On weekends, fifteen or twenty kids showed up to Foster Pond for pickup hockey games. Everybody had to plunk their sticks in the middle of the ice. One boy would chuck the sticks into two separate piles, and the spot where your stick landed determined which team you were on. Siddharth was the smallest and most inexperienced player, and since nobody thought he was worth defending, he was usually left wide open. If his teammates were in a jam, they’d see him standing all alone and send the puck sailing in his direction. The sight of the approaching puck would make Siddharth want to gag. As soon as it would reach him, he’d smack it as hard as he could at nothing in a particular with his brand-new hockey stick, which was a gift from Marc and his father. Once in a rare while, one of these wild shots actually scored a goal, but most of the time they just went out of bounds, eliciting grumbles and ridicule from the other players. One of these slap shots accidentally pelted a tenth grade football player named Dennis Bolzano, and Dennis told Siddharth to watch it.
That same afternoon, another one of Siddharth’s frantic shots hit Dennis in the groin, and Dennis started cursing. He flew over to Siddharth, hooking his stick into the blade of his skate and yanking him onto the ice. Siddharth fell hard on his shoulder, but he didn’t care about the pain. He just hoped that nobody had seen what had happened. Marc, who was playing goalie, skated over and helped him up. Marc then jetted over to Dennis and shoved him hard from behind.
Dennis stumbled but didn’t fall, and when he turned around, he looked pissed. He was wearing hockey gloves, which he cast onto the ice the way the pros did on television.
“Hit me,” said Marc, raising his stick in the air. “Hit me, and I’ll crack your fucking skull.”
Siddharth was drenched in sweat despite the numbing cold. He wanted Marc to do it.
“Fucking midgets,” said Dennis, grabbing his gloves and skating away.
Siddharth laughed. He felt safe with Marc, like nothing bad could happen when he was around. He hated to admit it, but he would choose hockey with Marc over baseball with Arjun any day of the week.
* * *
After his evening classes, Mohan Lal made it to Ms. Farber’s by eight thirty. She microwaved him a plate of food, and as he ate, Siddharth and Marc would devour bowls of frozen yogurt alongside him. Ms. Farber usually steered the conversation toward her favorite topics, like “self-actualization” or “everyday enlightenment,” or the adults discussed books they had exchanged. Ms. Farber had given Mohan Lal a paperback by Ram Das, who Siddharth discovered was actually American. Mohan Lal had lent her something called The Autobiography of a Yogi, a book that particularly bothered Siddharth, for the holy man on its cover was too feminine and foreign-looking.
Siddharth liked it best when Ms. Farber swore them to secrecy and provided updates on her clients’ progress, making sure not to use their actual names. By the end of February, three clients were attending regular sessions at her clinical psychology practice. All of them had been referred to her by the rabbi at her new synagogue. There was the Polish woman who had lost most of her family in the Holocaust. She’d immigrated to America when she was six and later went to a Methodist university, but she dropped out to marry one of her professors. Her husband turned out to be an abusive alcoholic, and they eventually got divorced. Now she was dating a Jewish lawyer with a heroin problem.
“The truth is,” said Mohan Lal one night, “most people lack the capacity for introspection. For most people, genuine change is an impossibility.”
“Hell yeah,” said Marc. “Once a loser, always a loser.”
“That’s awful,” said Ms. Farber. “I actually don’t think there’s a grain of truth to what you’re saying. I mean, if she can get to the bottom of that trauma—if she can articulate it—then she can definitely stop being so . . . so . . .”
“So retarted?” said Marc.
“So self-destructive,” said Ms. Farber.
“Well, I think people can change,” said Siddharth. “Look at Arjun.”
“How interesting, honey,” said Ms. Farber. “And just how did your brother change?”
“Just look at the way he dresses. First it was heavy metal T-shirts, and then everything had to be preppie. Now all his clothes are torn up. He’ll only wear a shirt if it’s made of—”
“Let me tell you about the problem with the West,” Mohan Lal cut in. “The Western mind always wants to blame everything on the past—the past and the parents.”
Siddharth shot his father a look, partially because Mohan Lal had interrupted him, but mainly because he didn’t want him to go off on some ridiculous tangent. If Mohan Lal got political, everything could go to shit.
