Luca started pounding on his desk and chanting. “Prince Sidd-harth, Prince Sidd-harth.” The rest of the class joined in too: “Prince Sidd-harth, Prince Sidd-harth . . .”
Mr. Latella shook his head, but he was still smiling. “Okay, okay. Settle down.” He gave Siddharth a high five for the second time that year. “Take a bow, Prince Siddharth. Take a bow, and let’s move on.”
5
Land of the Arab-Haters and Nymphomaniacs
Siddharth was pretending to do math homework but was really watching television. He heard his father call for him. “What is it?” he yelled back. He wasn’t in the mood to get his father a glass of water. He wasn’t in the mood to tell him if the clothes he was wearing looked good or not. Mohan Lal kept on calling, and Siddharth begrudgingly peeled himself off the sofa.
He found his father in the bathroom wearing a pair of tan pants and a ribbed banyan—what Marc called a wifebeater. He was on his knees scrubbing the floor of the shower.
“Dad, what do you want?”
Mohan Lal told to him to clean up the house. He said Siddharth had turned their home into a pigsty.
“I turned it into a pigsty? Me?” Siddharth was about to shoot back with something mean—that Mohan Lal was worse than a pig, he was like a dirty Indian beggar who lived in a slum. That the house got so dirty because Mohan Lal was too cheap to pay the Polish cleaning lady to come more than once a month. But as he looked down at the glistening gray hairs of his father’s shoulders, he realized something strange was happening. Mohan Lal did clean from time to time. He blued the toilet bowls with that gel, vacuumed the floors in the family room and kitchen. But he rarely got down and dirty like this.
“Go clean your room,” said Mohan Lal. “Rachel and Marc will be here soon.”
“They’re coming over? Again?”
“Hurry up. Thanks to you, she’ll think we are animals.”
“Yeah, thanks to me,” Siddharth muttered. “I’m the one who has seven dirty coffee mugs on my desk. I keep the catalogs on the dining table for five months but never actually cut the coupons.” He reluctantly headed to his bedroom with an empty garbage bag and the vacuum cleaner. He sifted through the chaotic assortment of school papers on his desk, chucking a blackened banana peel and a paper plate full of Dorito crumbs into the garbage. Two weeks of dirty clothes were strewn across the patterned carpet. He stuffed his sweaters and sweatshirts into a drawer, then dumped his pants and T-shirts into the laundry basket in the linen closet outside the main bathroom, where Mohan Lal was now ringing out a mop.
Siddharth said, “So what are we doing tonight?”
“We are not doing anything. Rachel and I have an appointment.”
“An appointment? What does that mean?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
Fuck off, thought Siddharth. At least Marc was coming over. As long as he had Marc, the adults could do whatever they wanted.
The electronic doorbell rang just after five, and it sounded particularly off-key, like a dying bird. Ms. Farber walked into the house before he or his father could get there. She kissed Mohan Lal first on the cheek and then on the lips. She said, “I think those batteries need a-changing.”
“I’ve been telling Siddharth,” said Mohan Lal, who was now wearing a tie and blazer.
“I’ll take care of it right now,” she said. “Marc, get me a chair.”
“Leave it,” said Mohan Lal.
Marc slapped Siddharth five, then plunked himself down on the frayed love seat. Siddharth sat beside him and stared at Ms. Farber. Today she was wearing lots of black—black stockings and a black ribbed shirt. But her skirt was gray, and it stopped at her knees. He thought she looked good tonight—sort of elegant.
Mohan Lal handed her a recent letter from his publisher, which Siddharth had already read aloud to his father multiple times. Mohan Lal had sent in the first four chapters of his manuscript to Walton, and they were pleased with his progress. According to Ronald Wasserman, an assistant editor, Mohan Lal’s “perspectives on the field of marketing are not only impressive, but often innovative.” Although the book wasn’t due for another four months, Wasserman suggested that Mohan Lal rush to finish it by June. That way, they might be able to publish it as early as February.
After reading the letter, Ms. Farber dropped it to the floor and threw her arms around Mohan Lal’s neck. “Absolutely amazing! See, what did I tell you about positive thinking?”
