.
    The flame of the lantern shivered, shared her excitement. She wished the cracks in the chalky white walls would disappear. On some days after the cooking was done, after she had brushed her hair and taken her walk, she would stare at the cracks in the walls and cry. She would cry because she had been married to Shapur Irani for five years now and she had not given him a son. Not that he asked for a son, but she knew he wanted one badly. She was twenty-one now, old compared to the sixteen-year-old bride she had once been, and her husband was thirty-two. She was too scared to have a baby in the first year, but as time went on, she realized something was wrong. The fault had to be hers. Her husband was a hot-blooded Irani, and he once boasted that he was capable of producing a baby a day, so he was not the problem.
    But all of that was in the past. A baby was about to come into this world, and she would tell him that tonight. Sometimes her husband would put his head on her stomach like a little child, and she could feel the air from his mouth and nostrils, a thin stream of love and assurance. If he did that tonight, she would tell him. Son or daughter, he would be overjoyed, and she would soon have someone in the house with her, someone to look after. She paced up and down the living room, unable to wait. “Chaalni, Shapur,” she said out loud. Come on. This was going to be the happiest day of his life.

    As Shapur Irani walked, he crushed leaves under his feet. The chickoo trees always shed a carpet of leaves and there were days when he could barely see the soil. He noticed that his white trousers were soiled at the knees from his digging. Shapur Irani always wore white. He never owned anything other than white trousers and white half-sleeved shirts. Even though he could afford almost any clothing he wanted, he kept his attire simple in honour of his forefathers, not allowed bright colours by the Muslim rulers, who believed