South Haven

1. A World of Sheep

The doorbell chimed. Siddharth sighed as he extricated himself from the leather sofa. At the front door, he encountered the whirring of weed-whackers and the bearded postman, who was wearing his summer outfit — gray shorts and a light-blue short-sleeve shirt.

The postman said, “Summer break, kid?”

“Yup.”

“I’m gonna need a signature.” The postman held up a clipboard, then said, “You’re eighteen.” He winked. “Right?”

Siddharth forced himself to smile as he signed a pink form. “Thanks,” he said, accepting a small envelope from Walton Publishers. He returned to the family room, where a rap video was blaring, then picked up the remote control to mute it. The best thing about Ms. Farber was the fact that she had forced his father to get a real cable box, one with thirty new channels and an actual remote control. He turned on the Indian brass lamp that stood between the two leather sofas and held the envelope to the light. Mohan Lal had sent in his completed manuscript three weeks earlier, and Siddharth was curious about Walton’s reaction. A few words were clear—June 1992, Dear Dr. Arora—but before he could discern anything else, he felt her hand clutching his shoulder.

“What’s that you got there?” asked Ms. Farber. She was wearing an apron with red-and-white checks. It had once belonged to his mother.

“It’s for my dad.”

She snatched the envelope from his hands. “Sid, how do you like it when Dad goes into your room without asking?”

“Trust me, he likes me to sort the mail.”

“Honey, we’re all eager, but you need to learn to respect other people’s privacy.” She strode back to the kitchen, the letter sandwiched between her torso and the skin of her jiggly forearm.

He returned his attention to the television. A Nirvana video was on, so he unmuted it. Arjun had recently sent him a package from Michigan containing a Wolverines keychain and a Nirvana album. In the accompanying card, he wrote that today’s pop music was materialistic and superficial, but this group was reinventing old traditions. Marc disagreed — he said that Nirvana was a bunch of pussy-ass posers. As the video played, Ms. Farber’s words kept echoing in his head. How do you like it when Dad goes into your room without asking? At some point over the past few weeks, she’d stopped using the word your before dad.

Since Richard III, Siddharth had counted that Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber had spent twenty-two nights in the same bed, usually at the Aroras’ home. Back in June, when school was winding down, Siddharth had forced himself to forget the fact that his father was now sleeping with Ms. Farber and enjoy the agreeable aspects of this new arrangement. He and Marc were able to stay up late talking in bed or flicking through a Playboy together, and in the mornings they brushed their teeth in unison. During the first days of summer, the boys had biked to the playground behind town hall, where they would meet up with other kids, including Luca Peroti. They’d ride down a bumpy, wooded path to a nearby convenience store, where they got candy, lottery tickets, and chewing tobacco. One afternoon, Siddharth and Marc met up with Dinetta Luciani and Liza Kim at a Post Road pool hall. While they played eight-ball, Liza kept touching Siddharth’s arm. He told himself that she was begging for a kiss, that next time he would make his move.

But now Marc was in Florida visiting his grandparents with his father and his father’s new girlfriend. When he got back, he would have football camp. A full year would have passed since he had gotten arrested, and his grounding would finally be over. Siddharth wasn’t sure whether Marc would hang out with him once he could do anything he wanted.

In the kitchen, Ms. Farber started the noisy blender, the television shimmering in the background. She was at it again, making another dish from her brand-new vegetarian cookbook. He hated to admit it, but she was getting better at cooking. Her meals were rarely delicious, but at least they were a break from Indian food. And he appreciated her concern for Mohan Lal’s diet. She made them use sea salt in their food — not table salt — because it would be better for his blood pressure.

“Siddharth!” she called. “Honey, I need you to taste something.”

“I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“It’ll only take a second. I promise.”

He lumbered to the kitchen and found her staring out the window with a goofy smile.

“Look over there,” she said, pointing at the backyard.

He saw two turkeys pecking at the ground underneath the maple. “So?”

“Aren’t they just beautiful?” She dipped a teaspoon in the blender and handed it to him.

He swallowed her green concoction, then coughed.

“What do you think?”

“It’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

He tasted another bite. “No, it’s good. Add a little salt maybe.”

She clapped to herself, then kissed him on the forehead.

He smiled and looked down, slightly embarrassed on her behalf.

