“Why do we revere the kings of antiquity?” said Mohan Lal. “Not for making peace, but because they secured resources.”
Arjun pulled at his whiskers. “You’re kidding me, Dad.”
“Why would I be kidding? Son, Bush has shown the world how to stand up to these Muslims. For that I admire him.”
“I know you know better,” said Arjun. “I know you’re not that dumb.”
Siddharth shot his brother a look.
“Yes, son,” said Mohan Lal, “your father is a very—”
“Arjun,” interrupted Ms. Farber, “I hope you’re hungry. Your father has prepared quite a feast for you.”
* * *
When they got home, Marc greeted Arjun at the door and shook his hand. Arjun said he had heard that Marc was a big Yankees fan. Marc said, “The Mets. I think you mean the Mets.” Siddharth knew this was a lie, that his friend really loved the Yankees. But he didn’t say anything. Ms. Farber showed Arjun to the guest room and brought him a bath towel, and Siddharth found this whole interaction unsettling. She seemed to be treating his brother like a guest even though this was his house, not hers. But Arjun didn’t seem to mind the attention. Before getting into the shower, he told Ms. Farber that the place felt so alive with her and Marc around. These words wounded Siddharth. He wondered what it had seemed like before. Was it too depressing? Or just really boring?
As Mohan Lal heated up their dinner—rajma, bharta, chicken, and paneer—Ms. Farber set the table and plied Arjun with questions about Michigan. He told her that balancing his part-time job with schoolwork was challenging but doable. In May, he had moved into a co-op, where everyone shared the household chores and threw parties together. He explained that over the summer, he had been taking an intensive Hindi course.
Mohan Lal started coughing. “Hindi? You should be focusing on your premed.”
“Oh, Mo,” said Ms. Farber, “you should be proud. Gents, how about a little wine?”
“I’d love a glass,” said Arjun.
“Wine?” said Mohan Lal. “He’s only nineteen.”
Arjun laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant laugh. “If I’m old enough to pay the rent, I think I can have a little wine.”
“Come on, Mo,” said Ms. Farber, “one glass isn’t gonna hurt.”
“Wait,” said Marc, “if he gets to break the law, then I’m gonna too.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Siddharth.
When they were all seated at the kitchen table, Mohan Lal uncorked a bottle of red wine and poured out three glasses. “To what shall we toast?”
“Hang on.” Arjun got two small brandy glasses from the dining room cabinet and poured out a little wine for Siddharth and Marc. “In France, kids drink wine all the time. The Europeans have a much healthier relationship with alcohol.”
“Let’s move to France,” said Marc.
Siddharth chuckled. “Yeah, I wanna live in France.”
“How about we toast us?” said Ms. Farber. “To new beginnings—to the five of us finally being together.”
“To us,” said Mohan Lal.
Looking around the table, Siddharth felt a surge of contentment. This was his new family, and they were finally all together.
* * *
Later that night, when Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber were in bed and Marc was watching a repeat of The Tonight Show, Siddharth knocked on the door of the guest room.
“Come in,” said Arjun.
He entered.
Arjun was reading a book. “Give me a sec,” he said. “I gotta finish my page.”
His brother was reading yet another book about India. It was written by someone named Romila, an ugly name. It reminded him of Attila, or Brunehilda. Siddharth sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his brother. Arjun had on boxer shorts with little sailboats, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. The downy hair on his belly had gotten thicker, and so had the tuft at the center of his chest. As usual, Arjun had on the gold chain that he’d worn every day for the last five years, but he’d taken off the gold King George coin that their grandfather had given them. Siddharth wondered why Arjun had removed it. Had he sold it for drugs?
Eventually, Arjun rested the paperback on his chest. “What’s up?”
“Why are you reading that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re American. Why don’t you read about America?”
“Jesus,” said Arjun, “I gotta get you out of here.”
