As he was finally about to offer congratulations, he paused upon seeing Eddie out of the corner of his eye. Eddie was miming that he was playing an instrument, a clarinet or a saxophone. Luca punched him on the shoulder and broke into laughter. Siddharth got up and rushed to the exit. He headed toward his next class, stopping on a concrete bench in the breezeway. The frigid air cooled his fevered face, and he felt calmer. He told himself that he had been loyal—to Luca, not Sharon.
5
Terrorist Attack
It was New Year’s Eve. Siddharth was on the love seat, sipping a mixture of pink wine and Coca-Cola. Stand By Me was on cable as he flipped through an old issue of Playboy from the late seventies. The centerfold was a brunette who was smiling and wearing sunglasses on a beach chair. She was totally naked, but the picture failed to arouse him.
Marc was still in Florida, and Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber were out to dinner with some of her friends and Barry Uncle, who had just gotten back from Delhi. Siddharth was relieved to be alone after the past couple of weeks. Christmas break had been a haze of microwave french fries, snow shoveling, and general boredom. Ms. Farber had been up to her usual crap, rearranging the furniture and putting up pictures of the four of them. One evening a few days earlier, she had really pissed him off.
He had been in the middle of a Facts of Life episode when his father emerged from his office for the first time in hours. Mohan Lal was wearing stupid kurta pajamas, which he had always refused to wear until one day Ms. Farber said they were handsome. He seated himself on the sofa and asked what was happening in the show. Siddharth explained that a character named Natalie had almost been sexually assaulted.
“Natalie?” said Mohan Lal. “You mean the black?”
“No, the fat one.”
Ms. Farber clicked her tongue from the armchair, where she was reading. “What did you just call her?”
“Call who?” he said.
“Natalie.”
“Natalie? You mean fat?”
Ms. Farber’s lips pursed with indignation, and she peered at him over the rims of her reading glasses.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. I just thought you would have a little more empathy—you’d be a little more sensitive after all you’ve been through.”
“All I’ve been through? What’s your freaking problem?”
“Siddharth!” said Mohan Lal, his voice stern and menacing. “Don’t you dare speak that way to Rachel.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Siddharth. “What ever happened to loyalty, Dad? I thought loyalty was the greatest virtue.”
Now Siddharth put down his Playboy and picked up his glass. As he finished off his purple concoction, he recalled the strange thing his father had said a couple of days after the Natalie incident. Mohan Lal had needed some salt for the driveway and rechargeable batteries for Marc’s old Walkman, which Mohan Lal had begun using, and he’d made Siddharth accompany him to the store. On the way home, Mohan Lal grasped Siddharth’s knee and told him he wanted to say something. Siddharth said, “I’m listening,” feeling hopeful. Maybe his father wanted to apologize. Maybe he would finally admit the truth about Ms. Farber—that she was a bossy bitch who talked too much.
Mohan Lal paused to let out a sigh. “Son, I want you to know something.”
“What is it?”
“Son, I want you to know that not once—not a single time—was I unfaithful to your mother.”
Siddharth groaned, then grabbed his head and stared out the window.
“And it’s not that there weren’t opportunities,” said Mohan Lal. “But I couldn’t hurt you. I couldn’t hurt my family.”
Siddharth went to the kitchen with his empty glass and dirty dinner plate, which he loaded into the dishwasher. He needed to talk to someone, but Arjun was in the middle of nowhere building fucking houses with his stupid Pakistani girlfriend. When Siddharth felt angry, he thought about telling Mohan Lal the truth about this girlfriend, but he never ended up going through with it. He suddenly felt a strong urge to speak with Luca, but Luca was still in Maryland. At least he had called a few days earlier, telling Siddharth that he had cheated on Jeanette with his hot second cousin. Siddharth was relieved to hear that Luca’s voice was back to normal—that he seemed to have forgotten about what had happened on the day before vacation. Luca had walked into his science class to deliver a note to the teacher, and that same night he phoned to say that Siddharth and Sharon had looked pretty cozy together.
