South Haven

by Hirsh Sawhney

  Siddharth breathed deeply to calm himself down. Why couldn’t his father talk right? Why couldn’t he remember to put the word the before media?

  Ms. Farber said she would love to travel to India at some point. She had always wanted to see the Taj Mahal and Jaipur. Mohan Lal said she could visit anytime, that she would be his family’s honored guest.

  “That would be lovely. As long as I don’t have to stay in one of their tree houses.” She let out a laugh, then placed a hand over her mouth. Siddharth hadn’t seen her laugh like this before, a dimple appearing on her left cheek.

  Mohan Lal smiled for a moment, then grew serious. “Actually, my brother is quite a wealthy man. He has a retinue of servants that would wait on you hand and foot.”

  Siddharth examined a black-and-white photograph on Ms. Farber’s perfectly ordered desk. It showed a lady holding a baby. The photo was ancient, at least from the sixties.

  “Oh, yes,” said Ms. Farber, “Siddharth has mentioned him.” She leaned back in her chair, flicking her auburn curls behind her shoulder. “Don’t tell me—is he some sort of maharaja or something?”

  Siddharth folded his arms and tried to shoot his father a look. All this India talk was making him sweaty.

  Mohan Lal wouldn’t meet his eyes though. He said, “Actually, he’s in the gun business. But my great-great-grandfather, he was what you could call nobility—the equivalent of your dukes and earls. They hung him on the banks of a river—a wide and beautiful river that is now a cesspool.” He paused to rub his chin. “They stripped him of everything—his land, his title. His dignity.”

  Siddharth didn’t actually mind these stories, but his mother had called them exaggerations.

  Ms. Farber leaned forward and her chair let out a little whine. “Was it the British?”

  “Yes, you’re very astute,” said Mohan Lal. “Mrs. Farber, my ancestors wouldn’t conform to the English tax codes, so they were eliminated.”

  Siddharth noticed that something green was stuck in the gap between Ms. Farber’s yellowed front teeth. Underneath the reading table, her left shoe was off, and her white stockings had a hole near the big toe.

  She turned to Siddharth and smiled. “Well, honey, I guess that means you have some royal blood in your veins. Prince Siddharth. It has a nice ring to it.”

  Mohan Lal patted him on the shoulder.

  All of a sudden, Ms. Farber sat upright in her chair. She put on her tortoiseshell reading glasses and opened a folder, then asked Siddharth how things were going.

  “Fine, I guess,” he said.

  She made small talk about school for a minute. Then she asked him if he’d been feeling especially sad lately.

  He shrugged.

  “His marks have been excellent,” said Mohan Lal. “I’m very proud.”

  Siddharth wanted to elbow his father in the gut.

  Ms. Farber explained that Mr. Latella was impressed with Siddharth’s intellectual capabilities, but he was concerned about his social situation. He had been a little antisocial lately, and he seemed to be having trouble interacting with boys. As Siddharth absorbed all this bullshit, a bubble of cold air inflated inside his lungs. He decided that Mr. Latella was the biggest bastard in the entire world.

  Mohan Lal stared up at the ceiling, then placed his hands underneath his thighs. “Ms. Farber, I don’t know what’s happened. So many kids used to call my son. Boys, girls—everyone.”

  She smiled and nodded. “Siddharth has made so much progress over the past year. I’m really quite proud of him. But it’s no surprise that he’s a little isolated after all he’s gone through.” She launched into a speech containing terms like grief and depression, and Siddharth now felt as if someone had him in a chokehold. For the rest of his life, nobody would ever let him just be sad. When he was unhappy, they would always bring it back to his mother.

  “Siddharth,” said Ms. Farber, “what about sports?”

  “What about sports?” he said.

  She explained that Mr. Latella thought it would be a good idea if he got involved with some sort of team or played some kind of sport.

  Smiling, Mohan Lal grasped his shoulder. “His older brother is the sporting man. This one is his father’s son.”

  Shrugging off his father’s fingers, he recalled what his brother used to say about sports. If Siddharth didn’t play sports, according to Arjun, he would never learn how to be a team player. He would never learn how to be a regular guy and would end up like Mohan Lal.

