They stepped off the road and cut into somebody’s backyard. The grass was breathing steam, and it suddenly seemed as if they were in a movie. Siddharth thought about Platoon, picturing Charlie Sheen with a machine gun. But no, this was more Stand By Me. He wasn’t sure if he was Vern, the chubby one who whined, or Wil Wheaton’s character, who was smart and knew how to tell a good story. Eddie picked up a large rock and chucked it at a birdhouse mounted on top of a wooden pole. He slapped Luca five, and they both cheered.
Marc hung back, dangling an arm around Siddharth’s shoulder. “Fucking morons.”
Siddharth laughed, then grabbed the green bottle from him and took a swig.
Marc finished it off before throwing the empty onto a covered swimming pool. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” said Siddharth. “But I gotta ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you think my brother’s a druggie?”
“Arjun? I wouldn’t worry about him. I’d say he’s an upstanding young man.”
Siddharth wasn’t sure if Marc was being sarcastic or not. He grabbed the slingshot from him, the one that Barry Uncle had given him. He shot a stone at a stop sign, and the lights of a nearby house flicked on. The four boys broke into a run.
* * *
By the time they reached Sharon’s, Siddharth was wondering if he would ever again regain control of his mind. He needed a bed. He needed sleep. A ragged old sofa sat on Sharon’s lawn, about ten feet away from a stripped-down postal jeep. He took a seat on it, watching Luca and Eddie smoke their cigars on the driveway. When he closed his eyes, the darkness spun. He thought about Sharon. He wondered if she was still with her father or back at home. Regardless, she deserved what was happening. She was a downer, and she was nosy. She rubbed her boyfriend in Siddharth’s face just to make him crazy, even though this so-called boyfriend was probably nonexistent. Siddharth thought about the things she had said to Luca on the bus. She was a hypocrite. They were all a bunch of hypocrites—not just her, but Ms. Farber and Mr. Latella, and especially Arjun.
Suddenly, he could see himself kissing Sharon’s breasts, sucking on them like the muscled man had just done to the blonde on Playboy. He saw himself lying over her body on a beach. He tried pulling down her dress, and when she didn’t let him, he had to yank it off. A crow cawed. He opened his eyes and observed the house across the street. It was a huge, modern home, completely the opposite of Sharon’s. The place even had a three-car garage, which meant that whoever lived there was rich—whoever lived there was happy. A For Sale sign sprouted from the house’s front lawn. In that moment, he glimpsed a pleasing vision of the future.
Despite what Arjun had said, Mohan Lal’s book would make them millions. Mohan Lal would no longer need Ms. Farber; he could get someone prettier and younger, maybe a blonde—or maybe no one at all. Father and son would buy that house and live in it by themselves. That way, Siddharth would have a friend right across the street. A girlfriend. Somebody who had known him when he was happier. Or they could move into an even bigger house somewhere else. In a different town, where nobody knew him at all.
He remembered something Ms. Farber had said yesterday, when they still hadn’t heard from Arjun: “Mo, you can’t let other people control you—not your friends, not your family, and definitely not your children.” Hadn’t Sharon said something similar once? These two females were both insane. They both wanted to separate him from the people who truly loved him.
The sound of glass shattering, then voices.
“What the fuck?” Eddie’s voice.
Siddharth turned to Marc, who was now holding the Indian slingshot. He had just cracked the glass on the lamppost on Sharon’s front lawn. Siddharth burped, tasted the pesto Mrs. Peroti had served them for dinner. Sweat drenched his arms and legs. He burped again and thought he might vomit. No, he had to take a dump. He rose from the sofa and walked toward Marc. A set of headlights approached, and Marc told everyone to shut up. Siddharth felt a hand on his back. The next thing he knew he was eating wet earth. “What the hell?”
“Shhhhh,” said Marc. “Stay down.”
The car slowed but didn’t stop.
Marc puffed on his cigar. “Luca, whatever you’re gonna do, do it quick.”