“Gimme a break,” said Siddharth. “She’s my freaking lab partner.”
“Face it,” said Luca. “You’re best friends with a freaking dyke.”
“Well, you’re an asshole. Anyway, she has a boyfriend.”
“Sure, and I’m banging Kim Basinger,” said Luca.
“It’s true. I think they’re even screwing.”
At the time, saying this about Sharon had felt like the right thing to do—a way of actually protecting her—but now he felt guilty for having lied. He decided he would make up for it by being especially nice to her. He decided he would call her right now. He picked up the phone and dialed her number, and she picked up after five rings.
“Hello?”
“You’re back,” he said.
“Siddharth?”
“No, Ronald Reagan.”
“I never left,” she said. “My dad—he had to work.”
“Fucking blows.”
“Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I can tell when something’s up,” she said.
“Sorry for calling. I just wanted to say Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year, Siddharth—but I really can’t talk right now.”
“Oh, let me guess: you’re with your boyfriend.”
“Siddharth, I have to go.”
When he put down the phone, he realized he was a little tipsy. Fuck Sharon, he thought. He told himself that she had a wild imagination—that her boyfriend probably wasn’t even real. He picked up his Playboy and examined a cigarette ad with a weather-beaten cowboy. On the following page was a photo that awakened his crotch. It depicted a brunette dancing in a smoky room, possibly a nightclub. She had on leather pants, but nothing on top except for a string of pearls. Her hands were running through her head of wild curls. He brought the magazine to the bathroom and locked himself inside. He had just turned thirteen, and his “cock curse” had been over for several months now. He could now get his penis to perform whenever he wanted. He imagined standing behind this woman and dancing. He imagined wrapping his arms around her waist, then moving them up to her nipples. But as he got closer to coming, images of Sharon invaded his mind. A scruffy older kid was kissing her neck, and she seemed to be really enjoying it. This was the picture he focused on as he ejaculated into the bathtub.
When it was over, he ran the shower, sending the evidence of his misdeed down the drain. As he washed his hands, he heard the sound of voices. Oh shit, he thought. He shoved the magazine underneath some towels, then patted down his hair and tucked in his shirt. He was moving so quickly that he knocked his toothbrush into the trash bin.
Ms. Farber was taking off her boots in the hallway. She smiled without looking up. “Having fun?” she said. She kissed him on the head, then asked if Marc had called. She had asked this question twice a day for the past ten days, but Marc had only called once from Florida.
Siddharth stepped into the family room before speaking, so that she wouldn’t smell his breath. “He called, like, forty times,” he said. “I stacked all the messages in the closet.” He headed to the kitchen and pulled a piece of gum from the drawer with the scissors and coupons. Thanks to Ms. Farber, this drawer now always contained a little candy or chocolate. There were a few good things about her. Just a few. As he popped the peppermint stick into his mouth, he noticed Barry Uncle pouring drinks in the dining room.
“Boy!” said Barry Uncle. “I missed you, boy.” Barry Uncle walked into the kitchen with
two whiskeys, which he placed on the counter, then pulled Siddharth into his armpit and kissed him.
Siddharth winced at the feel of his sandpaper cheeks, at the noxious smell of Old Spice, betel nut, and booze.
“I brought you a present,” said Barry Uncle.
“You did?”
“Yes sir.”
He followed Barry Uncle to the family room. Barry Uncle placed his drinks on the Kashmiri table and then picked up a plastic duty-free bag from the carpet. Just then, Mohan Lal walked in. He had already removed his shirt and tie and put on his peach-colored kurta. After giving Siddharth a hug, he asked Barry Uncle if he wanted a whiskey.
“Three steps ahead of you, boss.” Barry Uncle nodded toward the little round table. He reached into his bag and pulled out a videocassette, then handed it to Mohan Lal. “Boss, this is for you.” Next he pulled out a large, fork-like object with an intricately carved wooden handle. He turned to Siddharth. “Now what do you think of that, boy?”
