“With real friends, it’s not about quantifying things,” said Arjun. “It’s not about miles or money.”
Mohan Lal said that next year, Arjun wouldn’t have to borrow anybody else’s car. He could buy him his own vehicle.
“That’s a nice idea,” replied Arjun, “but it’s not exactly an ideal time for frivolous expenditures.”
Mohan Lal coughed midbite, then took a gulp of water.
Ms. Farber rubbed Mohan Lal’s back. “Arjun, this time next year, your father’s book’ll be out. It’ll be a whole new ball game.”
“If you say so,” said Arjun, giving her a tight-lipped smile.
Ms. Farber told the boys to clear the table and then brought out a lemon meringue pie that one of her clients had given her. She placed it in front of Mohan Lal, who served each person a slice, giving himself a particularly wide one. Siddharth struggled to eat his pie, but Marc quickly finished his and took seconds.
“My question is,” said Marc, “who’s gonna wanna read a book about India? If you haven’t noticed, Americans don’t really give a crap about much. They really only care about themselves.”
“Marc, I’ve had enough for today,” said Ms. Farber.
“Okay, lemme grab my muzzle.”
She pulled his pie away and placed it on the kitchen counter. “Arjun, if you had a car, you’d be able to get away from campus—do a little grocery shopping on weekends.”
“Honestly,” said Arjun, “I’d like to do without a car for as long as possible.”
Ms. Farber dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Oh, and why’s that?”
Arjun commenced a long speech about the pointlessness of automobiles, which had made Americans lazy and dependent on autocratic governments. “They created this,” he said, spreading his arms wide apart.
“This what?” asked Siddharth.
“This sprawl. It’s just . . . disgusting. Americans are so isolated, so lonely. You ever wonder why?”
“Heavy,” said Ms. Farber. “Interesting.”
“But Mom,” said Marc, “I just said the same exact thing.”
Mohan Lal served himself more pie. “Son, what about your beloved workers? Didn’t Henry Ford give them jobs? Automobile factories have given the working class of this country some dignity.”
“Dignity?” countered Arjun. “Dad, Henry Ford was a racist.”
“Jesus,” said Mohan Lal. “What kind of pinkos are teaching you at the University of Michigan?”
Arjun cleared his throat. “I take it you won’t be applying for a job there. They’ll be devastated, I’m sure.”
* * *
After dinner, Siddharth was finally alone with his brother in the guest room, where Arjun carefully unpacked the contents of his worn backpack. He pulled out a wool sweater with little animals on it, then a hairbrush and several books. He placed these items in the dresser before picking up the photograph from Chandigarh that Siddharth had left for him.
“I heard they’re selling Nana-ji’s house,” said Arjun. “I wanna go back there this summer—see it one last time.”
“Great,” said Siddharth. “Have fun.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” He didn’t know where to begin.
“I can tell something’s up—so talk.”
Siddharth shrugged. “You know Dad’s book?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Come on, Arjun. Don’t be like that. I’ve got a serious question.”
“So ask your question.”
“Well, I wanna know if Dad’s book is gonna be a hit. You think it’ll make us rich?”
Arjun snorted. “You’re kidding, right? Siddharth, it takes years to write a real book, not a few months. Dad, he’s writing more of a pamphlet—a silly piece of propaganda.”
“Propaganda?” Siddharth’s throat was now scratchy.
“Yeah, fascist propaganda.”
“You mean like the Nazis?”
“Not the Nazis. More like Hindu fascism.”
“That’s not even a real thing, Arjun.”
Arjun sat on the bed and placed a hand on Siddharth’s shoulder. “Listen, as long as I’m alive—and I plan on being here for a while—you don’t have to worry about anything, especially not money. Dad’s gonna find another job. And he has some money to fall back on.”
“He does?”
“Yeah, he does.”
“What money?”
“I really shouldn’t talk about it.”
“Come on,” said Siddharth. “I’m a teenager now.”
After some coaxing, Arjun explained that when their mother had died, their father received money from a life insurance policy. “It’s not a lot, but enough for a couple of years.”