Ms. Farber placed her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Siddharth closed his eyes and swallowed.
Mohan Lal began to speak again, but Ms. Farber started shaking her head back and forth, her hands still cupping her ears. “I’m not listening . . . I’m not listening.” She kept shaking her head, but soon let out a muffled laugh.
Mohan Lal started chuckling, which made her laugh even louder. Siddharth felt relieved and started laughing too.
Marc said, “What freaking cornballs.” But Siddharth was pleased to see that he was also smiling.
* * *
Marc was sleeping over at his father’s on a Thursday in early March, so Siddharth had to spend a few hours alone with Ms. Farber. He tried to concentrate on the television, but she insisted on making small talk. She asked him if things were getting any better with Mr. Latella. He lied and said everything was going great at school. She then told him about her charity work at the Jewish Community Center. She was running a clothing drive for struggling settlers in a place called the West Bank. All this talk bored Siddharth, and he was relieved when his father showed up early.
But Mohan Lal had dark pouches under his eyes. His tie was already off, and the two top buttons of his shirt were open, exposing the top of his worn, ribbed banyan. Siddharth asked him what was wrong, then fastened one of his father’s buttons.
“Get your things,” said Mohan Lal. “We have troubled Rachel enough for today.”
“No way,” said Ms. Farber. “First, you’re gonna have some dinner.”
She was about to place three slices of white clam pizza in the microwave, but Siddharth grabbed the plate and put the pizza in the toaster oven. His father hated microwaved pizza.
Ms. Farber asked if Mohan Lal wanted a glass of wine, and he said he wouldn’t mind a Scotch.
“Bourbon?” said Ms. Farber. “That’s what you-know-who used to drink.”
“Fine, a bourbon with ice and water.”
Mohan Lal devoured an entire slice in just two bites. He took a large gulp of bourbon and immediately started in on his second slice, but then started coughing until his cheeks turned red.
“Dad!” said Siddharth. He wished his father wouldn’t eat like an animal in front of Marc’s mom.
Ms. Farber placed her hand on Mohan Lal’s back and gave it a rub. Once his breathing went back to normal, she said, “Okay, time to spill it, mister.”
“Beg your pardon?” said Mohan Lal.
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell us what’s up.”
Mohan Lal cleared his throat. “It’s nothing. I just had a very unsatisfying meeting.”
“What?” Siddharth sat down next to his father. “But you said there was nothing to worry about.”
“Well, I was wrong. The dean said the university would be making a decision about my position next year. I told him, Fine, no problem, all my paperwork’s in order.” Mohan Lal paused to crunch an ice cube. “The bastard, he tells me my paperwork isn’t the problem—it’s my track record.”
“What does that even mean?” asked Ms. Farber.
“Your students love you,” said Siddharth.
Mohan Lal sighed. “He was referring to my publications.”
“He’s a fool,” said Siddharth. “You did, like, two articles last year.”
“An
d I edited that idiotic journal,” said Mohan Lal. “But that’s not enough these days. Nobody gives a damn about education. The dean said he wants a world-class program, and in a world-class program, everyone must have a book.”
“Loser,” said Siddharth. He watched Ms. Farber pour Mohan Lal more bourbon, fighting the urge to tell her to stop. She’s a psychologist, he reasoned. She knows what she’s doing.
Ms. Farber said, “Mohan, I fail to see the problem. You’re working on a book. I mean, you even have a contract.”
A memory flashed in Siddharth’s mind of the day Mohan Lal had actually signed his contract with Walton Publishers. They had gone out to an Italian restaurant in West Haven, one next to a costume store that no longer existed. Arjun raised his glass and said, “To new beginnings.” Mohan Lal had replied, “Son, you don’t get new beginnings at my age. Only endings.” Recalling that evening, Siddharth felt grateful for all the new things he had—karate and Marc. Even Ms. Farber.
Mohan Lal began shaking his head. He explained that Walton wanted a complete draft by September. Between teaching and everything else, there wouldn’t be enough time to turn in anything worthwhile.
Ms. Farber dabbed his chin with a paper towel. “That’s plenty of time,” she said. “Especially if you have some help.”