Siddharth grasped the gift. It had two metal prongs. A slack length of rubber was connected to each of them, and at the center of this cord was a quarter-sized piece of leather.
“You know what it is?” asked Barry Uncle.
He nodded. “Of course.”
“A real weapon for a real man.” Barry Uncle snatched it back, then pulled and released the rubber, which gave off a dull twang. “With a good rock, you can kill a bird—a rabbit maybe, or even a squirrel.”
Siddharth took hold of it, pulling and releasing the cord as Barry Uncle had done. The Connor brothers had a slingshot, though theirs was much sleeker, with a special fiberglass attachment for extra leverage. But this slingshot wasn’t bad. It was definitely better than a crappy snake-charmer’s flute, or some other shitty toy from India.
“Thanks a lot,” he said.
“Pleasure, boy. You and me can do a little hunting come spring. Your father—he was a great one for hunting.”
Ms. Farber walked in carrying a glass of her pink wine. “Mo used to hunt? How awful. Why is this the first time I’m hearing this?”
“I could write a whole book about him,” said Barry Uncle. “But I’m not the writer.”
Grinning, Mohan Lal seated himself on the love seat. He picked up a whiskey and raised it in the air. “Cheers, chief. Chalo, let’s watch your little video.”
Barry Uncle and Ms. Farber sat down, and the trio clinked glasses.
“Siddharth,” said Mohan Lal, waving his new tape in the air, “put this in and press play.”
Siddharth sighed but did as he was told. He was about to flee to the guest room when Barry Uncle said, “Stay, boy—this is important. You should know about your culture.”
Static shimmered on the screen, but soon the words Jain & Son Productions were streaming across a blue background. Siddharth let out a muffled laugh. These graphics looked cheap, the work of amateurs. Blowing a bubble, he realized that his gum had already lost its flavor. That was the thing with Ms. Farber’s sugar-free stuff—it tasted like crap and never lasted.
The camera focused on a gloomy, vacant prison cell. Suddenly, a little blue boy with a bow and arrow flashed on the screen. He kept on flashing on and off, as if he were a ghost. He then multiplied into four distinct boy-gods, which started rotating in a kaleidoscopic fashion.
A narrator started speaking in Hindi.
Ms. Farber leaned forward, squinting and grasping her chin. “What are they saying?”
“That is the god Ram,” said Barry Uncle. He explained that Ram used to have an important temple in a place called Ayodhya, but a Muslim king came and destroyed it. “And then—surprise, surprise—that bastard invader erected a bloody mosque.”
Ms. Farber was riveted. “Jeez, it’s always the same story, isn’t it?”
Siddharth sat down beside Barry Uncle, who squeezed his knee. Barry Uncle said that some years ago, Ram had appeared in the dream of a Hindu holy man. The god urged the Hindus to demolish the mosque and rebuild their forsaken temple. Soon, little statues of Ram mysteriously appeared in the mosque, and these were further proof of Ram’s wishes.
“Don’t worry,” said Mohan Lal, draping his arm around Ms. Farber, “he doesn’t actually believe this drivel.”
“Call it what you want,” said Barry Uncle. “All movements need myths to mobilize the masses.” He poked Siddharth in the thigh. “Boy, fast-forward a bit.”
He begrudgingly got up and pressed the forward button. It was 11:23, and he didn’t want to miss the festivities in Times Square.
“Stop, stop, stop,” said Barry Uncle. “This is it. This is what we need to see.”
When he pressed play, the screen was much shakier.
“This is my own handiwork,” said Barry Uncle. “Shot it all myself.”
“Forgive me, Barry,” said Ms. Farber, “but I wouldn’t quit your day job.”
Mohan Lal chuckled, then kissed her on the shoulder.
“Hah,” said Barry Uncle. “We’ll see who laughs last.”
Siddharth remained standing, spitting his gum into an old receipt that he found in his pocket. The screen now showed a dusty Indian square with some sort of religious structure in the background.
“That’s it,” said Barry Uncle. “That’s the mosque.”