As Siddharth lay in bed that night, the thought of this life insurance money made him feel lighter, but then he was overwhelmed by a wave of disgust. The only reason they had this money was because she was gone. Did that mean he was happy she was gone? You’re a freak, he told himself. A cruel and demented freak.
8
Partition
On the Thursday morning of February vacation, Ms. Farber dropped Marc off at Dinetta’s on her way to see clients at her place. Siddharth sat in front of the television, waiting for his real family to awaken. Arjun had been out late last night. He’d gone drinking with Derrick Rodgers, a roofer, and Sam Palmieri, who had taken over his father’s landscaping business. Siddharth couldn’t understand why his brother wanted to go out with people who weren’t in college. He wondered if Arjun was doing so to buy drugs.
Mohan Lal emerged first, just after ten, wearing sweatpants and a flannel robe. Siddharth made them pizza bagels, and while they were eating, Arjun walked into the kitchen wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He gave Siddharth’s shoulders a brief massage and then downed a glass of water.
“You want one?” asked Siddharth.
“I’ll grab something when I’m out. The car needs an oil change.”
“I’ll come,” said Siddharth.
“We’ll both go with you,” said Mohan Lal.
Arjun grabbed Siddharth’s bagel from his plate and ate half of it in a single bite. “You’ll get bored,” he said, still chewing. “I have to run a bunch of errands, actually.”
“Which errands?” asked Mohan Lal.
“I need a new comforter. I need a copy of the Times.”
Mohan Lal started grinning.
“Don’t start, Dad.” Arjun took a banana from the counter and peeled it open. “I’m not in the mood for one of your conspiracy theories.”
“What conspiracy theories?”
Siddharth knew all about his father’s conspiracy theories. Mohan Lal had always said that the Times was a State Department mouthpiece. It “bad-mouthed India” but “glossed over the fundamentalists in Pakistan.”
“Whatever, Dad,” said Arjun. “The Times is one of the most respected newspapers in the world. And my professor has an editorial coming out—about the riots.”
“Good for him,” said Mohan Lal, wiping his mouth.
“You should read it. Professor Sengupta’s pretty amazing. They say he’s gonna get a Nobel Prize.”
Mohan Lal plunked his dirty napkin onto his empty plate. “I know all about these Professor Senguptas. They’re sycophants. Pseudosecularists. Babbling Bengali Brahmins.”
“You know what, Dad?”
“Tell me.”
Arjun threw his peel into the trash compactor. “It’s just the way you operate—your way of controlling other people. You criticize everybody else because of your own insecurities.”
“Arjun,” muttered Siddharth, looking at him with narrowed eyes.
“Wonderful,” said Mohan Lal. “Now my son is also a psychologist.”
“Come on, Siddharth,” said Arjun.
“What?”
“Come with me—that is, if you want to.”
Siddharth felt bad admitting it, but he did want to go with his brother. And he was glad their father wa
sn’t coming with them.
Mohan Lal went to the sink and started doing dishes. He said, “Son, if I had insulted my father like that, he would have given me a thrashing.”
* * *
They got into Arjun’s borrowed Civic, and Arjun put in a cassette that sounded crackly and faded. He said it was a live performance by the Grateful Dead, a name that was vaguely familiar to Siddharth. For some reason he associated it with drugs—drugs and motorcycles. The music was surprisingly gentle, though, even a little babyish—the kind of thing they made him sing in the fourth grade.
Arjun took a right onto Post Road, where mountains of plowed snow were glimmering in the strip mall parking lots. Siddharth squinted, and his brother put on a pair of aviator sunglasses.
“Where’d you get those?” asked Siddharth.
“A friend. I’ll get you some when you’re older.”
The road was so clogged with cars that they had to wait six minutes to clear a single light. “Where the hell is everybody going?” said Arjun, lighting a cigarette. It was the third time he had done so in front of Siddharth. “It’s like, if they don’t buy something, they’ll go crazy—they won’t feel like good Americans.”