As he repositioned himself in front of the television, he thought about the evening that lay ahead of him. The three of them would have dinner together and then maybe watch a movie. It didn’t actually sound all that bad. If Ms. Farber weren’t there, he and Mohan Lal might not exchange a single word over dinner. Or Mohan Lal would read all night, or babble to Barry Uncle about the BJP on the telephone. The truth was, even though there were many negative things about her — the most obvious one being that she was fucking his father — she brought many good things into their lives, at least when she wasn’t in a mood. Thanks to her, they went to the mall, the movies. One time, they had even gone to an art museum in downtown New Haven. At dinner, Ms. Farber asked him about his day, about the books he was reading. At dinner, they had conversations about the cruelty of the death penalty, or why it was important that abortion was legal. When the four of them had dinner together, he sometimes felt as if he had a real family again.

* * *

Mohan Lal got home around four and yelled for Siddharth to help him with the groceries.

“Five minutes,” said Siddharth.

“With you it’s always five minutes,” his father said, but he was smiling.

Mohan Lal walked through the family room cradling two paper bags brimming with hairy ears of corn. He had on new khaki shorts, with extra pockets on the side. He also had on new suede running sneakers and a pair of tan dress socks, which were pulled up way too high. He was wearing a collarless green T-shirt, and Siddharth wondered if he had ever seen his father leave the house in a T-shirt before. This one depicted a hotel in Martha’s Vineyard, a place that nobody in the Arora family had ever visited.

Siddharth went outside and stretched his arms. He’d been avoiding the outdoors lately, as all the freshly cut grass made his eyes itchy, but he was glad for a break from the sofa. A breeze sliced through the sticky air and cooled his skin. He looped some bloated plastic bags around his fingers and lugged them inside, then froze before entering the kitchen. His father and Ms. Farber were in front of the sink with their arms around each other. Her lips were near Mohan Lal’s ear. Siddharth couldn’t tell if she was kissing it, or just whispering.

He stepped toward them, dumping his bags on the table. “Did you give it to him?”

“Give me what?” asked Mohan Lal. He slackened his embrace, but his bulging belly remained pressed against her apron.

Ms. Farber playfully smacked herself on the head, then slid open a kitchen drawer. She pulled out the letter and handed it to Mohan Lal. He unsuccessfully attempted to open the envelope with his fingernails, then removed a letter opener from the bottom drawer of the family room bookcase. Years ago, Siddharth had used it as a toy; it resembled a samurai sword.

Mohan Lal sliced open the envelope and read the letter on the family room armchair.

“Come on, already,” said Ms. Farber, who was leaning against the kitchen doorway. “Give us the good news.”

Mohan Lal removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Siddharth grabbed the letter from him. It was signed by Reginald Feldman, senior editor, and not Mr. Wasserman, the assistant editor who’d previously written.

“Read it out loud,” said Mohan Lal.

“Huh?”

“Are you deaf? I said read it aloud.”

Siddharth seated himself on the love seat. “Dear Dr. Arora, this letter is regarding your manuscript entitled Marketing for the Twenty-First Century: A New Paradigm, which we received on June 12, 1992.”

“Louder,” said Mohan Lal.

“While I applaud your efforts to push the boundaries of your field and raise interesting ethical questions, our editorial team—”

“Stop,” said Mohan Lal. “Skip to the next paragraph.”

Siddharth cleared his throat. “Though I personally appreciate your approach, your manuscript, in its current form, might be considered too eso—” He was unfamiliar with this last word and hesitated.

“Esoteric,” said Mohan Lal. “You should know that.”

“. . might be considered too esoteric. Some readers might be repelled by its partisan nature,” continued Siddharth. “However, if you can rework your project along the lines we’ve previously discussed and resubmit in December—”

“Enough!” snapped Mohan Lal, pounding his fist onto the chair’s wooden arm. He shot up and stomped to the dining room. Still holding the letter, Siddharth followed behind, looking on as his father poured himself a tall glass of whiskey, the fancy stuff Barry Uncle had brought over.

“Mo, honey, hang on a sec,” said Ms. Farber.

“Leave me,” said Mohan Lal.

“We need to talk this through.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s definitely a silver lining here. Actually, that’s an understatement. If you ask me, this is encouraging news.”

“She’s right, Dad,” said Siddharth.

Ms. Farber started rubbing Mohan Lal’s back, and Siddharth turned his head toward the window. Outside, a hummingbird was hovering over a withering pink blossom.

Mohan Lal sipped some whiskey. “Listen. Ours is a world of sheep, and this man is the biggest sheep of them all. He’s a bullshitter — a coward.” He grabbed the letter from Siddharth and crumpled it into a little ball. He chucked it at the window, and the hummingbird fled. “I’m in a useless profession — a useless profession in a useless country.”

“Oh, Mo.” Ms. Farber brought his fingers to her mouth and kissed them. “They want you to make a few small changes. Just some minor alterations.”