“You mean the temple?” asked Ms. Farber.
“Bright bird,” said Barry Uncle, snapping his fingers.
Thousands of men were gathered in front of the mosque. A few of them were cops with perfect mustaches, and some were grubby holy men with painted foreheads. But most were ordinary Indians—not the kind who spoke English, like Siddharth’s relatives, but the ones who rode around on mopeds with their entire families, the ones who worked as cooks and drivers. These men were wielding sticks and shouting slogans.
As Siddharth rolled his gum into a perfect ball, the men on the screen were getting angrier. A few of them jumped over a fence and bolted toward the mosque. They started hurling things at it, mainly stones, but also bricks and bottles.
The camera zoomed in on the huge dome that capped the building. It reminded Siddharth of the Colt factory near Hartford—and of that nice park with the parrots near his uncle’s Delhi home. He picked up his new slingshot, grazing its cold metal prongs against his warm cheeks.
“Boss, I hope you’re paying attention,” said Barry Uncle. “Isn’t that something?”
“Amazing,” said Mohan Lal. “I never thought I would live to see it. The Hindus have finally grown a spine.”
Several men standing atop the dome began battering it with pipes. Others kept pelting it with bricks from afar. The thing began to crumble. This video was the first decent one Siddharth had seen about India. Something actually happened in it. He placed his pellet of gum into the slingshot’s leather holster, then aimed at the screen. He knew his father would get upset, but he needed to test out his weapon.
6
I-95 to the BJP Hospital
The weather had been strange lately. On Siddharth’s thirteenth birthday, it had hit fifty-three degrees. Then, during the first week of January, a record-breaking nor’easter pummeled the East Coast with two feet of snow. Now, as he dozed in the family room, freezing rain clicked and crackled against the skylight.
Marc walked through the front door and started unlacing his tan work boots, a recent gift from his father.
“Hey,” said Siddharth, “I thought you were staying at your dad’s.”
“Things change, young Sidney. Get used to it.” Marc grabbed the cordless phone and headed toward the bedroom.
Ms. Farber entered the house carrying the small black suitcase she used to transport personal items between her home and the Aroras’. She patted him on the head on her way to the love seat. “Honey,” she said, “what did Dad say about straightening up the coffee table?” She organized the chaotic swamp of bills and catalogs into three tidy towers, then proceeded to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she called for Siddharth.
“What is it?” he yelled back, shaking
his head.
“Could you turn on the outside lights?”
He groaned, then got up and walked to his bedroom.
Marc was on the phone, examining one of Siddharth’s old model cars, a die-cast Mercedes SSK that Siddharth and his mother had built together. “Hang on, Andy,” said Marc. He turned to Siddharth and squinted. “What?”
“You wanna do something?”
“I am doing something,” said Marc.
Siddharth returned to the family room and pressed his forehead into the cold glass of the sliding doors, wishing he could go back in time to those afternoons on Foster Pond. He eyed a broken hedge trimmer, the porch’s musty cane furniture that had been there since he was born. He couldn’t see into the backyard but heard the maple’s branches scratching against the house. The wind chimes Ms. Farber had gotten Mohan Lal batted against each other, producing notes that were hollow and spooky.
A loud noise jolted him out of his trance. It had come from the front of the house and sounded like an explosion. He rushed to the living room and looked out the window.
His father was back. He had crashed the minivan into the front steps, bending the cast-iron railing forward. Mohan Lal reversed a few feet, then pulled into the car’s usual spot. He cracked open his door, and the car’s overhead light illuminated his disheveled hair. He tapped his head against the steering wheel two times before emerging from the vehicle.
Siddharth hurried to the entrance hall, where Ms. Farber was already standing, one of her bony fingers on the waist of her burgundy dress. She threw her arms around Mohan Lal as soon as he entered, but he pushed her away.
“What happened?” asked Siddharth.
“What happened?” replied Mohan Lal. He placed his overcoat on its special wooden hanger. “What happened is that I live among foolish people.”
South Haven Page 25