Siddharth lay down, leaning his back against the wall. He placed his left leg across his brother’s waist. Arjun was staring at something, and Siddharth followed his gaze to the far corner of the room, to the family portrait above a dingy love seat. The picture was held in an intricately carved Indian frame. He must have been around four, and he was wearing a red sweater that had been a birthday gift.
Arjun rested his wrists on Siddharth’s leg. “I can remember the day it was taken,” he said. “Mom had one of her migraines. I think she even puked.”
“So why did we go then?”
“Go where?” asked Arjun.
“To get the picture taken. Why did we go if she was sick?”
“She probably didn’t want to piss off Dad. Everybody lived in perpetual fear of pissing him off—everybody except for you.”
Arjun got up and went to the bathroom, and Siddharth lay there thinking about their mother. Arjun had so many memories of her, which was good, but also a reminder of all that Siddharth would never know. He looked around the guest room and noticed how cluttered it had gotten. Discarded luggage and old furniture lined every wall, and the dressing table was crammed with all kinds of knickknacks. He spotted the brass fisherman they had bought on a family trip to Maine. When you wound him up, he started to spin, and a little music box played “Moon River.” Mohan Lal had invented his own nonsensical Hindi lyrics to go along with the tune. Siddharth couldn’t imagine him doing something like that anymore.
He started thumbing through the pages of Arjun’s book, and a photo fell out. He grasped it by the edges, just as his mother had taught him. The picture was of a girl, about nineteen or twenty years old. She was standing in a room with white marble floors, bending forward and blowing a kiss. She was trying to look glamorous but was clearly also kidding around. Siddharth’s breathing quickened. He had suspected that Arjun had a secret love life for some time now. A few months earlier, he had phoned his brother’s room, and Arjun’s roommate answered. The roommate said that Arjun was out with his girlfriend. When Siddharth later followed up with his brother, Arjun said that his roommate was crazy, then quickly changed the subject to college basketball.
Now he knew why Arjun had been so sketchy. The girl in the photo—his girlfriend—had hips that were too wide. Her hair was floppy and short, and a portion of her bangs were painted pink. But none of that was a big deal. The real problem was that she had a nose ring. The real problem was that she had brown skin. The real problem was that Arjun’s girlfriend was Indian.
Hearing a noise, Siddharth placed the photo back inside the book and quickly closed it.
Arjun walked in and gave him a curious look. “What are you up to?”
“What does it look like?”
“I dunno, but I can tell you’re up to something.”
Siddharth needed to change the subject. “So?”
“So what?”
“So what do you think of her?”
Arjun reached his arms up to the ceiling and then bent down to touch his toes. “You mean Ms. Farber?” He took a few deep breaths while his fingers hovered over the blue carpet, then stood upright again. “To be honest, I like her. She’s a little naive—a little conservative. But who isn’t around here? And she’s attractive—for her age, I mean. And ambitious. Dad needs that. I just hope he doesn’t fuck it up.”
4
The Conditioning of White Girls
Ms. Farber cooked everyone breakfast the next morning, and then Arjun drove Siddharth to the Blue Trail in Woodford, where they hi
ked to some waterfalls. Despite the savage mosquitoes and his itchy eyes, he was happy to have his brother all to himself. He wished he could ask Arjun about his Indian girlfriend, or tell him about the freakish parts of Ms. Farber’s personality, but he knew that this was all sensitive terrain. He knew that like Mohan Lal, Arjun could be explosive.
Later, as they were driving to Post Road to do some shopping, he told Arjun how much Barry Uncle had been around lately. Arjun told him that Barry Uncle was tasteless and uncouth—that it was inappropriate of him to try to convince Mohan Lal to sue the truck driver who had rear-ended their mother. As Siddharth listened to his brother talk about their mother’s death, he again felt claustrophobic. Arjun spoke about her so openly—so calmly—as if he were referring to some random thing that had happened to a stranger, as if he were recapping highlights from the evening news. How could he be so cold? Didn’t he care about them?
“I don’t get it,” Siddharth said. “I thought you’d be happy about Dad and Barry Uncle. I thought you were the one who didn’t want Dad to be isolated.”
