“Congratulations,” said Siddharth.
“Congratulations? This is bad, Sidney. Very fucking bad.”
“Why?”
“Cuz Rachel and my dad—they’re past the point of no return.”
Once Marc’s grounding was officially over, he’d started spending all of his time with Andy Wurtzel, a fourteen-year-old from his junior high school. Marc invited Siddharth out a few times with them, but Siddharth couldn’t understand why Marc was so fond of Andy. The kid seemed dumb, and he looked like a bulldog.
When Andy and Marc were together, they talked about stupid things like football, or whether pussy tasted better in the morning or at night. The pair had a penchant for shoplifting, swiping clothes or compact discs or bottles of perfume that Marc later gave to Dinetta Luciani. Siddharth wished he could be more like them, but stealing made him nervous. When he tried to talk like them, the words got stuck in his throat, and he felt they could see right through him.
Sometimes Marc and Andy met up with kids who he suspected were drug dealers, like Corey Thompson, a grubby ninth grader who attended the South Haven branch of Eli Whitney, Siddharth’s future junior high. One day, Corey stole a Gamecocks cap from the mall, which he later planted on Siddharth’s head. He told him it fit like a glove and that he should keep it. Siddharth started wearing it every day, but he was always uneasy that someone might know it was stolen.
As he struggled to sketch the biceps of his basketball player, Mohan Lal knocked on the door.
“What?”
“Dinner,” said his father.
“I’m not hungry,” he lied.
“I made you something special. Come and eat.”
As usual, Siddharth ate his spaghetti and garlic bread on his three-legged Kashmiri table. Ms. Farber got home around seven thirty wearing a summer dress that made her breasts look bigger than they actually were. She said, “Siddharth, honey, how about putting some newspaper down? I just cleaned the carpet yesterday.”
Barry Uncle let himself in twenty minutes later. “Greetings, good evening!” he shouted. He shook Mohan Lal’s hand and then gave Ms. Farber a kiss on each cheek. “Rachel, you look especially lovely tonight. I still can’t figure out why you’re settling for my plump friend over there.”
She turned to Mohan Lal and winked at him, then pinched the sleeve of Barry Uncle’s burgundy shirt. “This color, Barry, it’s just so you.”
Siddharth snorted. Barry Uncle’s shirt was too shiny, and the sight of his chest hairs peeking through the open top buttons made him want to hurl. And as for Ms. Farber, she could be a real hypocrite sometimes. When Barry Uncle wasn’t around, she called him a chauvinist, or a know-it-all. But she kissed his ass in person, asking him all sorts of questions about Mohan Lal’s family, about India. Barry Uncle had told her about Mohan Lal’s big-shot brother, the one who bribed government ministers and slept with flight attendants. But she was more interested in family history. She once asked him if he had been a refugee, like Mohan Lal.
“Yes, indeed,” Barry Uncle responded. “You wouldn’t believe the things we saw—the things those Muslims did to our people.”
“Chief, you were in diapers,” said Mohan Lal.
“Boss, you may be the intellectual, but I have a photographic memory.” Barry Uncle grew serious. “And even a baby can remember what they did to Chacha-ji.”
“Enough,” said Mohan Lal. “Now’s not the time for such talk.”
* * *
Upon Mohan Lal’s suggestion, the adults seated themselves in the family room. Siddharth considered heading to the guest room, where Marc had set up a ten-inch TV that he’d salvaged from his father’s scrapyard, but there was no cable there, and he wasn’t in the mood to be alone.
After a little small talk about Ross Perot and Bill Clinton, the conversation returned to India. Barry Uncle said that the country’s main problem was its astronomical population growth, for which the Muslims were to blame. “These Mussulman breed like rabbits,” he said. “They have no loyalty to any nation—just to their bloody prophet.”
“Forget it, yaar,” replied Mohan Lal. “The real problem is the Congress and those bloody Nehrus. They’re the ones who let the Muslims get away with everything—just for their bloody votes. They’re a bunch of dictators—the reason why India is a sham democracy.”