“You see, publishing is a business, and businesses exist to make money. Books that sell are written by stooges — people who are willing to uphold prevailing ideas, not challenge them.” Mohan Lal scowled. “The dean. He has a long arm now. His fingerprints are all over this affair.”

“The dean, Dad?” said Siddharth. “Are you for real?”

Ms. Farber retrieved the letter and placed it on the counter, smoothing it down with the palm of her hand. “I know you’re upset, Mohan. But is that really rational? Do you honestly think the dean had something to do with this?”

Mohan Lal slammed his glass down. “What do you know about it, Rachel? What do you know about anything?”

“Chill, Dad,” said Siddharth. “We’re just trying to help.”

* * *

Siddharth sat in front of the television, feverishly flipping through the channels, regretting that he hadn’t thrown the letter in the garbage as soon as it had arrived. He wished that his father hadn’t lost it in front of Ms. Farber. She entered the family room and flashed a nervous smile, then went out to the porch and lit a cigarette. He wondered if Mohan Lal had told her she could smoke out there. He wondered if Walton was right about the book. What if it was too esoteric? — whatever that meant. Arjun had once said that their father was addicted to his freakish opinions because he felt so small inside. Poor Dad, Siddharth mused, the man is a genius, but people never appreciate him.

He plodded down the hallway to his parents’ bedroom, where Mohan Lal had holed himself up. The door was locked. Siddharth knocked, but nobody answered. He picked the lock with a tiny screwdriver meant for repairing eyeglasses, something he hadn’t done in years. Hearing the shower running, he entered the bathroom. Mohan Lal’s dirty undergarments were draped on the toilet seat, and Siddharth brushed them onto the pink vinyl floor.

“Rachel?” said Mohan Lal.

“No, it’s me,” said Siddharth.

The bathroom was dark and steamy, and he found it peaceful. Mohan Lal shut off the water and started soaping himself. He then turned the tap on to rinse off the suds, muttering a Buddhist prayer to himself. After shutting off the shower a second and final time, Mohan Lal reached for his rough yellow towel. “Son,” he said, “your old man can be a fool sometimes.” He wiped himself down slowly and meticulously, then exited the bathroom and threw his towel on the patchwork bedspread.

Siddharth hadn’t seen his father naked in a long while. The tufts of hair on his ass were totally white now, and his wrinkly penis seemed smaller than before. It was darker too, darker than any other part of his body. He shifted his eyes to the black lacquer nightstand that used to belong to Mohan Lal. It now contained Ms. Farber’s things — her reading glasses, a psychology journal, and a couple of orange bottles of pills. On top of his father’s dresser sat a stone statue of a blue Indian god playing a metal flute. He had never seen this statue before and wondered where it had come from.

Mohan Lal put on a fresh pair of underwear. He sat himself on the edge of his bed and began clipping his fingernails. Siddharth scrutinized the scar on his father’s chest, a hairless depression between his nipples that resembled a map of Florida. A few weeks ago, Mohan Lal had been trying to repair Ms. Farber’s busted dryer wearing nothing but an undershirt. She asked him how he had gotten that scar, and he told a story that Siddharth had never heard.

When Mohan Lal was just a baby, he had suffered from various respiratory problems. As a last resort, a Buddhist monk took Mohan Lal up into the mountains and performed surgery on his lungs. But the wound from the operation got infected, and it smelled so badly that Mohan Lal’s mother wouldn’t hold him. She didn’t hold him for an entire year.

When Mohan Lal finished his story, Ms. Farber said that nobody could be crueler than a person’s own parents. Mohan Lal insisted that it was no big deal, that it was wrong of Western psychologists to always blame the parents. The thing that really mattered, he said, was that he was still alive thanks to that monk.

Mohan Lal finished with his fingernails and put the nail cutter in a drawer. He threw on sweatpants, then a new pair of beige dress socks. “Son,” he said, “will you do your father a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Put some ointment on my back? Today it is very sore.”

Siddharth grabbed a blue plastic bottle from atop the cistern and squirted the gelatinous substance onto his fingers. It smelled like peppermint, only much stronger. He sat beside Mohan Lal and began applying the cool gunk to the skin of his back, which was soft and warm. Mohan Lal emitted little moans of relief. “Good boy,” he said. “I don’t know what I have done to deserve such a son.”

2. Communal Dinner

Siddharth was sitting on his bed drawing for the first time in a while, attempting a sketch of a Michigan basketball player taking a jump shot. He planned on turning it into a birthday card for Arjun. Mohan Lal was making a racket in the kitchen, preparing a huge Indian spread for Barry Uncle. The thought of daal and rice turned Siddharth’s stomach.

