Dahanu Road: A novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

moment could have shaken the fear and respect out of her. When the news settled in, so would the old laws.
    “Ganpat was fine when he left the house this morning …” said Rami.
    When Rami spoke, Zairos felt an old door was creaking open. It was the voice of someone who did not speak much. Once again, she pressed her foot on the black pipes. They were too hard to be crushed, too solid for her to be able to stop anything.
    “We can bring the body down now,” said Zairos.
    He was being clinical on purpose, against his will. He did not want to encourage a discussion. But Kusum, he realized, had other plans.
    “This morning my father was on his way to meet Shapur seth,” she said.
    “Do not mention my grandfather’s name,” said Zairos.
    Zairos knew he was being hard, but it was the right thing to do. Order had to be maintained. In the jungle, the lion was no doubt wise and just, but above all, the lion was feared. Any form of kindness could be viewed as weakness. Kindness could upset the order of things. In a jungle, kindness could lead to revolt.
    His sternness made Kusum go near her father’s body again. Beauty and grief collided hideously in her face. The chickoo trees offered shade and nothing else. Through the trees, light snuck in. Kusum looked up for a moment and mocked the streams of light. It was a feeble attempt to provide comfort. She took her mouth close to her father’s ear. Her mouth was begging him to reveal why he had killed himself.

    The first thing Kusum did when the body was lowered was place her hand on her father’s chest. Zairos was taken aback by the gesture. It was not that she was looking for signs of life. She just wanted her father to feel the warmth of her palm.
    She moved when she saw Lakhu hold a white bedsheet in his hands. He had brought it from the house. He whipped the sheet and let it unfurl. It was too flamboyant, the ballooning sheet. He murmured a prayer as he covered Ganpat’s face. But Kusum did not want her father’s face to be covered. She slid the sheet off his head until it was just below his chin.
    “Let the body stay here for now,” said Zairos. “Damu will bring him to you after sundown.”
    He did not want the body to be taken in the tractor during daylight. A policewala would create trouble. There had been a suicide on a neighbouring farm only recently and the owner had to shell out twenty thousand rupees.
    “Damu will take you back,” he said. “Use the tractor to collect wood.”
    “There is no wood,” said Rami. “There is no wood anymore.”
    It was uttered in a trance, as one would an age-old proverb. Sometimes it was hard for Zairos to understand the Marathi of the Warlis. It was a strange dialect that they spoke in staccato, suddenly going out of breath, their sentences amputated.
    “Seth, I will pick up rubber tires from the petrol pump,” said Damu.
    Time and again, Zairos had seen the Warlis line up outside petrol pumps and ask the owners for old tires so that their loved ones could be sent home. If the tires were not given, they were stolen.
    Damu started the tractor, turned it around, and waited for the two women.
    Kusum stayed near the body for a while. Her eyes were still moist, unlike Rami’s, which were now completely dry. Rami had done her share of crying years ago. There was nothing left, no well of tears she could draw from, just dust. She gave Kusum a gentle rub on the back and pulled her up.
    They both looked at the ground as they passed Zairos.
    The natural order had been restored. They walked with their heads down all the way to the tractor and sat in the back. After a brave and open display of grief, they had become frightened again.

THREE
    AS ZAIROS RODE towards the Anna Purna chai stall, he welcomed the sun. He hoped its heat would burn away the memories of the morning. He went past the abandoned train bogies, the bales of straw waiting to be transported to Bombay, the liquor booth where tribals numbed their brains for a few