Siddharth’s stomach tingled. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask Arjun for a drag of his cigarette, or to make him promise to quit smoking. Neither option would go over well, so he just kept his mouth shut.
Arjun ashed his cigarette out the window. “How long has Dad been like this?”
“Like what?”
“Depressed.”
“He’s not depressed, Arjun. He’s just focusing on his book.”
Arjun stopped at another light. He glanced at Siddharth and smiled. “Don’t be so serious all the time. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Then, after a long pause, he said, “Well, lots of things.”
“Name one.”
Siddharth chewed a chunk of skin from the inside of his mouth. “I don’t know. Money.”
“We already talked about that. I thought that was all settled.”
“Yeah, but Rachel, she spends way too much money.”
“What?”
“She’s always buying such pointless stuff—shampoo and makeup. And she makes Dad spend his money on stupid things. His suit—it cost, like, a thousand dollars. And the new shoes? They were at least a hundred bucks.”
Arjun wove the car through the congested thoroughfare. “That doesn’t sound like him. Dad’s too cheap to spend that kind of money on shoes.”
“Yeah, well, things change. You don’t know the real Ms. Farber, Arjun. All she cares about is money. That’s why she got divorced in the first place.”
“She has her own money,” said Arjun, smoke trickling out of his nostrils. “It’s not really your place to judge.”
“You don’t get it. Why do you think she’s sticking around?”
Arjun took a hard drag off his cigarette and then chucked it out the window. “Why?”
“I bet she wants the life insurance money.”
Arjun cracked a smile, then slapped Siddharth on the knee. “Sometimes I forget.”
“Forget what?”
“That you’re just a kid.” He pulled into a gas station, parking beside a beat-up tow truck. “Siddharth, you really need to try to be more honest with yourself. Otherwise you’re gonna end up like Dad.”
Arjun stepped out of the car, leaving Siddharth sitting there stewing. His brother was just as big of a pain as his father.
* * *
In the morning, when Siddharth walked to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth, he spotted their luggage at the end of the hallway—Ms. Farber’s black suitcase and the rolling duffel she had given Mohan Lal for Hanukkah. A bag containing Mohan Lal’s new suit was draped over the luggage. They’ll be gone soon, he thought. Thank God.
When he got to the kitchen, Ms. Farber was at the table clipping coupons while Mohan Lal cracked eggs at the counter. Mohan Lal was wearing a sleeveless wool sweater and a tucked-in button-down shirt. Siddharth was pleased to see him so crisp. His father seemed alert for a change, strong in a way that he hadn’t in months.
Mohan Lal told him they would be leaving before noon and then offered him an omelet.
“Sure,” said Siddharth, who headed toward the guest room. Arjun wasn’t there, and his bed was already made. Siddharth dashed back to the kitchen, where Ms. Farber explained that his brother had gone for a jog.
“But it’s freezing out,” said Siddharth.
“It’s forty-eight degrees,” she said. “You boys should take note and follow suit.”
You should shut the fuck up, thought Siddharth. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and moved toward the family room, but Mohan Lal told him to wait.
“What?” said Siddharth.
“Today we shall have a family breakfast.”
Siddharth contemplated saying a couple of things—that he didn’t like breakfast, and not everyone here was actual family—but he seated himself in the kitchen, staring down at the newspaper Arjun had bought from the gas station. An advertisement announced a special offer on a tour of Mallorca, which he assumed was in Mexico.
Ms. Farber offered Siddharth a bowl of fruit from the fridge, and he spooned the mixture into a quarter plate. He noticed that it contained bananas. His mother had always said that bananas were a big mistake in a fruit salad. They turned all the other fruit brown.
Ms. Farber brought her planner to the table and flipped through its pages. “Lots to do this morning, I better hurry.”
“There’s plenty of time,” said Mohan Lal. “Spend five minutes with the mirror, not fifty.”
“Really, Mo?” said Mr. Farber. “Now?”
Siddharth heard the front door open, and moments later, Arjun walked into the kitchen sweating and panting. Before greeting anyone, he downed two glasses of water.