“You said it, boss,” said Barry Uncle. “And that’s why we gotta get together and support a new party. I’m telling you, the BJP is gonna get India out of the Stone Age. They’ll make India a land where people can be proud to call themselves Hindus.”
Ms. Farber had been looking on in silence and smiling, but she finally chimed in: “It’s like I’m always telling Marc—if you really want success, you’ve got to love yourself, and that means loving your roots. Embracing your religion, your ethnicity.”
“Smart lady,” said Barry Uncle. “Rachel, hopefully some of your wisdom will rub off on your man over there.”
Your man. The words rang in Siddharth’s ears.
Ms. Farber was beaming. “Oh, he’s doing just fine in the wisdom department.”
Barry Uncle said Mohan Lal wasn’t dumb, just tight-fisted. “I’ve been asking him for a little cash—to get things rolling back home. But this man, he’s a Bania—that’s our version of the Jews.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Ms. Farber. She turned to Mohan Lal. “Mo, Shelly and I—that’s my ex-husband, Barry—we used to give to a charity in Israel. Let me tell you, when we cut that check every year, it felt so good—like I was really making a difference.”
When Barry Uncle asked how Mohan Lal’s book was progressing, Siddharth lowered the volume. Since the last letter from Walton, Mohan Lal had been working in the yard and cooking, but he hadn’t written a single word. Siddharth knew this wasn’t a good thing. When his father wasn’t writing, he got grumpy. He became mean.
Mohan Lal told Barry Uncle that things were going fine, which caused Ms. Farber to speak up: “Mo, he’s your best friend. You should tell him.”
Siddharth furrowed his brow. What about his privacy? he thought.
Ms. Farber retrieved the letter for Barry Uncle, who put on his reading glasses. He examined the letter, mumbling to himself as he read.
Mohan Lal leaned forward, grasping his chin. “So, what do you think, chief?”
“You wanna know what I think?” Barry Uncle tapped on his empty wineglass. “I think I need something stronger.” He went to the dining room and came back with two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He poured out two tall drinks and topped off Ms. Farber’s glass with wine. “All I can say is, I’m not surprised. Look, these American publishers are lackeys. Corporate stooges, nothing more.”
Ms. Farber took a deep breath and said, “Barry, you can’t be serious. I mean, this country has produced some of the greatest literature in the world.”
Siddharth sipped his Coke. “She’s right,” he said. “What about The Call of the Wild? It’s one of the greatest books, and it’s definitely American.”
Ms. Farber flashed Siddharth a fake smile as he turned the television back up.
Barry Uncle leaned in closer to her. “Darling, here’s what I’m saying: I’m saying that this man . . .” He pointed at Mohan Lal. “This Indian man—he shouldn’t be putting all his eggs in a Western basket. He wasn’t born into their establishment, so the only way he’ll be successful here is if he totes their line.”
“You mean toes?” said Ms. Farber.
“Whatever,” said Barry Uncle. “I’m not the writer.”
“You’re right, chief,” said Mohan Lal. He sipped some whiskey. “Such is the nature of power.”
Ms. Farber shook her head. “That’s just too cynical. Look at you, Barry. You’ve been so successful here. Both of you have.”
Barry Uncle laughed, then downed his whiskey. “Successful at what? Pumping gasoline? Teaching at subpar colleges staffed by nincompoops?”
Siddharth felt a surge of gratitude for Ms. Farber.
Barry Uncle didn’t understand America. This was a country where everyone was equal, where everyone could be happy if they wanted—where everyone could get rich. And he didn’t like what Barry Uncle was implying about Elm City College. It may not have been in the Ivy League, but it wasn’t some half-assed institute in a dusty country where people shat outside.
Ms. Farber grasped Mohan Lal’s arm. “Well, I think we need to be encouraging. I think that if Mo puts in the time—if he just bends a little—everything will turn out fine.”
“And how can you be so sure?” asked Barry Uncle.
She clasped her hands to her chest. “Because I can feel it right here.”
Barry Uncle poured out more whiskey. “Maybe you’re right. But I’ve got a better idea. I’ve told you all about my publisher friend, Vineet. He’s begging for Mohan Lal to sign on the dotted line.” He downed some more whiskey and sighed, then launched into a familiar speech about the need to take Nehru and Gandhi to task, to make a tangible impact on actual people and places.