Mohan Lal grinned. “Well, perhaps my discipline also played a role—my innovative ideas.”
She gave his neck a long smooch, and Siddharth had to look away.
Mohan Lal tapped his wristwatch. “We should be leaving.”
Siddharth stood up and removed the letter from the floor. “Would somebody please tell me where you guys are going tonight?” he asked sharply.
Ms. Farber winked at him. “Honey, we’re going to your school.”
“You’re joking.” Siddharth’s stomach tightened.
“I’m not.” She pulled out a brochure from her purse and used it to swat him on the head. “There’s an event in the gymnasium.”
He grabbed the pamphlet. Upon reading it, he felt relieved. They were going to some dumb-ass meeting about something called Dianetics, which could help people “unlock their true potential.” He threw the pamphlet onto the coffee table, which was neat and tidy for a change, then watched Ms. Farber apply lipstick to her contorted mouth. She pulled Mohan Lal toward the door and said, “Be good, boys. We’re trusting you.”
* * *
Once the adults had pulled out of the driveway, Siddharth followed Marc to the dining room and watched him kneel down on the orange carpet. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What am I doing?” said Marc. “I’m gonna get us happy.”
Siddharth watched Marc open a cabinet that contained stacks of china, teacups, and glasses. The next cabinet held piles of old Indian and Pakistani periodicals, and Christmas cards people had sent the Aroras in the eighties.
Marc asked, “Where the hell did the booze go?”
Siddharth pointed to a third cabinet door. Marc yanked it open, and the boys stared at Mohan Lal’s sizable stash of alcohol. Most of it consisted of unopened bottles of whiskey, a few of which looked fancy. Mohan Lal used to buy these from duty-free airport shops on his way back from India. Barry Uncle had given him a couple as birthday presents.
Marc reached into a corner and pulled out a bottle of brown liquid called Old Monk XXX, unscrewing its cap and sniffing it. “Shit looks Indian,” he said. “Smells good, but he might notice.” He pulled out a half-empty bottle of Gilbey’s Gin, then took a swig and sighed. “This’ll do just fine.” He gulped some more, and a few beads of sweat appeared on the bridge of his freckled nose. He wiped them away with the bottom of one of his shirts. He was wearing a red short-sleeve T-shirt, and a black full-sleeve shirt underneath it. “I could get used to this.” He took out a glass and poured some gin, then handed the drink to Siddharth. “Bottoms up,” he said. “Before they get back from their retard festival.”
Siddharth accepted the glass. It was crystal and had an intricate, heavy base. Holding it in his hands, he felt guilty. And a little sad. His father hadn’t touched these glasses since his mother had died, and even back then he would only use them on special occasions.
“Go for it,” said Marc. “I promise you’re not gonna die.”
Siddharth brought the vessel to his lips and sipped. The fiery liquid got stuck in his throat, and he sprayed it all over Marc’s shirt.
“Dumb-ass,” said Marc, but he was smiling. He took another swig from the bottle.
Siddharth wiped his mouth and cleared his throat. “You think it’s retarded?”
“You’re not retarded—just a little goofy sometimes.”
“Shut up. I mean this thing they went to—that stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“You know: visualizing things, being born again—that stuff.”
> Marc tucked his bangs behind his ear. “Yo, I think I can already feel it.”
Siddharth drank some gin and managed to get it down this time. “I’ve been in a plane hundreds of times, and there’s definitely no heaven up there. I mean, it kind of makes sense really.”
Marc squinted at him. “What makes sense? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know, reincarnation—that kind of shit.”
“Oh God, not you too.” Marc shook his head. “All this shit is getting on my freaking nerves. Listen, when you’re dead, you’re dead, and that’s it. Hell, they don’t even believe half of the crap they’re saying.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Believe me, it’s like a code language or something. They’d rather be screwing each other twenty-four seven, but they can’t do that—not with us around, anyway. All this philosophical mumbo-jumbo, it’s just bullshit they talk about to get their mind off fucking each other’s brains out.”
