Free Dahanu Road: A novel by Anosh Irani Page A

do not drink here. Alcohol is prohibited in the state of Gujarat.”
    All the Iranis fainted there and then.
    By the time they regained consciousness, their boats and donkeys and other modes of transport had disappeared, and they entered the country dejected and full of rage.
    “This is how the two kinds of Zoroastrians, the Parsis and the Iranis, came to India,” said Aspi Irani. “The Parsis went on to become successful in almost every sphere, from business to cricket. Unfortunately, the Iranis, right from the start, did not understand the concept of work.”
    When the Hindu king saw them just lounging around, he said, “Why don’t you
do
something?” and the Iranis asked him again, “Boss, you got some whiskey?” That is when the king lostit. Even though he was Hindu, saintly and well bred, he abused the hell out of the Iranis—”You motherfuckers, you sons of whores, you lazy cocksuckers!” —and the Iranis whispered into the king’s ear, “Boss, you’re Irani, aren’t you? Only Iranis speak like that.” The Hindu king, tired and lost, retreated into his palace and never again emerged.
    Then came Aspi Irani’s caveat emptor, an insurance of sorts in case the story were to be repeated outside Anna’s walls, and some self-righteous Zoroastrian, the kind Bombay’s high society was full of, decided to take offence: “I would like to add that not all Iranis are foul mouthed and ill mannered,” Aspi Irani said. “Some are quite polished indeed—none live in Dahanu, of course, the majority live in Bombay—their English is impeccable, their clothing immaculate, their knowledge of the stock market insurmountable, their love of classical music obvious, and so on. These are souls who
contribute
to society.”
    There. He had done his bit to satiate the purists. Now it was time to poke them in the bum again.
    “But I always believe that lurking within these well-mannered souls is a true Irani beast waiting to unleash itself. We are exhibits to be put in cages, dissected and studied. We may not have discovered the wheel, and we may not have conducted stem cell research or any such activity connected to plants, but we are unique. We are pioneers because in an age when everything seems to be moving forward, we simply refuse to evolve. We are not new-and-improved versions. We are just as disturbed as our fathers. We are fish in a pond, with no obvious beauty, and our true story shall never be known.”
    Then, as a final flourish, Aspi Irani picked up Camus’
The Outsider
and threw it in Keki’s face.
    Zairos smiled as he remembered that day. In the eighth grade, when he was in private school in Bombay, his English teacher, Mrs. Costa, asked the class to write an essay based on their family history. Zairos wondered what would happen to Mrs. Costa if he were to write things as his father had told him. Mrs. Costa’s long black hair would freeze. But even though Aspi Irani’s tales were just that, mere tales, there was an underlying truth to them.
    On the one hand, there was Zairos’ father, free to follow the twists and turns of his imagination, redrawing, retelling the history of his people, with a pinch of salt and chili sauce. But there was also Ganpat, who was not as lucky, who had been asphyxiated by his own history, and perhaps even if he had not found a rope to hang himself that day, one would have materialized from the desolate, unforgiving loops of his own life.
    The tractor came to an abrupt halt.
    They had arrived at Kusum’s hamlet. Damu got off first and waited near the open box for Zairos to get off. Damu always waited. There were times when Zairos would forget that Damu was near him, so artful was he at making himself invisible.

    About twenty Warlis, men and women, surrounded the funeral pyre.
    Unlike at the farm, Kusum and Rami seemed more powerful here, amid their own kind. The dry stream with burning grey stones, the date palm trees, the thorny twigs that lay on the ground, the brown soil,