When he was finished, Ms. Farber said, “Barry, that’s really very exciting—very interesting. But I still have some reservations. I mean, Mo’s a marketing man. How would a book about India affect his tenure?”
Barry Uncle scowled, swatting the air with his fingers. “A book’s a book,” he said. “And once it’s out, you’re not gonna have to worry about this tenure-shenure. He’ll be into bigger things.”
Ms. Farber tilted her head to one side. “But the same thing could happen again. How can we trust your friend, Barry?”
“Yeah, Dad,” said Siddharth. “I bet this Vineet guy is just another sheep.”
Barry Uncle jammed his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Impossible,” he said. “One hundred and fifty percent impossible. Vineet’s a personal friend. And once we win the elections, he’ll be a giant in the Indian media. Satya Publishers will be big-time.”
Mohan Lal instructed Siddharth to go get his copy of Islam and the Infidel, one of Vineet’s books. He protested but then trudged over to his father’s office. He found the volume in between hardcovers by Peter Drucker and M. Scott Peck, recognizing it by its well-drawn cover—the one with the muscly Muslims destroying a temple. He returned to the family room and handed it to Ms. Farber.
After studying the book, she pinched the bridge of her nose and said, “Mo, this is exciting. This could be a serious opportunity for us.”
For us? thought Siddharth. What did his father’s writing career have to do with her?
Ms. Farber draped her arm around Mohan Lal and drew him close. “I mean, isn’t this what we’ve been talking about? Isn’t this what they call synchronicity?”
“Imagine that,” said Mohan Lal. “This foolish old man might finally get a break.”
Barry Uncle nodded. “Boss, what can I say? You’ve found yourself a perfect woman.” He raised his whiskey glass in the air. “I think a toast is in order. To the future—to old friends and new beginnings.”
The three adults clinked glasses.
Siddharth got up from the armchair to toast with the remnants of his Coke.
3
The Pinko Returns as a Mullah
The morning Arjun was scheduled to arrive, Ms. Farber had her hair straightened at the salon beside the West Haven Martial Arts studio. Siddharth told her it looked nice, and he wasn’t lying. She seemed more sophisticated with straight hair, possibly even sexy. Mohan Lal disagreed. He told her she’d wasted her money. “Darling, you look much better in a natural state.”
She said, “I know there’s a compliment in there somewhere.” She had a shopping bag in her hand, from which she pulled a brand-new metal picture frame. She then put a photo of the four of them in the frame, one from the tournament in Springfield in which both boys were wearing their karate uniforms. Siddharth helped her find a place for the photo, and he decided the best location was on the dining room counter, where his mother used to showcase Christmas cards.
When Mohan Lal said it was time to leave for the airport, Siddharth prayed for Ms. Farber to change her mind and stay at home, but she went to Mohan Lal’s bedroom and put on a flowing white skirt, then yelled for Marc to get off the sofa and change his clothes.
“I’m not coming,” said Marc.
“And why’s that?” asked Ms. Farber.
“Because he’s not my brother. We’re not even related.”
She groaned. “Fine, Marc, you can be rude—but don’t think there won’t be any consequences.”
Mohan Lal honked the horn from the driveway, and she dashed outside. As Siddharth was putting on his sneakers, Marc grabbed him by the wrist. He pulled a condom from his sweatpants pocket and dangled it in front of Siddharth’s nose.
“So?” said Siddharth.
“Dinetta’s coming over. I’m finally gonna bang her.”
“Dude, we’re gonna be back in, like, two hours,” he said, imagining Dinetta underneath Marc’s pale body.
“Two hours? If my dad were driving, it would take, like, three. With Mo behind the wheel, we’re talking at least four.”
Soon they were on the Merritt Parkway, a Clinton campaign speech blaring on the radio. It was a hazy, humid day, and the air-conditioning struggled to cool the car. He sat there wondering what he could do to make Marc happier about their new living arrangements. He wondered if Marc would ever be like a real brother to him, like on a television show. He wouldn’t mind having a Jewish stepbrother. He swallowed. At least Arjun was coming home now.
