Dahanu Road: A novel (13 page)

“This is bullshit,” said Pestonji. “I’ve had to take twenty stitches on my head.”

“Perhaps it is worth a try,” said Gustad.

“Let’s just shoot the bastards!”

“Pestonji, calm down,” said Gustad, raising his hand, the firmness in his voice stilling the room. “There is some merit to what the man says. Let’s see what happens.”

Shapur Irani could only attribute Gustad’s acceptance to the will of Ahura Mazda. It took precedence over everything.

Over the next three days, the rumour was spread. Through the foremen, the transport trucks, the trains, the coconut sellers, the landlords’ goons, through every single person who had a mouth. When these rumours reached Warli ears, when they heard that the Lady of the Red Flag was dying and needed their help, they started running, running like mad from village to village. The news spread rapidly, and the Warli heart started thumping.

“Where are you going?” asked Banu.

Shapur Irani had put one banana, one apple, and one quarter of RB whiskey in a small brown bag. Banu was hurt that he had packed the fruit on his own, that he had not asked her to do it.

“What are the fruits for?” she asked.

“I’m going on a picnic.”

“What picnic?”

“The Picnic of the Landlords.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I need you to shut up and do your job.”

“And what’s my job, Shapur?”

“To look after Khodi.”

“Am I doing such a terrible job now?”

“Please, Banu. I don’t want to argue today. Not today.”

“Then tell me where you’re going. I worry about you, Shapur. I worry about our son. I worry about …”

“About what?”

“If I tell you, promise me you won’t get angry.”

“It makes me angry just hearing you say that.”

“Then I won’t tell you.”

“Just tell me, Banu. Please.”

“It’s … when you leave the house, I get scared.”

“That’s why Ejaz is here. He will protect you. He is a fierce Pathan. If he is near you, no one else will come close.”

“But Ejaz himself … can he be trusted?”

“You’re not his type. He does not like plump women.”

“I am not plump.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I am not plump. This is what happens when children are born. The body changes shape. Why don’t you try carrying a child?”

“Now, now, don’t get upset just because I called you plump.”

She smiled at him, gave him a peck on the cheek.

With his brown bag in hand, he waited outside the gate of his farm for Gustad and the other landlords to fetch him. He did not want any of them to enter his farm. He did not want them to see his house, his wife, and least of all his son. Children are inspired by the men around them, and these were not men.

Soon they were at Dahanu beach, and the landlords were in good spirits because five police jeeps were present. When the police superintendent saw Gustad, he got out of his jeep and shook Gustad’s hand. Gustad gave him a packet of money. Then they smoked a cigarette together and waited.

“Why are the police here?” asked Shapur Irani.

“To make it look official,” said Gustad. “To give the event some weight. If we have journalists, why not the police?”

But Shapur Irani could not see a single journalist. The landlords should have offered to pick them up; the tongas could take forever to bring the journalists to the beach from the train station.

Three hours passed. There was not a soul on Dahanu beach. The pine trees that lined the beach angled in the wind and sand blew in the landlords’ faces.

“Where the hell are the journalists?” asked Shapur Irani.

“They’re probably drunk,” said Gustad.

He did not like Gustad’s attitude. Shapur Irani would have contacted the journalists himself, but he was uneducated. The very idea of dealing with newspapers intimidated him.

“Anyway, your plan looks like it’s going to flop,” said Gustad. “So there won’t be any need for journalists.”

“The Warlis will come,” said Shapur Irani.

“What if they don’t?”

“If Ahura Mazda wills it, they will come.”

Soon enough, the Warlis appeared through the pine trees with sticks in their hands. There were at least five hundred of them. They were completely silent. Then more Warli men emerged. Now there were a thousand. Most of them wore loincloths and had their long hair tied in knots. They saw the police vans, they saw the landlords, but did not stop. They kept on marching, and Shapur Irani was pleased that his plan had worked.

“Look at all these men,” said Gustad. “The Lady of the Red Flag has a magic cunt.”

But Shapur Irani detected fear in Gustad’s voice. The sight of three thousand silent Warlis had left all the landlords in awe. All this time, they had raped or tortured a single Warli. When they came in droves, it was another matter.

“What’s that in their hands?” asked Gustad.

Each Warli had a stone in his hand, which he dropped to the ground. Within minutes there were three thousand stones.

“It’s their way of showing solidarity,” said the police superintendent. “They want to show how many Warlis have come. It’s perfect for us. To us, the stones are weapons.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Shapur Irani.

But no one answered him. Gustad could not look Shapur Irani in the eye.

The police superintendent was sweaty. He wiped his palms on his faded brown trousers.

“Did you even ask the journalists to come?” asked Shapur Irani.

“I did, but they were busy,” replied Gustad.

“Doing what?”

“Writing.”

Shapur Irani’s ears were going hot. If Gustad’s support the other night had not been sincere, why were they all here?

Then Shapur Irani saw the Warlis again, sitting on the flat ground that came before the pine trees, fearlessly, so close to the police jeeps, and a sick realization dawned on him.

“Start firing,” said Gustad.

“No,” said Shapur Irani. “What …”

“Men, get on top of your jeeps,” said the superintendent.

“No!” said Shapur Irani.

“Shoot the bastards,” said Gustad. “Every single one of them.”

