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

that the garments of a dull, unclean species had to reflect their stature.
    The sun had set completely now, and he had to be careful not to trip over any thick roots. He did not want to disturb his trees. He was respectful of them; they needed rest just like everyone else. When he planted them, some when he was only sixteen, they gave him permission to breathe. Breath that had been stifled in Iran, breath that had barely returned since the day he lost his father.
    If it had not been for an Iranian baker named Daryoush, who saw young Shapur walking the streets of Bombay shell-shocked from the loss of the only living soul he cared about, Shapur Irani would not have survived.
    Triumph was sacred to Vamog. Triumph of good over evil.
    That was what being a Zarathushti was about. “We are not fire worshippers as the Arabs think we are,” Vamog used to tell his son. “All natural light is symbolic of Ahura Mazda. That is why we consider fire holy. That is why we pay respect to the sun. These are just vehicles for us to reach Him.”
    Vamog told his son that Ahura Mazda, Lord of Wisdom, had an arch-enemy.
    Ahriman, the Dark One. The further a man moved away from good thoughts, words, and actions, the closer he went towards Ahriman, the more he was aiding Ahriman in his stinking evil designs. The Earth was Ahriman’s playground, where he threw pieces of temptation from the skies that the weak gobbled up in minutes, the consequences of which they would experience in the afterlife. “That is why Ahura Mazda has put the sun in the sky,” said Vamog. “A reminder for all to choose light instead of what Ahriman throws our way.”
    But Vamog always made sure to tell his son that the outcome of the fight between Ahura Mazda and Ahriman was predetermined. Zarathushtra foretold a day when Ahriman would be vanquished forever. “But we have to
earn
that,” Vamog said, “by using our free will wisely.” And then came the part young Shapur relished, where his father became Ahriman and chased him around the house. As Shapur was cornered in the kitchen, Vamog raised his arms and bent his wrists, his fingers turning into Ahriman’s claws; he clutchedhis son by the neck, trapping him in a deadly grip: “I will destroy you, Shapur.” Shapur pointed to the sun outside, to the light floating in through the low roof, and said to his father, “You are no match for the light of Ahura Mazda,” and Vamog fell to the floor, lay there choking, sputtering, panting.
    After his father’s death, Shapur Irani would not have believed in light or goodness had it not been for Daryoush the baker. Daryoush was young Shapur’s saviour, his archangel, who had a nose like a beak and soft white hair like feathers, whose love for something as simple as bread allowed young Shapur to believe in something as simple as the chickoo.
    Early each morning, Daryoush would inhale the scent of warm bread, and paint young Shapur’s nose with dough and call him by the name of that great Iranian clown, Khosrow Anushirvan. It was only after Daryoush’s death that Shapur Irani realized there was no clown called Anushirvan. There was a king by that name, and perhaps Daryoush’s beak-nose could point to the future in which young Shapur would grow into a king who walked on his land with strong strides as he was doing right now, as he was born to do.

    The moment Banu saw the dirt on his white pants and the manner in which his shirt stuck to his sweaty chest, she knew what he had been up to. A few strands of his thick black hair were also out of place.
    “How many bottles are you going to hide?” she asked.
    “I’m doing it for you, my darling,” he replied.
    “I don’t drink, Shapur.”
    “Sorry, I forgot. For some reason I keep thinking that you are a big drunkardess.”
    He wiped his face on her shoulder, on the thick strap of her cream nightgown.
    “Chee!” she said. “You dirty man.”
    “Yes, yes, I am dirty. You want to see how dirty I