Eddie and Luca stomped on their stogies and walked over to Sharon’s mailbox. They gripped its wooden stem and started grunting and heaving. The box yielded, and they placed it in the middle of the road. Siddharth couldn’t stand it anymore. If he didn’t go now, he might do it in his pants. Marc told him to be a man and wait.
“What if I can’t?” Siddharth threw his cigar on the ground and crushed it with his shoe.
“Just drop trou and go for it,” said Eddie. “Watch.”
Eddie sprinted over to Sharon’s front steps, undoing his belt on the way. Siddharth wanted to look away, but instead he watched as Eddie squatted down and defecated. He recalled an aunt’s house in a dirty town near Delhi. Meerut or something. She had one of those hole-in-the-ground toilets, and whenever he had to stay there, he got constipated.
Luca and Marc were cracking up. Siddharth started laughing too, and he was laughing so hard that his bathroom attack vanished. Eddie ran across the street and pulled out the For Sale sign, placing it on top of Sharon’s mailbox. Luca tugged at the Nagorskis’ smaller newspaper mailbox, easily uprooting it. He pulled out a water bottle from his backpack, which was filled with gasoline meant for his father’s tractor. The bottle gurgled as he poured it over the pile, the noxious stench of gasoline infiltrating Siddharth’s nostrils.
The boys formed a semicircle around their makeshift hearth. Luca pulled out a Zippo from his windbreaker, flipped it open, and spun the top. Sparks flew, but it wouldn’t catch.
“Pass it here,” said Marc.
Luca handed it over. Marc sucked on the lighter, but it refused to yield a flame.
“Are you kidding me?” said Eddie. “Yo, Kaufman, I know you got matches.”
“Just used my last one,” said Marc.
Siddharth wondered if this was a sign. Maybe this wasn’t supposed to happen.
“This is like blue balls,” said Eddie. “Sidney, can’t you just rub two sticks together?”
Siddharth noticed that Marc was the only one still smoking. “Hey, guys,” he said.
Luca said, “Sidney, don’t pussy out on us now.”
“Listen,” said Siddharth, “we can use Marc’s cigar.” His head was pounding, and everyone was staring at him.
“What the hell you talking about?” said Luca.
“Marc’s got his cigar still,” replied Siddharth. He wished he hadn’t said anything. But now he had to finish what he’d started.
Eddie said, “So what’s your point?”
“All he has to do is get it going and throw it down.”
“Will that work?” asked Luca.
“It works in the movies,” said Siddharth. “Here, give it to me. Marc, gimme your stogie.”
Marc handed it over.
He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He took a strong drag, and the cigar’s tip glowed cherry red. When he threw it onto the pile, nothing happened at first. But then there was a subtle boom. A blue flame spread across every inch of wood, every centimeter of plastic and metal. There were crackles. Some clicks and hisses. Soon, tall orange flames shot toward the sky. They were mesmerizing.
Siddharth closed his eyes, allowing the heat to soothe his cheeks and forehead. It felt so good, better than lying in front of the television with a blanket—better than lying in his father’s bed and listening to him snore, better than watching his mother’s hands sketch a landscape. When he opened his eyes, Marc’s face was a warm shade of red, as if he had just returned from the beach. Siddharth looked over his friend’s shoulder and saw two headlights approaching, then flashing red and blue lights atop the car. He didn’t want to ruin this moment, so he didn’t say anything about the cops.
“Holy shit!” Marc yelped. “Holy fuck.” He grab
bed Siddharth’s sleeve and yanked him toward the woods.
EPILOGUE
Why and What’s the Reason For
It is late May. The curtains sway, a breeze tickles his neck.Opening his eyes, he feels a pang of panic. He doesn’t have the energy for school but then remembers it is Saturday. He stretches his arms and relaxes, nuzzles his head into his pillow. Pleasant thoughts fill his mind. Tonight he will see her again, the girl he has recently kissed. With tongue. Eighth grade will soon be over, sooner for him than for Eddie and Luca. He will take his exams early so that he can travel to India, where his father will talk about his book at a conference. Where Mohan Lal will speak beside a man who they say will be prime minister one day.