As they merged onto I-91, Mohan Lal was telling Ms. Farber about a recent conversation he’d had with his new editor. Half-listening, Siddharth recalled the day that his father had signed the contract with Satya Publishers. He’d been at Luca’s all day, and when he walked through the front door, Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber were sitting with Barry Uncle and the famous Vineet in the dining room. Siddharth asked what was going on, and his father told him it was an adult conversation. “Go watch some TV,” said Mohan Lal. “And keep the noise down.” Siddharth asked why she was allowed to be there under his breath. Either nobody heard his words, or they chose to ignore him.
Thanks to a traffic jam near Hartford, it took them more than two hours to reach Bradley Airport. They drove though the arrivals area twice without spotting Arjun. Mohan Lal said he would keep on circling while the other two looked for him, but Ms. Farber insisted that he park, and that all three of them go inside and greet him together. They eventually found Arjun on a bench outside near a car rental booth. He was reading a copy of Harper’s and carrying a green backpack, the kind you would use for camping. His goatee was still there, but there was also a lot of stubble high on his cheeks—as if he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days.
Mohan Lal greeted him first with a trademark side hug, his face beaming. “Welcome home, son. What happened to your beard?” he asked, grasping Arjun’s chin. “Has my pinko turned into a bloody mullah?”
Smiling, Arjun clapped him on the back. “Oh, Dad,” he said. “Maybe it’s good that some things never change.”
Ms. Farber placed both of her hands on Arjun’s shoulders. She was wearing heels, and was almost as tall as him. “Let me have a look at you. You’re so handsome—just like Dad.” She kissed him once on each of his cheeks.
Finally, it was Siddharth’s turn to say hello, but he found that he was frozen. He just stared at his brother, a lump forming in his throat.
“You’re huge,” said Arjun. “I bet I can’t even pick you up anymore.”
Arjun bent down and embraced him, and the sound of the screeching cars and chattering travelers suddenly disappeared. In that moment, it was as if he and his brother were the only people at the airport—the only living people in the world. Arjun’s strong arms were the best thing he had felt in ages.
* * *
As they cleared the airport, Arjun asked if they could turn off the air-conditioning, as it aggravated his breathing. He told them about his bumpy flight, which had arrived forty minutes early, and how he had
sat next to a state senator, talking to him about reproductive rights for the entire time. Siddharth couldn’t take his eyes off his brother’s Indian sandals, which were made of leather and exposed his bristly toes. He hoped Arjun would take off these faggy shoes before meeting Marc.
Ms. Farber asked Arjun for his thoughts on the upcoming election, but before he could respond, Siddharth said that voting for a third party was the best thing for the health of a nation, mimicking one of his father’s current talking points.
“Good man,” said Mohan Lal.
“Unlike my brother,” said Arjun, “I can’t say that I share my father’s views. A vote for Perot is basically a vote for Bush.”
They passed the Colt factory, the one that looked like a mosque, and then a bright billboard advertising an alternative rock station that Siddharth had started waking up to on his clock radio. While he stared out the window, resting his thigh against his brother’s, Arjun went on about the inner-city poor. He said that the government needed to give these people tools to live with dignity, and that Clinton was the only candidate who might do this.
“Oh, you’re so articulate,” said Ms. Farber. “I guess it runs in the family. My only worry about Clinton is Israel. I’m just not convinced he’ll prioritize the Jewish people.”
Arjun nudged him and arched his eyebrows. Siddharth smirked, though he had no idea what his brother was getting at.
“The point is,” said Arjun, “Bush led this country into a ridiculous war. Thousands of innocent people are dead, including some Americans.”
“What about the Kuwaitis?” asked Ms. Farber. “Didn’t someone have to stand up for Kuwaitis?”
“Exactly, Rachel,” said Mohan Lal. “If you ask me, the world should be thanking Bush.” Siddharth wasn’t surprised by Mohan Lal’s words—he was used to his father changing his mind. “Say what you will,” Mohan Lal continued, “but this man has done a great thing.”
“Great?” Arjun responded. “Invading a country for oil is now a mark of greatness?”
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