  “What about something else?” said Ms. Farber. “A musical instrument maybe?”

  Siddharth needed to defend himself. Music was for losers. Like Sharon. “I like to draw,” he said. “I draw all the time.”

  “I know you do, honey, and you’re very good. But tell me, Siddharth, who do you draw with?”

  “Nobody, I guess.” He thought he liked Ms. Farber. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “Exactly. How about something more active? Something a little more interactive?”

  He turned to his father for help, but Mohan Lal’s eyes were fixed on Ms. Farber.

  “I know,” she said, thumbing through the pages of her leather planner. “How about karate?”

  He wanted to tell her to shut up. But the fact was, karate didn’t sound half bad.

  Her face was suddenly beaming. “Why didn’t I think of it earlier? Dr. Arora, the martial arts can be very good for young people. Tae kwon do has had such a positive impact on my own son.”

  Mohan Lal said he would have Siddharth search through the yellow pages for a karate class as soon as they got home.

  “Oh, we can do better than that,” she said. With a bony finger on her planner, Ms. Farber jotted a number onto a yellow square of paper. Her honey-colored eyes gleamed as she handed it over to Siddharth.

  As he grasped the note, he felt the tightness in his lungs begin to slacken.

  5

  Nice Work, Bodhisattva

  Siddharth was too excited to fall asleep the night before his first karate class. Over the past few days, he’d watched The Karate Kid several more times, and as he lay awake in his bedroom, he fantasized about winning a tournament like the one in the movie. A sea of uniformed fighters would carry him on their shoulders. Arjun would finally be proud, and Luca Peroti would be friends with him. He pictured himself kissing a blonde—a real one, not some slut like Sharon Nagorski.

  In school the next day, he couldn’t focus on Mr. Latella’s booming voice. He was grateful when the teacher gave the class forty-five minutes for silent reading. He wondered if today was somehow lucky for him. He didn’t have to take the bus home or stay at his fucking after-school program. He fished out his copy of Call of the Wild from his messy desk; Mr. Latella was making him read it for his independent book project. Siddharth predicted the novel would be childish and boring, but after the first couple of pages, he was hooked. He couldn’t believe he was actually enjoying something recommended by a teacher.

  This story had him riveted, as if it were a movie, and he felt like he had something in common with Buck, the canine protagonist. Both he and the dog had been separated from the people who made them happy. He sat alone on a swing during recess, reading the novel while Luca and his crew played kickball and Sharon played cards with her new gang of hos and losers. Later, when he told his teacher how many pages he’d read, the man said he was impressed. Mr. Latella gave him a high five for the first time all year, and Siddharth found himself smiling. He wondered if he’d been wrong about the guy. After all, if it hadn’t been for Mr. Latella, Ms. Farber would never have suggested karate.

  Mohan Lal was waiting in the parking lot at three fifteen, and as Siddharth buckled himself into their minivan, his father’s appearance squashed some of his cheer and optimism. Mohan Lal was wearing a khaki suit, and Siddharth noticed an ink stain near the lapel. There was a time when his father used to spend half an hour ironing his clothes every night, but today he looked rather wrinkled. His bifocals sat crookedly on his nose, and
a few of his wispy gray hairs were sticking straight in the air. He looked old, much older than anyone else’s parents. Old people got things like Alzheimer’s. Mohan Lal kissed him on the head. He hoped for his father to ask him something about his day, but before they’d even cleared the Deer Run parking lot, Mohan Lal was going off about his latest conflict with his boss, the new dean of Elm City College.

  For the past year, his father had become embroiled in an all-out war with the dean, who the college had brought in to save it from bankruptcy. Today, Mohan Lal told him how the dean was now claiming that students were dropping his classes because they had a hard time understanding his accent. “Bloody bastard,” said Mohan Lal. “What’s wrong with the way I talk? I speak proper English—not like that corporate stooge.”