The thought of traveling to that dirty, godforsaken shithole puts dread in his stomach. But he will drink beer with his cousins. Will enjoy the smiling servants at his uncle’s marble-laden home, the turbaned men who salute him at the Delhi Golf Club. Will enjoy a couple of weeks with his brother, who he hasn’t seen in seven months. Arjun will arrive in India with his new girlfriend. She’s from Ecuador, which is better than India. Better than Pakistan. She’s from Ecuador, but looks European. Together they will all travel to the Himalayas. Then comes August. Then ninth grade. Then high school. A driver’s license. Siddharth wants time to fly so that he can drive. Mohan Lal has recently inherited a small chunk of money from an aunt. Maybe he will use it to buy Siddharth a car. Maybe he will get rid of the minivan and buy himself a real vehicle. An Acura or a Lexus, or a souped-up Accord.
Siddharth gets up and makes himself toast without brushing his teeth. Makes himself a mug of instant coffee. Seats himself in front of the television and watches an episode of M*A*S*H. An episode of The Jetsons, though he would never admit it to Luca. A pair of blue jays is making a racket on the new squirrel-proof birdfeeder. He presses his head against the sliding glass doors. Bangs on the glass, so that the jays fly away. Stares out across the porch, which is spotless, with brand-new wicker furniture. A badger is foraging in a flower bed. A flock of turkeys struts toward the woods. He bangs on the window again. The badger looks up, then recommences its search.
The phone rings. He answers.
Luca’s voice. Kid, have you heard?
Heard what?
About Sharon.
Who?
Nagorksi.
Luca sounds strange. Has uttered her name for the first time in months. Siddharth says, What about her?
Kid, she’s freaking dead.
Fuck off, says Siddharth. That’s not even funny.
I’m not kidding. They say it was an accident. But it’s a cover-up.
What?
She freaking killed herself, dude. With her father’s gun.
Her father? Sharon’s father lives in North Carolina.
Luca says, I don’t know her life story. But Eddie’s dad was with the cops when they found her. It’s kind of sad, really. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel kinda weird.
Siddharth’s stomach tingles. It is difficult to breathe. He returns his gaze to the yard. The blue jays are back. A squirrel has mounted the feeder and is knocking seeds to the ground, where another squirrel is gorging.
Luca says, You there, kid?
Siddharth says, I gotta go.
He puts down the phone. Can taste metal on the tip of his tongue. Tells himself this isn’t happening to him, isn’t happening to his family. The people he loves are still breathing. Usually this works. But today he cannot find calm. He can see Sharon. Her dimple, her eyeliner. He hasn’t spoken to her in more than a year. He hasn’t had anything to do with her. So this has nothing to do with him.
Footsteps.
They get louder.
He turns his head.
She is wearing her green kimono, the one Mohan Lal gave her last year on her birthday.
Oh honey, she says, walking toward him with open arms.
He stands there frozen, struck by how stupid she looks in that robe. This year Mohan Lal has given her a better gift, emerald earrings that had previously belonged to Siddharth’s mother. He hated it when Mohan Lal gave Ms. Farber those emerald earrings. But Arjun told him it was for the best. That their mother wouldn’t have minded.
She wraps her arms around him. But he is rigid.
She steps back. Looks him in the eye, grasps his shoulders. Says, I wanted to tell you last night, but I was asleep when you got home.
He stares at her messy head of curls, her small honeyed eyes that seem too far apart in this moment. She pulls him toward her, nestles his forehead against her neck. Her soft, small breasts press into his chest. A tear falls from his eye, moistens the silk on her shoulder. She places a hand on his back, starts rubbing it. Whispers, I need you to know this has nothing to do with you.
More tears fall. He knows this isn’t true. This has everything to do with him.
She says, You’re such a sensitive young man. Trust me, it was a complicated situation. You don’t know the half of it.
If he were to step away from her, he would fall to the ground. He would fall, because he knows he could have done something. Knows he could have been her friend.