Siddharth forced another sip of liquor down his throat and winced.
Marc laughed. “There you go.” He poured more gin into Siddharth’s crystal glass.
Siddharth took another long swig. “What do you mean, fucking each other?” He had his suspicions about his father’s sex life. He knew that Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber had kissed, but maybe they had done a bit more.
“You know, sexual intercourse?” said Marc. “When a man inserts his penis into a vagina?”
“Yeah, thanks. You really think they’re doing it?”
“We’re sleeping over at your house tonight. They’re gonna sleep in the same freaking bed. What do you think they’re gonna do? Tickle each other?”
“What?” Siddharth felt his lip begin to tremble. “You’re sleeping over?”
“What do you think’s in my bag? Toys?”
Siddharth finished his drink and tried to tell himself that Marc was lying, but knew this wasn’t true. Mohan Lal had been acting strange. He had been acting strange because he was keeping something from him. How could his father have done this? Arjun had called him selfish, and their mother had said the same thing. Once, his parents had been fighting because her sister was supposed to visit for two whole months. Mohan Lal didn’t want her there for such a long time, and Siddharth’s mother called him egotistical. She said that his ego would get in the way of their family’s happiness, and Mohan Lal got into his shitty Dodge Omni and sped down the driveway.
Staring at Marc, Siddharth now saw his father for the selfish man he was. He liked to talk but not listen. He was only nice to people who were nice to him. Siddharth had always thought that Mohan Lal had become friends with Ms. Farber to make things easier for his son. But maybe he was only in it for himself—for the sex. This thought made him actually shudder.
Marc poured him some more booze. “I didn’t think you were that stupid, Sidney. Look, at least somebody’s getting some.”
Siddharth couldn’t calm his frenzied nerves. “Yo, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I do. Our parents are doing it, Siddharth. They’re having sex. They’ve done it at my house, and tonight they’re gonna do it here—right in your father’s bed. Maybe they’ll even make us a little brother.”
Siddharth’s stomach began to lurch. He gave Marc a shove.
Marc laughed. “Are you serious? Try doing that again.”
Siddharth froze for a second. He wanted to kick his friend in the balls or bite his face off, but instead he ran toward the bathroom and locked himself inside. With his back against the door, he took some deep breaths. The breathing failed to settle his stomach; it failed to still his mind. He wondered if he was drunk—if he might puke. His body felt hot, so he cupped some water into his mouth. Doing so only exacerbated his nausea.
He wondered what they did together. Was it regular sex? Or the stuff he had seen in the movies? Had Ms. Farber sucked his father’s dick? Had Mohan Lal stuck his penis between her tits? Licked her pussy? The man suddenly seemed like a stranger, a sex addict who would do anything for a naked body. Betray his wife. Betray his kids. But it wasn’t his fault. Mohan Lal was sad and confused, and Ms. Farber was a slut. She was the one who had led him in this disgusting direction.
Siddharth began to burp up a mixture of garlic and gin. He felt himself starting to shiver. He walked over to the toilet bowl and raised the lid. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out, so he shoved his index finger toward his tonsils and gagged. An acidic liquid singed his larynx but then retreated. He poured the rest of his drink into the toilet bowl and flushed.
When he got out of the bathroom, Marc was on the love seat thumbing through one of Mohan Lal’s books. “Yo, you done with your little hissy fit?”
“Shut up,” said Siddharth. “I’m not feeling good. I think I ate something bad at school.”
Marc waved Mohan Lal’s book in the air. “Funny shit. It’s like all sci-fi—like Total Recall or something.”
Siddharth snatched the book out of his hands and examined the cover. It was called Am I a Hindu? He had never seen it before.
“You know what my dad says?” said Marc. He put a stick of gum in his mouth and handed one to Siddharth. “He says Hindus and Jews, they only got two things in common: they’re both really bad tippers—and they hate the Arabs, and the Arabs hate them too.”