When Marc got home from football camp, he barged into the room and started rummaging through the closet.

Siddharth looked up from his drawing. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan?” said Marc. “The plan is, I’m sleeping at Andy’s.” He fished out a flask of Southern Comfort from one of Siddharth’s winter boots, and then a can of spray paint from inside a board game.

Siddharth had no idea that either of these things were in his closet. He said, “You’re kidding me — graffiti?”

Marc gave the can a rattle. “Nah, makes a good blowtorch.” He cocked his head to one side and cracked a smile. “You know what?”

“What?” said Siddharth, feeling hopeful.

“I got a bottle of Bacardi in there — up top, behind that old camera. I think it’ll do you some good.”

Soon Marc left with his mother, and Siddharth tried to return to his drawing. He wondered how he could make things go back to the way they were with him and Marc. When Marc had first gotten back from Florida, everything seemed fine. He’d even invited Siddharth to the mall one day and helped him pick out clothes, telling him what would be cool for junior high. After swearing him to secrecy, Marc confessed that his father’s girlfriend, Madeline, was pregnant.

“Congratulations,” said Siddharth.

“Congratulations? This is bad, Sidney. Very fucking bad.”

“Why?”

“Cuz Rachel and my dad — they’re past the point of no return.”

Once Marc’s grounding was officially over, he’d started spending all of his time with Andy Wurtzel, a fourteen-year-old from his junior high school. Marc invited Siddharth out a few times with them, but Siddharth couldn’t understand why Marc was so fond of Andy. The kid seemed dumb, and he looked like a bulldog.

When Andy and Marc were together, they talked about stupid things like football, or whether pussy tasted better in the morning or at night. The pair had a penchant for shoplifting, swiping clothes or compact discs or bottles of perfume that Marc later gave to Dinetta Luciani. Siddharth wished he could be more like them, but stealing made him nervous. When he tried to talk like them, the words got stuck in his throat, and he felt they could see right through him.

Sometimes Marc and Andy met up with kids who he suspected were drug dealers, like Corey Thompson, a grubby ninth grader who attended the South Haven branch of Eli Whitney, Siddharth’s future junior high. One day, Corey stole a Gamecocks cap from the mall, which he later planted on Siddharth’s head. He told him it fit like a glove and that he should keep it. Siddharth started wearing it every day, but he was always uneasy that someone might know it was stolen.

As he struggled to sketch the biceps of his basketball player, Mohan Lal knocked on the door.

“What?”

“Dinner,” said his father.

“I’m not hungry,” he lied.

“I made you something special. Come and eat.”

As usual, Siddharth ate his spaghetti and garlic bread on his three-legged Kashmiri table. Ms. Farber got home around seven thirty wearing a summer dress that made her breasts look bigger than they actually were. She said, “Siddharth, honey, how about putting some newspaper down? I just cleaned the carpet yesterday.”

Barry Uncle let himself in twenty minutes later. “Greetings, good evening!” he shouted. He shook Mohan Lal’s hand and then gave Ms. Farber a kiss on each cheek. “Rachel, you look especially lovely tonight. I still can’t figure out why you’re settling for my plump friend over there.”

She turned to Mohan Lal and winked at him, then pinched the sleeve of Barry Uncle’s burgundy shirt. “This color, Barry, it’s just so you.”

Siddharth snorted. Barry Uncle’s shirt was too shiny, and the sight of his chest hairs peeking through the open top buttons made him want to hurl. And as for Ms. Farber, she could be a real hypocrite sometimes. When Barry Uncle wasn’t around, she called him a chauvinist, or a know-it-all. But she kissed his ass in person, asking him all sorts of questions about Mohan Lal’s family, about India. Barry Uncle had told her about Mohan Lal’s big-shot brother, the one who bribed government ministers and slept with flight attendants. But she was more interested in family history. She once asked him if he had been a refugee, like Mohan Lal.

“Yes, indeed,” Barry Uncle responded. “You wouldn’t believe the things we saw — the things those Muslims did to our people.”

“Chief, you were in diapers,” said Mohan Lal.

“Boss, you may be the intellectual, but I have a photographic memory.” Barry Uncle grew serious. “And even a baby can remember what they did to Chacha-ji.”

“Enough,” said Mohan Lal. “Now’s not the time for such talk.”

* * *

Upon Mohan Lal’s suggestion, the adults seated themselves in the family room. Siddharth considered heading to the guest room, where Marc had set up a ten-inch TV that he’d salvaged from his father’s scrapyard, but there was no cable there, and he wasn’t in the mood to be alone.

