Inside Subway, the radio was playing “More than Words,” one of Luca’s favorite songs. Barry Uncle explained that the turkey here was better than the roast beef, and that pickles went well with the peppers. He called the Latina cashier “sweetheart,” telling her she had gorgeous eyes. Siddharth wondered if Barry Uncle could knock some sense into Mohan Lal—if he could keep him from doing something stupid, like marrying Ms. Farber.
They sidled up to a booth by the window, and Siddharth asked when he would see his father.
“Don’t worry,” said Barry Uncle, his mouth full of turkey, “I’m not gonna kidnap you.” He devoured his sub, then tapped his hairy fingers against the acrylic tabletop, the two of them going quiet.
Siddharth struggled to finish his sandwich, breaking the silence by asking, “You’re a lawyer, right?”
“Me? I’m an entrepreneur—got a gas station and half a liquor store. I actually do the things that your dad teaches.” He slurped some ginger ale through a straw. “You could say this place—America—has allowed me to live with some dignity. But things are changing over there too.”
“Over where?”
“In India, boy. I keep telling your father, but he doesn’t wanna listen.”
They took an odd route home, a tape with some wailing Indians playing on the stereo. Barry Uncle asked if Mohan Lal still listened to this stuff, and Siddharth shrugged. To him, all Indian music sounded the same. Barry Uncle said, “This is Rafi Sahib. Mohammed Rafi. Real music, not like your McHammer.”
Siddharth struggled to contain his laughter.
“What’s so funny, kid?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“It’s MC Hammer, not McHammer. And he’s lame.”
“Boy, all your music’s lame. Same with your cinema. Your movies are nothing compared with the classics. Me and your Dad, we used to go to the movies once a week. Your father, he was a Guru Dutt man. But me, I loved Raj Kapoor.”
“I should know these people?”
“Don’t tell me—you don’t know Raj Kapoor?”
He shrugged. “I saw Gandhi once.”
“That trash? That’s not a movie—it’s bloody propaganda.”
* * *
Once they were home, Barry Uncle poured himself some of Mohan Lal’s whiskey. He sipped it on the armchair while reading an Indian magazine that he’d pulled out of his briefcase. Siddharth sat on the sofa, and as he watched TV, he wondered if being here with Barry Uncle was better or worse than his after-school program. Maybe the best thing would be if things could just go back to the way they were a few weeks earlier. He took the cordless phone to the bathroom and dialed Marc’s number. There was still no answer.
He recalled a time when Barry Uncle had really pissed off his mother. They were eating a standard weekday meal of daal, vegetables, and frozen pita, and Barry Uncle declared that the food was nice, but that nothing was better than piping-hot, homemade chapattis. Siddharth’s mother had slammed down her glass. She took the man’s pita from his plate and threw it in the trash compactor.
Mohan Lal’s van pulled in a few minutes after eight, and Siddharth ran to the front door to greet him. As Mohan Lal hung his blazer over a kitchen chair, Barry Uncle removed an expensive-looking bottle of alcohol from a plastic bag.
Mohan Lal held the bottle up to the light. “Wow. Rocks and soda, chief?”
“Boss, that’s the good stuff,” said Barry Uncle. “We gotta have it neat.”
The men poured the whiskey into Mohan Lal’s special crystal glasses, sipping it on the family room sofas as they munched cashews flavored with Indian spices. Siddharth sat on the armchair, eating a plate of rajma on his three-legged Indian table. He tried to concentrate on a sitcom, but Barry Uncle kept interrupting him. At one point, he told Siddharth that his table was gorgeous.
“Thanks,” he replied. “I made it all by myself—from scratch.”
“I bet you don’t even know where it’s from,” said Barry Uncle.
He scrutinized the wooden table, as if seeing it for the first time. It was only a foot tall and had a round top carved with intricate floral patterns.
“Kashmir, boy,” said Barry Uncle, who then turned to Mohan Lal. “I bet he doesn’t even know where that is.”
Of course he knew where it was. Kashmir was in India, the goddamned country that nobody would shut up about.