Ms. Farber repeats her reassurances: Son, this has nothing to do with you. Poor, sweet Siddharth, this just isn’t your fault.
He gives her a squeeze, and she tightens her embrace. He likes the way she feels. Could remain in her arms for a very long time. Thinks, Maybe Ms. Farber is right. Maybe Ms. Farber’s not that bad. Maybe it’s time to start listening to her.
She keeps telling him he has done no wrong, and each time she does so, it is easier for him to believe her.
END
Acknowledgments
The account of the burning body in Professor Sengupta’s newspaper article is partially inspired by Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found, and also by Omair Ahmad’s short story “Yesterday Man,” which originally appeared in Delhi Noir. Mohan Lal’s brand of Hindu extremism is entirely his own, but texts by Pankaj Mishra, Amartya Sen, and Perry Anderson helped me to clarify his sense of politics and history.
I am grateful to Johnny Temple, publisher of Akashic Books, for having so generously nurtured my writing career for the past decade. Ibrahim Ahmad is a gifted, fastidious, and enthusiastic editor, and he has helped me make this novel a better book. The folks at Akashic work tirelessly to create opportunities for a truly diverse set of authors, and to infuse an essential dose of iconoclasm into literary culture. They have enabled me to publish work that remains true to my ideals, and all of my experiences with them have been defined by a spirit of rigor, professionalism, and camaraderie. Thank you Johanna Ingalls, Aaron Petrovich, Susannah Lawrence, and Katie Martinez.
Thanks to Rutgers-Newark University, for two years of generous funding, and to my instructors there, H. Bruce Franklin, Alice Elliott Dark, and Tayari Jones. Jayne Anne Phillips has always been willing to lend her support and share opportunities.
Caryl Phillips has been a steadfast friend, mentor, and reader, and his fiction has been truly inspirational. So many individuals have offered me indispensable guidance, including Hartosh Singh Bal, Patrick Phillips, Kavita Bhanot, Michael Reynolds, Anjali Singh, Nicholas Pearson, and V.K. Karthika. Toby Lichtig and Jouni Kantola have been true friends and benevolent readers. Jared Cozza, Mario Buletić, and Vicente García Pérez have helped me in ways that I will not put into words. The Cozza family once loaned me their home in Vermont, in which I hammered out certain chapters of this book. A special thanks to Margarita Sawhney; Susan Shah; Jyoti, Rajeev, and Sanjeev Wason; Jonathan Geal; the entire Kapur Khandaan, especially Gullu and Prikshat Puri.
My mother, Rama Sawhney, and my late father, Shiv Sawhney, have been supportive and generous in uncountable ways, and they raised us in an environment filled with love, ideas, debate, and books. My brother Vik has been a second father, and he has taught me invaluable lessons about discipline and focus—two necessary elements in writing. My sister Aarti has been an unwavering friend and guide, and she
has opened my heart to so many of the good things in life, including fiction.
This novel would not have been possible without my wife, Anjali Wason. She has carefully read each one of my drafts, despite what’s going on in her own life, and enhanced my prose with her acute sense of story and character. She has urged me to keep writing at the center of my life, regardless of its paltry material rewards, and even when my prose takes me away from her. I could not have asked for a more loving, sensitive, and wise partner.
HIRSH SAWHNEY’s writing has appeared in the New York Times Book Review, the Guardian, the Times Literary Supplement, the Financial Times, Outlook, and numerous other periodicals. He is the editor of Delhi Noir, a critically acclaimed anthology of original fiction, and is on the advisory board of Wasafiri, a London-based journal of international literature. He lives in New Haven, Connecticut, and teaches at Wesleyan University. South Haven is his debut novel.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher.
Published by Akashic Books
©2016 Hirsh Sawhney
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-397-8
eISBN-13: 978-1-61775-457-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015954063
First printing
Akashic Books
Twitter: @AkashicBooks
Facebook: AkashicBooks
E-mail: [email protected]
Website: www.akashicbooks.com
About Akashic Books
___________________
Thank you for purchasing this Akashic Books e-book.
South Haven Page 29