“Arjun,” said Mohan Lal, “what kind of omelet will you have?”
“I’ll just have fruit,” said Arjun. He seated himself beside Siddharth and ate some grapes and bananas directly from the bowl. Mohan Lal placed a steaming omelet in front of him. Siddharth knew this one had been intended for him but chose not to say anything.
“I read your little article,” said Mohan Lal.
“Great,” said Arjun, shaking salt over his eggs.
“You don’t want my opinion?”
“I have an idea,” said Arjun. “Why don’t you write one of your little letters to the editor?”
“I want cheese in mine,” said Siddharth. “And no onions.” He turned the page and found the article in question: “Shattered Dreams of Democracy” by Arup Sengupta.
Ms. Farber tore out a check. “Honey, what did we say about the cheese?”
Mohan Lal beat some more eggs, and soon they were sizzling on the stove. “This professor of yours—I know his type. He’s nothing but a lefty—a leftist Muslim-lover. Such people only write half the truth.”
“Thanks for the input, Dad. Can I get some toast?”
“Let your professor have his opinions,” said Mohan Lal. “My only problem is that he has converted my son.”
Arjun slammed down his glass, and Siddharth jumped in his seat. “If I remember correctly,” said Arjun, “weren’t some of your best friends Muslims?”
“What rubbish are you speaking?” said Mohan Lal, placing an omelet in front of Siddharth.
“Mahmood?” said Arjun. “Shamim?”
“Those were your mother’s friends.”
“Bullshit. You went on vacation with them. You let them babysit your son.”
“I have no recollection of those events.”
“That’s worrying,” said Arjun. “I hope you’re not going senile.”
Ms. Farber peered at them over the rims of her reading glasses. “Guys, you know what my mother used to say? She said there’s no point in hurting someone you love over politics.”
“That’s the problem with this country,” said Arjun. “Everyone is so damn apolitical. T
hat’s why our government can do whatever it wants, wherever it wants.”
Siddharth said, “If you hate America so much, then why don’t you go to India—or maybe Pakistan?”
Ignoring Siddharth, Arjun glared at Mohan Lal, who turned off the exhaust fan and brought an especially large omelet to the table. He gave a third of it to Ms. Farber and saved the rest for himself.
“Listen, son,” said Mohan Lal. “You don’t know what I saw—what I lived through. If you did, you’d be singing a different song.”
“How could I know? You’ve repressed it all. You can’t even remember what actually happened.”
Ms. Farber put away her planner and let her reading glasses dangle around her neck. “I’m always telling you the same thing, Mo.” She scrutinized her omelet. “Are those hot peppers?”
“Coriander,” said Mohan Lal, seating himself beside her. “Listen, your professor is crying about crimes against Muslims, but what about the Mussulman? Haven’t they raped? Haven’t they murdered?”
“This is different,” said Arjun, his fingers twisting the bristles of his beard.
“Different? You’re telling me a murder isn’t a murder? What strange leftist notions you’ve acquired at college.”
“Dad, when a government inflicts violence on a specific group of people—for no apparent reason—they have a name for it in the civilized world. They call it genocide. Rachel, can’t you talk any sense into him?”
In that moment, Siddharth saw his older brother for what he was: a traitor. He loved Muslims, and he hated America. He was more loyal to Ms. Farber than to their own father.
Ms. Farber closed her planner with a thump. “Arjun, your father’s a very learned man. And last I heard, this is a democracy.”
That’ll teach him, thought Siddharth.
Arjun stood up, his chair squeaking against the wooden floor.
“Sit down,” said Mohan Lal.
“Don’t tell me what to do. Rachel, you of all people should understand. The Muslims, they’re just like the Jews.”
She gave him a hard stare. “That’s hard to believe, Arjun. And a little insensitive.”
Arjun yanked the newspaper from Siddharth. “Here, read it for yourself.”
“Hey, I was reading that,” said Siddharth.
Ms. Farber placed her reading glasses back on her freckled nose. “Is this the one?”
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