“Why would he know?” replied Mohan Lal. “All kids know today is television.”
“But it’s his grandmother’s place. It’s one of the most beautiful places on this earth. Sid, listen up. You must visit Kashmir one day. But your father can’t take you there now. He can’t take you thanks to these bloody Pakistanis.”
Siddharth got up to raise the volume.
Barry Uncle poured a second round and grew even louder, yelling over the television. He went into great detail about his new business. He had invested in an Indian company that would print American textbooks for a quarter of the price and then ship them back to America.
“Chief,” said Mohan Lal, “I wish you all the best, but you couldn’t pay me enough to do business in that cesspool of a country.”
Siddharth was relieved to hear these words. The last thing he needed was another trip to India. If he went to India, he’d get allergies from the all the dust and smog. If he went to India, he’d have to see his mother’s little sister, who wrote him letters once in a while and called him on his birthday every year. She had the same nose as his mother, and she bought him sweets and took him to temples. He wanted to see her again—someday. Just not now.
“Boss, I’m gonna make a killing,” said Barry Uncle. “There’s a new mindset over there.” He started going on about something called the BJP, which would revolutionize things, and a place called Ayodhya, where justice would be done. He would soon be traveling to Delhi, where he planned on meeting a man named Advani.
Mohan Lal grunted. “I’ve heard it all before, chief. If I recall, you once had an appointment with Indira Gandhi.”
“This time it’s different.”
“Different? Politics don’t change, Barry.”
“They do. They change when you call on someone with a suitcase full of greenbacks.”
They drank another round, and Barry Uncle asked Mohan Lal why his son was watching shit like Gandhi. Mohan Lal said that the kids here did what they wanted. They were individuals, not like in Barry Uncle’s beloved India. Siddharth was taken aback by the fact that his father was swearing, and that he’d begun to slur his words. But more than anything else, the men’s loud voices made him happy. Such boisterous conversation hadn’t filled the family room in a long time.
Barry Uncle said, “But he should learn. He should know the truth.”
“Oh, he’ll learn.”
“Learn what?” asked Siddharth.
Mohan Lal burped, then took another sip of whiskey. “The truth about that traitor.”
“He was a homo,” said Barry Uncle.
“A British agent,” said Mohan Lal.
The men clinked their glasses together.
“Boss, you’ve always spoken the truth,” said Barry Uncle. “It’s time to share your opinions with a wider audience—to put them down in print.”
“My book’s almost finished, chief—four months ahead of schedule.”
“Yaar, that marketing nonsense is useless. Focus your talents on something important.”
Siddharth tensed up. He’d have to say something if Barry Uncle kept criticizing his father. But Mohan Lal was smiling, so Siddharth settled down.
“Okay, sir,” said Mohan Lal. “And what would you have me do?”
Barry Uncle tried to take a sip but missed his mouth, the whiskey dribbling down his chin. “You must create something you’re passionate about. Something that’s gonna make a difference.” He wiped his chin with the cuff of his shirt.
“Like what?” asked Mohan Lal.
“How about a book on Partition? A book about independence by some
one who actually saw it.”
“Maybe in another lifetime,” said Mohan Lal.
“Dad, what’s Partition?”
His father ignored him.
Barry Uncle finished the last of the cashews. “You know, I’ve been telling Vineet about you. He’s very interested in your perspectives. If you wrote something, I bet he would print it.”
“Forget your Vineet,” said Mohan Lal, batting the air with his hand. “Forget your Satya Publishers. That Taj book was shit. Not at all respectable scholarship.”
“Why, boss? Tell me why.”
Siddharth remembered seeing the book—the one that looked like it had been made on a photocopier. Yeah, it was definitely a piece of shit.
“For starters, whatever you may say about the Muslims, at least they knew engineering. The Hindus couldn’t build a proper doghouse.”
“Well, that’s your perspective,” said Barry Uncle. He walked over to the entranceway and opened up his briefcase, returning to the sofa with a paperback. “Here’s his latest baby. Actually, it’s our baby. Trust me, this one you’re gonna love.”