“Rachel, what can you do? Teach my classes?”
She placed both of her hands on his wrist. “Of course not. But I can do other things. I can help with Siddharth.”
Siddharth cleared his throat. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I can take care of myself.”
The adults didn’t respond. They had goofy smiles on their faces and were having some sort of staring contest.
Siddharth cleared his throat more loudly. “Let’s go, Dad. It’s time to go home.”
Mohan Lal stood up and brushed the crumbs from his blazer.
2
Conspicuous Consumption
On a foggy Saturday morning, Siddharth was sitting on the shabby white armchair in front of the television, eating cereal alone off the three-legged Indian end table. When his father woke up, Siddharth asked him if they could watch something together, or go somewhere—just the two of them. Mohan Lal told him he had to work. He grabbed a paperback from the bookshelf behind the portable television stand and headed to the kitchen. Siddharth got up and followed him. “But I thought you needed a break,” he said. “I thought you couldn’t write another word.”
“This is other work,” said Mohan Lal.
Siddharth snatched the book out of his father’s hands. It was called Taj Mahal: The True Tale of a Ruined Temple, and published by some company called Satya. He shook his head. His father used to go on about the Taj Mahal all the time. He called it an “emblem of decadence,” an “ostentatious graveyard.” Siddharth flipped through the pages of the slim paperback. “Looks fun . . . Are you kidding me?”
Mohan Lal handed him a glass of apple juice. “Son, I am reading about the destruction of our heritage.”
Siddharth took a sip. “Who destroyed it?”
“The Mohammedans first, and then the Britishers. But Hindus only have themselves to blame.”
“This cover,” said Siddharth, thumping the book against his chest. “A five-year-old could have done it. Looks like they printed this crap on a photocopier.”
“Have more respect for knowledge, son.” Mohan Lal put an English muffin in the toaster. “This book was a gift from your Barry Uncle.”
“What?” Siddharth’s smile disappeared. “You saw Barry Uncle? Why didn’t you tell me you saw him?”
Mohan Lal opened his mouth to speak, but the phone rang and he lunged for it.
Siddharth could tell it was Ms. Farber by the way his father’s voice got all sweet and formal. During their three-minute conversation, Mohan Lal kept on saying, “Simply wonderful, Rachel,” and, “Congratulations, I’m so impressed.” When he put down the phone, he told Siddharth to get ready. They were going out to a celebratory lunch because Ms. Farber had just signed up her seventh patient.
“Wait, what about Barry Uncle?” asked Siddharth.
“Mind your own business, son. And hurry up!”
* * *
Ms. Farber picked them up at 11:43. Nobody said much as they drove, and Siddharth sat in the backseat of the Saab stewing. He knew that his father’s seeing Barry Uncle was a good thing. It was further proof that things were going back to normal. But Mohan Lal should have consulted him first. He should have asked for his advice.
When they got to the mall, the lot was crammed with cars. Ms. Farber parked near the rear exit, beside a lingering bank of blackened snow. They first went to Filene’s, where she bought Marc a pair of baggy Guess jeans and then picked out a striped designer button-down for Siddharth. He had never heard of the brand, which was displayed on the shirt’s abdomen. Marc said it was cool, so he tried it on.
“Very handsome,” said Ms. Faber. “Your eyes—they have little flecks of green in them.”
Siddharth couldn’t stifle his smile.
“Handsome or not,” said Mohan Lal, “take it off.”
“Mohan, I’d like to buy it for him,” said Ms. Farber.
“Don’t waste your money, Rachel. These things will be too small by summer.”
“It’s my money.” She was smiling, but her voice was firm. “If I feel like being generous, then that’s what I’m gonna do.”
She paid for their things, and the group left the store. Siddharth felt contented as he clutched his shopping bag and stared at the throngs of weekend shoppers. A hunched-over, wrinkled white man stood behind his walker and picked out a watch strap. Two black couples giggled as they struggled to fit inside a single photo booth. Bands of familiar-looking teenagers squabbled and flirted.