Siddharth threw the book on the table and suggested they watch a movie. He recommended Planet of the Apes, but Marc said it was too old. After some back and forth, they eventually opted for Back to School. Marc was laughing out loud the whole time, but Siddharth’s mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t believe his father was fucking Ms. Farber. He couldn’t believe the man had already forgotten about his dead wife. Dead, dead—when you’re dead, you’re dead. Siddharth’s brain burned with these words. He could feel a big, heavy sob building in his body. Dead was dead. You weren’t reincarnated, and you didn’t go to heaven. Arjun had pretty much said the same thing. Siddharth imagined the flames licking at his mother’s body. They had cremated her and left him with nothing—not even a strand of hair or a gravestone where he could say hello.
A key rattled in the front door.
Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber walked in, though they remained in the entrance hall. Marc didn’t seem to notice, but Siddharth peered at the adults from the darkened family room. Ms. Farber removed her coat and hung it up in the closet. She was saying something about being individuals—about not having to like the same things.
“It is not a question of liking,” said Mohan Lal. He loosened his tie and stuffed it into his blazer pocket. “Aren’t you the one always telling people to be more open?”
“Listen, it’s just not for me,” she said, grasping Mohan Lal’s lapels. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be for you.”
Mohan Lal stepped away from her. “What? So I’m a fool? My judgment can’t be trusted?”
Ms. Farber tied her hair into a bun. “Look, we just went over this. Paying thousands of dollars to learn how to be happy—it just doesn’t seem right. For Christ’s sake, normally you’re the skeptic. You’re the one who would call it consumeristic.”
Siddharth noticed that her boots made her look almost as tall as Mohan Lal. These boots were tall, black, and leather. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining her naked, wearing nothing else besides them. Did she keep them on while they were screwing? He shook his head to rid it of this perverted image.
Mohan Lal stepped into the family room. “As if you’re one who should talk of consumerism,” he muttered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She then noticed the boys behind her. “Why are you guys sitting in the dark?”
Marc brought a finger to his lips and shushed her.
She kissed him on the forehead. Her curls appeared eerily orange in the light cast by the television. Siddharth hoped she wouldn’t kiss him but then cursed her in his mind when she didn’t. Mohan Lal turned off the VCR and put on CNN, then seated himself beside Siddharth. Marc clicked hi
s tongue. Ms. Farber sat down next to her son.
“What about dinner?” she suggested. “One of my famous stews maybe?”
“There are leftovers in the fridge,” said Mohan Lal.
“But what about your news?” said Ms. Farber. “We should celebrate.”
“Celebrating would be premature.”
Siddharth grasped his father’s knee. “Dad, I don’t feel so good.”
“What’s wrong?” Mohan Lal’s eyes were fixed on the television.
“My stomach hurts.”
Mohan Lal didn’t respond.
“Dad, I vomited.”
“What?” Mohan Lal grabbed his wrist. “Yes, you’re warm.”
Siddharth caught Marc smirking out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t care though.
Ms. Farber stood up and placed her fingers on Siddharth’s forehead. “How about I make him some soup?”
“I just wanna go to bed,” said Siddharth. “If I eat, I’m definitely gonna puke again.”
Mohan Lal said he would boil some fennel water that Siddharth could drink in his bedroom. He took him by the hand and began to lead him away.
“Mohan . . .” said Ms. Farber.
“What?”
“Mohan, hang on a sec.” She sounded annoyed.
“What is it?” said Mohan Lal.
“Everybody else needs to eat, right? Why don’t I go ahead and make something for the rest of us?”
Don’t you get it? thought Siddharth. He doesn’t want your fucking food.
Mohan Lal glanced down, and when he raised his head, his eyes were wide with anger. “Tonight’s not the night, Rachel.”
She placed a hand on her hip. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, my son is unwell.”
“Are you saying we should leave? Because if that’s what you mean, just say so.”
Mohan Lal sighed. “We’ll be seeing each other in just two days’ time.”
Ms. Farber’s chest was heaving. Her nostrils began to flare. “That’ll be perfect, right? I’ll watch the boys, and you can get down to work. I mean, Mohan, we talked about this. I packed a freaking bag.”
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