Mohan Lal examined the book, then placed it on the coffee table.
Siddharth grabbed it. The volume was called Islam and the Infidel: What the World Should Know about Muslims but Is Afraid to Ask. The cover depicted several bearded strongmen breaking apart a temple with swords and daggers. This drawing was impressive. The men’s muscles were nicely shaded, and the carvings on the temple showed a lot of detail. Siddharth hadn’t sketched in a while. He would try to copy it later on.
7
Shakespeare Sucks
As they drove to Woodford that Friday, Siddharth tugged at his uncomfortable formal clothing. His father had made him wear one of Arjun’s old blue blazers. It had gold buttons with little anchors on the cuffs. Mohan Lal was wearing a similar coat. Earlier in the week, Ms. Farber had taken Mohan Lal to lunch and given him a pair of bamboo wind chimes, which were now hanging from the maple beside the old bird feeder. She told him that she had bought some theater tickets as a surprise for his birthday and that it would be a shame for them to go to waste. Mohan Lal mulled over her invitation for a couple of days before saying yes. Siddharth had been dreading the thought of the adults going back to their sex, along with the idea of his father being so busy again—of Mohan Lal devoting too much of his energy to Ms. Farber. And yet he also appreciated that he would have his friend back. He wouldn’t have to stay after school or spend more lame afternoons with Barry Uncle.
Once they got to her house, Marc greeted him with a high five but barely said hello, which made Siddharth’s stomach tighten even further. Ms. Farber gave Mohan Lal a loose hug and no kisses. She then wrapped her arms tightly around Siddharth, whispering that he looked great and that she was sorry. He wondered why she was apologizing—for screwing his father, or for being such a freak on the phone?
The foursome drove to New Haven in relative silence, parking in a private, multistoried lot. Siddharth felt alone and wished he hadn’t come. The play, Shakespeare’s Richard III, was sold out, and throngs of glamorous people were chatting and drinking from plastic cups in the lobby. The women wore long dresses and flashy jewelry. Most were gray-haired and plump, but he nudged Marc and pointed out a few “bangable” ones. Marc cracked a smile but remained quiet. Siddharth felt that familiar emptiness swelling in his chest. It was official: his best friend hated him.
A suited usher seated them, and the enormous, opulent theater made him a little dizzy. Gigantic chandeliers shimmered on the ceiling, and complex patterns were carved into the walls. Just sitting there made him feel older, more mature. Once the performance started, the audience started snickering, but he didn’t see what was so funny. At first he thought the English accents were getting in the way, but once he got the hang of them, he decided it was the jokes. They were childish and dumb.
During the excruciating second act, the boys got up to go to the bathroom. Marc slammed his body into a vending machine, which spat out a free pack of Camels. They went outside and stood beneath a tree with bright pink blossoms. Siddharth’s mother used to beg his father to drive them downtown to admire these flowers, but Mohan Lal usually said no, making some excuse about parking. Siddharth shook these thoughts out of his mind and focused on Marc, who looked like a full-grown man as he pulled on his cigarette. Only a couple of weeks had passed, but Marc had changed. For one thing, his hair was growing out. It fell over his ears and reached down to his neck. He seemed taller too. Wider.
Marc handed him the cigarette and said, “Yo, why haven’t you called?”
Siddharth took a drag and coughed. “What?” Water sprang from his eyes. He spit up some mucous, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his blazer. “I called, like, a hundred freaking times.”
“You’re messing with me,” said Marc.
A campus police car sped past, splashing oily water on Siddharth’s loafers. Had Marc really not gotten his messages? Or was he lying?
Marc took another drag. “I mean, you’re, like, one of my best friends. That means we’re supposed to keep in touch.”
Best friends. That made him feel a little better, lighter. They passed the cigarette back and forth until a homeless man appeared. The guy wore a leather jacket that said Vietnam Veteran and was pushing a shopping cart filled with various pieces of junk: a lamp, a tennis racket, some bottles. “Gentleman, I’m very hungry. Can you spare a dollar for some food?”