Normally, if Siddharth had been there alone with his father, these kids would have made him nervous. But today he was able to gawk at them with confidence. He fell behind his companions, and when he looked up, they were fifteen or twenty feet ahead. Ms. Farber was standing between his friend and his father. She was gripping Marc’s wrist, and her other hand was clasping Mohan Lal’s elbow. They looked right together, almost natural. With these people by his side, Mohan Lal could have been a Jew, or even an Italian.
* * *
They went from the mall to Pasta Palace, Mohan Lal’s favorite South Haven restaurant. The Aroras had been dining there for years. The portions they served were huge, and each meal came with a free salad. The restaurant was packed today, but Mustafa, the place’s Pakistani manager, still took the time to personally greet them. He clapped Mohan Lal on the back, then patted Siddharth on the head. He said, “Look at him. This one’s gonna be shaving soon.” Siddharth’s face got hot, and he peered down. But he didn’t mind Mustafa. Even though the man was Pakistani—even though he referred to Mohan Lal as Chacha-ji—Siddharth thought he was funny. Mustafa spoke English with a perfect guido accent, like the Mafia goons from the movies. He said things like, “The spinach raviolis? Fugget about it—best raviolis this side a da Bronx.”
For lunch, Marc and Siddharth ordered meatball subs. Mohan Lal got veal parmigiana, and Ms. Farber asked for a Caesar salad with the dressing on the side. When both adults ordered wine, Marc said, “Rachel, boozing in the daytime? What are the lawyers gonna say about that one?”
Ms. Farber smiled, but her nostrils were flaring. She said, “Marc, put your napkin on your lap. And watch it, or no Coke.”
Marc craned his neck toward the bar to catch a basketball game. Siddharth couldn’t care less about sports again, now that Michigan’s Fab Five had lost in the finals. He half-listened to Ms. Farber blabbing about the art therapy class she was taking a local community college. Her professor was also a hypnotherapist, and he performed something called past-life regressive hypnosis. She wondered if Mohan Lal might be interested in a consultation.
“I’m interested, yes,” said Mohan Lal. “But I wouldn’t trust some amateur—some Western quack.”
“Oh, Mohan, you’re all b
ark,” Ms. Farber responded. “I know you don’t really think like that.”
Marc buttered a roll and bit into it. “What’s regressive hypnocrap?”
“Don’t be crude, Marc,” said Ms. Farber. “And don’t talk with your mouth full.” She paused to sip some wine. “Honey, I’m sorry. Do you really wanna know?”
“Totally,” said Marc. “I’m always interested in your thoughts and ideas, Rachel.”
Ms. Farber sat up straight and explained how according to the Hindus, a person’s soul lived multiple lives in multiple bodies. “What a person experiences in his past lives affects him in his present one. But the thing is, we don’t have any conscious memories of these past lives, and that’s where hypnosis comes in. With regressive hypnosis, a person can reconnect with the people they were in previous lifetimes. And once you unlock all those experiences, they say you feel a deep sense of freedom. Your soul is finally unburdened from centuries’ worth of guilt—from centuries’ worth of suffering.”
“Well put, Rachel,” said Mohan Lal.
She raised her glass, then gulped more wine.
“Wait, Dad,” said Siddharth. “I know you don’t really believe this stuff.” He liked Ms. Farber, but why did she have to encourage all this Hindu bullshit?
“What’s so strange, son? Half the world thinks there’s a red man with little horns at the center of the earth.” As Mohan Lal was speaking, Mustafa came with their appetizers. “Even Mustafa here believes in reincarnation. Don’t you, chief?”
Siddharth stared at the manager. He was wearing a white collared shirt with too many buttons open, so that you could see his black chest hairs and gold chain. Mustafa may have been Pakistani, but he looked just like an Indian. The most Indian thing about him was his ugly mustache. It was so thick, as if black rope was spilling from his nostrils.
Mustafa smiled, and his mustache turned into an ugly upside-down V. “Reincarnation? When I was growing up in Pakistan, we believed in it all.” He said Pakistan the way Americans do, so that it rhymed with can—not the way Mohan Lal pronounced the word. “We believed in everything, and we celebrated everything—Christmas, Holi, Eid. Anyway, buon appetito, folks.” He then nodded at them and walked over to another table.
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