“Look,” Arjun replied, “I don’t really care about any of that lawsuit garbage. But I do think Barry’s an imbecile. He’s an idiot. He’s even more simplistic than Dad.”
“Dad’s not simplistic.”
“They’re both freaking simplistic—simplistic fascists.”
He hated hearing his brother use such cruel words about their father. But they only had a few days together, and he didn’t want to waste a second fighting. He needed to change the subject, so he told Arjun that he was anxious about starting junior high. “I’m worried about all the homework. What if I don’t make any friends?”
Arjun told him to relax. Seventh grade was a big step, but junior high school students were more mature. “I know you have your thing against sports,” he said, “but if I were you, I would definitely run track. The track kids are cool, but they’re also smart. And you should definitely run for student council. It’s a good way to get noticed. And remember, the coolest kids are the ones with the best sense of humor. Make sure you laugh at other people’s jokes.”
Soon they were at the mall, and they headed to a shoe store. After Arjun tried on a couple pairs of running sneakers, he picked out some suede bucks for Siddharth’s first day of school.
“I’m not sure,” said Siddharth.
“Trust me,” said Arjun. “They’re cool.”
On their way home, they passed through the center of town, skirting the annual South Haven County Fair, where their mother had won ribbons for her paintings. From the car, Siddharth was able to catch a glimpse of the fair’s antique auto show, with ancient plows and tractors.
Arjun sneered. “This place is really so freaking hickish.”
Siddharth frowned. “It’s not that bad.”
“Trust me—it is.”
“Okay, so where would you rather live?”
“A million places. London. Bombay. New York.”
“Bombay?” He gritted his teeth. “That’ll be perfect. My big brother’s gonna live in India with his Indian girlfriend.”
Arjun slowed the car. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Siddharth realized he’d made a mistake.
“Don’t be a child. Tell me what you said.”
“Honestly, I was just joking around.”
“No you weren’t. Siddharth, we’re gonna have a problem if you don’t start talking.”
They paused at a stop sign, and he sighed. “I saw a picture of your girlfriend.”
“Which picture?”
“The one in your book.”
Arjun glared at him, then proceeded across Route 114. “You’re still snooping through my stuff. What are you, five?”
“I wasn’t snooping . . . It just fell out.”
“Of what?”
“Your goddamn book.”
“Yeah, right. Grow up, Sid. You’re almost a teenager. You gotta stop acting like a child.”
“Yeah, I’m the child.” He stared out at the beige-colored fields of Miller Farm, where a few fat cows were lazing about. “I’m not the one who’s going out with an Indian girl. Who would do that? That’s disgusting.”
Arjun pulled over close to the old Miller farmhouse, where Sharon Nagorski’s great-uncle still lived. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Who the hell would want an Indian girlfriend?”
“You don’t know how stupid you sound.” Arjun shifted into park, then turned off the engine. “But I suppose it isn’t your fault.” He grunted. “You’re so brainwashed. And for your information, she’s not even Indian.”
“Right. I guess she’s Polish. Chinese maybe?”
“Just drop it.” Arjun started up the car.
“Is she from Siberia? Where was she born? Oh, I know—Mars?”
“Stop, Siddharth. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“I’m a fool? You’re the one who’s screwing a freaking Indian.”
“You’re an idiot,” Arjun said, twisting up his lips. “And she’s definitely not Indian.”
“So where’s she from then?”
“None of your business.”
“Tell me.”
“She’s from Michigan, alright?” Arjun was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. “And her parents—they’re from Pakistan.”
“You’re joking.”
“Would you just shut up? And not a word to Dad.”
“What are you gonna do about it? Beat me up?”
Arjun reached over and grabbed the back of Siddharth’s neck.
“Ow!”
“No, but if you say anything, it’s over between us. I won’t even look in your direction.”