“Food?” said Marc. “Or a needle and a spoon?”
The man tilted his head to one side, staring at some faraway thing, and gave his torso a thorough scratching. Marc fished his cigarettes from his blazer pocket and handed three of them to the homeless man, who smiled and said, “Your parents—they raised you well.”
“My parents?” Marc lit one of the man’s smokes. “Dude, my parents are worse off than you.”
The man ambled away, the wheels of his shopping cart creaking loudly in the darkness.
Staring down at his soiled loafers, Siddharth mulled over the evening. He was glad that his friend was opening up, but he’d never understand the harsh way Marc spoke about his parents.
“What is it?” said Marc, pushing him on the shoulder. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it,” said Marc.
“Say what?”
“Whatever little thought you’re thinking.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Don’t be a pussy.”
Siddharth sighed. “I need to know something.”
“Know what?”
“Were you being serious before? You really didn’t get any of my messages?”
Marc held the stubby cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. He sucked a final drag then flicked it into a puddle. “That bitch—she must have forgotten to tell me you called.” He stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. “Rachel, she’s not like your dad. She’s nuts. For the past week, she’s been sitting around doing nothing and jabbering like a madwoman. Every night she calls my dad and just starts yelling at him.”
“About what?”
“Money and shit. And then he gets on the phone and does the same thing to me. And then one night—one night she smacked me.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not fucking joking. She hit me right in the face. I said, Rachel, I know you’re a chick—and you’re my mother and stuff—but try that again, I’ll give you a beating.”
* * *
After the play, the foursome began the five-block walk to the parking lot, for which Mohan Lal had a special coupon. Ms. Farber had a pleasant but tight-lipped smile on her face. She slipped her hand through Mohan Lal’s arm and asked him what he’d thought. He said it had been an invigorating experience. What a suck-up, thought Siddharth. He knew that his father hated Shakespeare.
Marc started shaking his head.
“What is it?” said Ms. Farber.
“Nothing.”
“Spill it, dear.”
&
nbsp; “Nah, you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Marc, I’m always interested in what my son has to say.”
Siddharth thought about what Marc had said while they were smoking. If he’d been telling the truth, then she was a really good actress.
“Listen,” said Marc, “I know those tickets were worth a bundle, but let me tell you, that play sucked. It was a total piece of crap.”
“Language, dear.”
Marc was smirking now. “I mean, I thought about jumping off the balcony—just so something interesting would happen.”
“Me too,” said Siddharth. “I wish I’d had some tomatoes.”
“Tomatoes?” said Marc. “What the hell would you do with a tomato?”
“When you see something boring, that’s what you do. You throw tomatoes at the stage.” He saw Ms. Farber clutch his father’s arm more tightly.
She said, “Boys, you’re talking about one of the greatest artists to ever live.”
“Whatever, I don’t see why he’s so hyped up,” said Marc. “If you ask me, the play was like one of your stupid soap operas—except the chicks were total dogs.”
“Cute, Marc,” replied Ms. Farber. “But for your information, I don’t watch soap operas.” She turned to Mohan Lal and poked him in the belly. “And you, mister. Just what’s so funny?”
Mohan Lal broke into a grin. “Nothing, but you’ve raised a smart young man, Rachel. The world lacks people who are willing to speak the truth.”
As they walked down the desolate sidewalk, Marc announced that he was hungry. Ms. Farber said she had Ben & Jerry’s at home, but he said he needed real food. Mohan Lal suggested they go out somewhere, telling Marc to choose the place. Siddharth was pleasantly surprised by his father’s attitude. Mohan Lal was more easygoing around Ms. Farber. That was definitely a good thing.
“We can walk it to Paulie’s,” suggested Marc. “It’s the only decent thing that’ll be open.”
“I’m not sure about sticking downtown at this hour,” said Ms. Farber. “How about somewhere in Woodford?”
“Fret not, dear Rachel,” said Mohan Lal. “You have three strong men to protect you.”
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