The superintendent and his men went on the roofs of their jeeps and started firing. The Warlis had no idea what was going on. Suddenly, someone would slump and his chest would have a hole in it. Or the eye would have a bullet. Shapur Irani held the superintendent back, but it made no difference. The firing eventually stopped on its own, on account of the pathetic condition that the guns were in. The Warlis picked up the stones and hurled them at the jeeps. They came with their sticks, and then the second round of firing started. This time it was much shorter. Some of the Warlis started running towards the pine trees while others just stood dumbfounded.

Shapur Irani could see the forlorn look on their faces.

Why did their Lady call them here? Where was she?

“Now let’s get out of here,” said the superintendent. “I have to make a call to Bombay and tell them about the violence here that we barely escaped. We must all tell the same story. This is what happened: We were given a tip. We came here, not knowing what to expect, under-armed. Three thousand Warlis attacked us with sticks and stones. We had to fire and kill a few, but there were too many of them so we had to retreat.”

“And they broke your men’s noses,” said Gustad.

“Ah yes, good, good,” said the superintendent. “You three, come here.”

He called three of his men, raised the butt of his gun, and broke their noses. “You were hit by Warlis. Each of you can shoot one Warli.”

The men took their guns and went berserk. They shot aimlessly, but luckily by then the Warlis were on the run. Shapur Irani thought they might shoot the superintendent in anger.
But he had them under his control. He then asked his men to batter their own jeeps. “Not too hard. Make it look like the jeeps were attacked with sticks. Break only one headlight,” he said. “Not my jeep.”

The landlords were pleased. At least some Warlis had been killed. Maybe only a few, but it was something.

“Now they will doubt the intentions of the Red Flag,” said Gustad. “They will think their Lady led them to this.”

Shapur Irani saw his bag of fruit lying on the floor of Gustad’s jeep. He did not feel hungry or thirsty. Gustad had beads of perspiration on his bald pate. He was quiet, but smiling. Shapur Irani curled his hand into a fist, but he had no strength to strike Gustad. All he could think of were the bodies that lay on Dahanu beach, bodies that he was responsible for. He started to shake.

He could not believe that goodness could lead to shaking.

This was not the only betrayal on the landlords’ part. Gustad, Tafti, Pestonji—and the Hindu and Muslim landlords—had hatched another plan of their own. Like snakes laying eggs, they must have hatched it the minute Shapur Irani left Gustad’s bungalow the night of the meeting.

It was Ejaz the Pathan who told Shapur Irani about it as soon as he got home.

In order to avenge the killing of Pestonji’s horses and the beating that ensued, Gustad asked his foreman, a hefty bhaiyya named Sitaram, to recruit all the foremen of the neighbouring farms and hire some goons.

They had found out which hamlet the men who had attacked Pestonji lived in. It was close to Shapur Irani’s farm. In the early hours of the morning, when the Warli men were to leave for Dahanu beach, Gustad handed the money to Sitaram and told him, “Take this money and get drunk. Drink like you have never drunk before. Then go destroy the huts, do what you want. I am giving you a chance to be king for a day.”

So while the women were preparing ambil in the morning, removing lice from their children’s hair, pouring water into the fowl pits for the goats and chickens, Sitaram and company’s assault began. Their fury had the stench of liquor and their appetite was massive.

One of the men who had killed Pestonji’s horses, the leader of that group, was a well-known witch doctor. His hut was the first casualty. After the goons left, his wife came running to Shapur Irani’s farm. She had been looking after little Ganpat and his mother that day. The goons had caused the death of Ganpat’s baby sister.

There was more.

But Shapur Irani did not want to hear any of it. This was enough.

He realized Gustad and his lot were even worse than he thought. And to think that they had tried to recruit Ejaz the Pathan as well for this job.

“Why did you not go?” he asked Ejaz.

He could not believe how shrill his voice sounded, how lacerated his throat was.

“I am here to protect your wife and child,” said Ejaz. “You would do the same for me.”

“Where is Banu?” asked Shapur Irani.

“She is in the house.”

“Where is Banu?” he asked again. Ejaz’s words hardly reached him.

“Seth, she is in the house. No outsider will come on this farm as long as I am alive. That is my promise to you.”

Shapur Irani started to walk towards his bungalow. His head was spinning.

With each step he took, he was losing his balance. He could not afford to stumble in front of Ejaz. Shapur Irani wanted to run. To his home, his wife, he wanted to run anywhere. But he could not do it in Ejaz’s presence.

“Seth, I want to talk to you about my son,” said Ejaz.

“My son is fine,” said Shapur Irani. “He’s fine.”

The wind was drumming against his ears.

“No, seth,” said Ejaz.
“My
son.”

There were bodies lying on the beach. Their eyes had bullet holes in them which would soon be covered by sand.

“Seth,” said Ejaz.

The wind was so harsh, and yet not a single leaf moved.

“Seth …” Ejaz lightly touched the tip of Shapur Irani’s elbow.

Shapur Irani whirled around.

“How dare you touch me,” he said. “You …”

“Seth, I—”

“You are a servant. Know your place.”

The day was a mess. All laws were being broken, crushed like bones under cars.

When Shapur Irani reached his bungalow, the door was open. He had told Banu not to keep the door open a hundred bloody times, but she never listened.

No one was in the living room. He went past the living room into the first bedroom, then into the second where they slept, but the bed was empty. Then into the kitchen, but there was no sign of his wife and son. He rushed back to the living room and saw Banu standing at the door with Khodi in her arms. He went to her, he wanted to put his arms around her, but could not. He had sand in his chappals. He took his chappals off, went to the window, and slapped them against each other to shake the sand off.