  As Mohan Lal steered through the wooded suburban streets, he made Siddharth help him with his pronunciation of certain words. Siddharth struggled to get his father to say volatility, not walletility, to insert an r into the third syllable of university. Eventually, he lost his patience, saying, “Jesus, Dad, you’re not even trying to sound American.” As soon as the words came out, a cold guilt took hold of his stomach. He knew that Mohan Lal was a single parent. He knew that he was supposed to make his father’s life easier—not harder. “Anyway,” said Siddharth, “the dean obviously feels threatened. He’s threatened cause you’re smarter.” It was Sharon who had taught him that mean people were actually just insecure or threatened. “Trust me, one day they’ll be sorry they took you for granted.”

  Smiling, Mohan Lal squeezed his knee. “Fret not, my son. Those fools will get what’s coming. My book’s gonna fix them good.”

  Siddharth turned up the radio now that he had done his duty. He was sick of hearing about the stupid book. Far ahead of the van, the sky was crisp and blue, but charcoal clouds lingered over South Haven’s desolate town green and ancient meetinghouse. He told himself that karate was going to change his life. He’d be cool at karate, not the nobody he’d been during his thirteen-month stint at Deer Run. He glanced at the yellow leaves fluttering on the trees in front of the tiny public library. They glowed like gemstones. Most people thought these trees were birch, but he knew they were aspens. His mother had taught him the names of all the trees in South Haven.

  They passed the fields where he’d suffered two seasons as an outfielder in the parks-and-recreation baseball league. Last winter, his brother had run special baseball training sessions for him on Sunday mornings. Arjun hit him dozens of grounders and pop flies, and Siddharth had to run and dive for them. When he missed one, he had to drop down on the frosty grass and do five pushups on his knuckles. If he missed two, he had to sprint around the house four times. If he missed three in a row, he had to stand against a wall and let Arjun pelt him with a tennis ball. The first time Arjun struck him, Siddharth fell to the ground and had to bite down on a clump of clovers to keep from crying. Arjun said, “You’re lucky, you know. Nobody was here to do this for me when I was your age.”

  When they reached Boston Post Road, he got into the backseat to change from his corduroys into navy-blue sweatpants. He had tried to convince Mohan Lal to buy him a karate uniform, which the dojo sold for forty-eight dollars. But his father said he first had to complete an entire month of classes.

  As they headed east toward West Haven, the strip malls got grubbier and contained fewer chain stores. Back in the day, his parents used to shop around here. He spotted a pet store where his mother had taken him to buy a ten-gallon fish tank. Beside it, there used to be a smelly Indian shop that sold spices, rice, and daal. The Aroras would laugh at the place’s slogan—So clean you can bring your American friends too. They were getting closer to their destination. Siddharth needed water, but there was none in the car. He started gnawing on the inside of his mouth, which helped a little, but didn’t stop his stomach from twitching and turning.

  Mohan Lal took a right turn into the parking lot. “Son?”

  “Yeah?” Siddharth wasn’t in the mood for nagging of any kind.

  “Make me proud, son. I want you to kick some butt.”

  “So now you’re not proud of me? Thanks, Dad. Thanks for always saying the right thing.” Then he sighed and grabbed his father’s shoulder. “Thanks for bringing me, Dad. Of course I’ll make you proud.”

  He stared at the stores in the shabby, squat plaza. The West Haven Martial Arts Academy sat between a beauty salon and something called a VFW. Mohan Lal parked next to a sleek black Camaro. Arjun had always said that Camaros were cheesy, but Siddharth liked this one. Two thick racing stripes ran along the length of its body, and it had a personalized license plate, K-Chop. As they got out of the car, he worried that his father might do something embarrassing. He wished Mohan Lal would just drive off and let him deal on his own.

  They walked by some white-haired men who were smoking and drinking coffee out of paper cups. One of them was wearing a cap that looked old-fashioned. European. He tipped it at Mohan Lal, who was holding the door open for Siddharth. Stepping inside the academy, Siddharth was immediately mesmerized by the place’s enormous trophy cases, which lined two walls of the slim, rectangular reception area. These cases must have contained at least a hundred trophies, and just as many medals and plaques. He vowed to win a prize for himself one day. He pictured himself bringing it into school and showing it off to Luca Peroti and Eddie Benson. They’d be begging him to join their kickball game. They’d forgive the fact that he’d once been friends with Sharon Nagorski.