* * *
On the final night of Arjun’s visit, the plan was for everyone to go out to dinner and a movie. Siddharth was dreading the evening. He and his brother had made up, but since they had wasted some precious time fighting, he wanted to be alone with Arjun—or at least have it be a family affair, just the two of them and Mohan Lal. An hour before they were scheduled to leave, Marc claimed to have a stomachache and said he wasn’t coming, which eased some of Siddharth’s tension. At seven p.m., everyone else piled into the minivan and headed toward Pasta Palace. Ms. Farber had decided she didn’t care for the place, calling it loud and garish. But Siddharth still liked it, and it remained Mohan Lal’s favorite restaurant.
As they approached the center of South Haven, Mohan Lal told Arjun about the shady land deal that had led to the destruction of the Carter Family Horse Farm, which had been turned into a new complex of large luxury homes. Converting this type of agricultural land into commercial property was illegal, but Mrs. Carter, the town treasurer, was friendly with the South Haven mayor, Bob Swirsky. Swirsky had the town charter amended so that she could sell the land quickly, and for lots of money. Within a few months, Mrs. Carter had bought a brand-new six-bedroom home in Woodford. Bob Swirsky was driving around South Haven in an S-class Mercedes.
Mohan Lal said, “What a marvelous place that farm was. But corruption has a way of spoiling beauty.”
“Bob Swirsky?” said Arjun. “I think he used to be my bus driver. Always seemed kind of sleazy.”
“Ah, small-town politics,” said Ms. Farber. “Aren’t they just charming?”
Siddharth stared out the window at the new luxury mansions, which were still empty, not even up for sale yet. He didn’t miss the Carter Farm. He barely ever thought about those afternoons with his father and the horses. As far as he was concerned, they could destroy every single farm in town. If there were more mansions in South Haven, then they would be cheaper, and the Aroras would be able to afford one.
When they got to Pasta Palace, the restaurant was crowded as usual. The hostess, who had abundant cleavage and lots of hair spray, told them they would have to wait for at least twenty-five minutes. But Mustafa, the Pakistani manager, came over and said, “Sweetheart, these are my oldest customers. I think we can squeeze ’em
in Beth’s section.” He slapped her on the ass, then kissed another customer on each of her cheeks.
Ten minutes later, they were seated at a cushioned booth. The clamor of conversation and clanking silverware had a calming effect on Siddharth, who made sure that his knee was touching his brother’s thigh. Arjun would be gone tomorrow, and he wanted to remain as close to him as possible for the next eighteen hours. Their waitress, Beth, had spiky hair and called everyone “honey.” Siddharth told her he wanted his usual, baked spinach ravioli, and Ms. Farber ordered soup and salad. She shot Mohan Lal a look when he ordered the veal parmigiana, and he changed his order to broiled scrod. She told Arjun that he was young still, and that he should try the veal.
“I’ll have the eggplant,” said Arjun. “Eating veal’s a tad uncivilized.”
As they ate bread and salad, Ms. Farber told Arjun that studying premed was admirable. “I’m sure your mother would have been very proud.”
Siddharth coughed, then downed some ice water.
“Actually,” said Arjun, “I’ve been meaning to mention it. I’m not really sure medicine is for me anymore.”
“What?” said Mohan Lal, crunching a piece of lettuce.
“Let me guess,” said Ms. Farber. “Law school?”
Arjun started fiddling with his facial hair. “Actually, I find the humanities very inspiring. I’m thinking about becoming a history major.”
Ms. Farber smiled. “You’ll be a professor, just like Dad.” She patted Mohan Lal on the shoulder.
“No, not like my father,” said Arjun.
Mohan Lal took a swig from his bottle of Becks. A pimply busboy dropped off a fresh basket of bread. Siddharth knew the busboy’s little brother, who was a fifth grader at Deer Run.
“History,” said Ms. Farber. “Are we talking Potsdam? Or Napoleon?”
“More like South Asia,” said Arjun.
Ms. Farber squinted. “You mean Vietnam?”
Mohan Lal scoffed at her. “South Asia is a term invented by the CIA,” he said. “It refers to the region that was once British India.”
Arjun shook his head. “Why do you always have to be so cynical?”
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