  Mohan Lal headed toward a window at the far end of the room, and Siddharth followed behind. A young woman was sitting on the other side of the glass. She had silver hoop earrings and was chewing gum. Mohan Lal handed her a check and she told him that he could stay and watch the class.

  “No, thank you, miss,” said Mohan Lal. “I have to take care of a couple things at the office. You know, I work at Elm City College.”

  He wondered if his father’s accent was especially thick today. Maybe the dean had a point. Mohan Lal signed a few papers, then patted him on the head and walked out the door. Siddharth took a seat on the long wooden bench that lined the room’s exterior wall, which was mostly made of windows. When he saw his father’s silver minivan pull out of the lot, he started breathing a little easier. A doorway separated the reception area from the actual studio, where a class was taking place. He peered in and saw that most of the students were women. Their instructor was a woman too. He hoped his new teacher wasn’t a woman.

  With each passing minute, a new boy showed up wearing a karate uniform. Most had white belts, but a few had belts that were green or orange. Some of the boys had gold chains, and a few even had earrings. They greeted each other with high fives or silent nods. Siddharth hunched forward and massaged his crown of black wavy hair. Being here suddenly felt like a bad idea.

  A tall boy with an orange belt walked in. He had on a long Sharks parka over his uniform and had a cool haircut, long and floppy on top and shaved on the sides. All the other kids seemed excited to see him. Almost every boy walked up to him and said, “Hey, Marc,” or, “What’s up, Marc?” either shaking his hand or slapping it five. This Marc kid sauntered over to the secretary’s window and said, “Yo, Katie, I was up all night waiting for your call. You doggin’ me or something?” Siddharth couldn’t make out her words, but he definitely heard laughter.

  When the women’s class let out, he followed the other boys into the studio. They seated themselves in three neat rows, and he chose a place in the back left corner, close to the doorway. He scoped out the other kids through the mirrors that lined the front wall. They all looked at ease sitting Indian style, so he forced himself to keep his legs crossed even though it hurt. Above the mirrors were two flags, an American one and another that was either Japanese or Korean. Between them was a photograph of a chubby, bearded white man with a black belt. He was bowing down before a somber, gray-haired Oriental.

  The other kids sprang to their feet and bowed as soon as the sensei ste
pped in from the locker room, but it took Siddharth a moment to follow suit. He was shocked: his new karate teacher was black. He had met other black people before, like the woman who had babysat for Arjun and then cleaned the Arora household until he was eight, and he had seen plenty of black people on television. But he had never had a black teacher. The sensei had a rounded three-inch Afro and black freckles, like Morgan Freeman in Robin Hood. His black belt had a red stripe running through its middle, which must have meant he was especially hard core.

  The instructor said, “Listen up, my young friends. Today we have a new colleague, and I want you to welcome him with open arms.” He eyed Siddharth. “Son, I’m Mr. Stone. Why don’t you tell us your name?”

  Siddharth responded, pronouncing the d’s incorrectly, to make it sound more American.

  “Ah, a most holy of names,” said Mr. Stone. “Perhaps your presence will bring us a step closer to enlightenment.”

  The first part of the class was disappointing. They had to do a bunch of stretches and punch the air while standing in place. Mr. Stone then led them through some boring “forms,” for which the boys completed a series of synchronized movements in different directions. Siddharth tried his best to mimic the others, but he was always a step behind.

  Mr. Stone seemed to have a particular fondness for a kid named Gene-Paul, who had spiked hair and a tail that sprouted from his neck, and also for that Marc kid. He referred to Marc by his last name, Kaufman. He said, “Kaufman, my grandmother can punch harder than you,” and, “Kaufman, you’re supposed to be setting an example for everyone—not showing us what not to do.” Siddharth wondered if this was the Marc Kaufman. Last summer, a Marc Kaufman from Woodford had stolen the family Jeep and taken it for a joyride. He’d crashed it into a mailbox, one of those official blue ones, which made his crime a federal offense. It was Sharon who’d shared these details. Her father’s cousin, Randy Miller, had been one of the arresting officers.