After a little small talk about Ross Perot and Bill Clinton, the conversation returned to India. Barry Uncle said that the country’s main problem was its astronomical population growth, for which the Muslims were to blame. “These Mussulman breed like rabbits,” he said. “They have no loyalty to any nation — just to their bloody prophet.”

“Forget it, yaar,” replied Mohan Lal. “The real problem is the Congress and those bloody Nehrus. They’re the ones who let the Muslims get away with everything — just for their bloody votes. They’re a bunch of dictators — the reason why India is a sham democracy.”

“You said it, boss,” said Barry Uncle. “And that’s why we gotta get together and support a new party. I’m telling you, the BJP is gonna get India out of the Stone Age. They’ll make India a land where people can be proud to call themselves Hindus.”

Ms. Farber had been looking on in silence and smiling, but she finally chimed in: “It’s like I’m always telling Marc — if you really want success, you’ve got to love yourself, and that means loving your roots. Embracing your religion, your ethnicity.”

“Smart lady,” said Barry Uncle. “Rachel, hopefully some of your wisdom will rub off on your man over there.”

Your man. The words rang in Siddharth’s ears.

Ms. Farber was beaming. “Oh, he’s doing just fine in the wisdom department.”

Barry Uncle said Mohan Lal wasn’t dumb, just tight-fisted. “I’ve been asking him for a little cash — to get things rolling back home. But this man, he’s a Bania — that’s our version of the Jews.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Ms. Farber. She turned to Mohan Lal. “Mo, Shelly and I — that’s my ex-husband, Barry — we used to give to a charity in Israel. Let me tell you, when we cut that check every year, it felt so good — like I was really making a difference.”

When Barry Uncle asked how Mohan Lal’s book was progressing, Siddharth lowered the volume. Since the last letter from Walton, Mohan Lal had been working in the yard and cooking, but he hadn’t written a single word. Siddharth knew this wasn’t a good thing. When his father wasn’t writing, he got grumpy. He became mean.

Mohan Lal told Barry Uncle that things were going fine, which caused Ms. Farber to speak up: “Mo, he’s your best friend. You should tell him.”

Siddharth furrowed his brow. What about his privacy? he thought.

Ms. Farber retrieved the letter for Barry Uncle, who put on his reading glasses. He examined the letter, mumbling to himself as he read.

Mohan Lal leaned forward, grasping his chin. “So, what do you think, chief?”

“You wanna know what I think?” Barry Uncle tapped on his empty wineglass. “I think I need something stronger.” He went to the dining room and came back with two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He poured out two tall drinks and topped off Ms. Farber’s glass with wine. “All I can say is, I’m not surprised. Look, these American publishers are lackeys. Corporate stooges, nothing more.”

Ms. Farber took a deep breath and said, “Barry, you can’t be serious. I mean, this country has produced some of the greatest literature in the world.”

Siddharth sipped his Coke. “She’s right,” he said. “What about The Call of the Wild? It’s one of the greatest books, and it’s definitely American.”

Ms. Farber flashed Siddharth a fake smile as he turned the television back up.

Barry Uncle leaned in closer to her. “Darling, here’s what I’m saying: I’m saying that this man. .” He pointed at Mohan Lal. “This Indian man — he shouldn’t be putting all his eggs in a Western basket. He wasn’t born into their establishment, so the only way he’ll be successful here is if he totes their line.”

“You mean toes?” said Ms. Farber.

“Whatever,” said Barry Uncle. “I’m not the writer.”

“You’re right, chief,” said Mohan Lal. He sipped some whiskey. “Such is the nature of power.”

Ms. Farber shook her head. “That’s just too cynical. Look at you, Barry. You’ve been so successful here. Both of you have.”

Barry Uncle laughed, then downed his whiskey. “Successful at what? Pumping gasoline? Teaching at subpar colleges staffed by nincompoops?”

Siddharth felt a surge of gratitude for Ms. Farber. Barry Uncle didn’t understand America. This was a country where everyone was equal, where everyone could be happy if they wanted — where everyone could get rich. And he didn’t like what Barry Uncle was implying about Elm City College. It may not have been in the Ivy League, but it wasn’t some half-assed institute in a dusty country where people shat outside.

Ms. Farber grasped Mohan Lal’s arm. “Well, I think we need to be encouraging. I think that if Mo puts in the time — if he just bends a little — everything will turn out fine.”

“And how can you be so sure?” asked Barry Uncle.

She clasped her hands to her chest. “Because I can feel it right here.”

Barry Uncle poured out more whiskey. “Maybe you’re right. But I’ve got a better idea. I’ve told you all about my publisher friend, Vineet. He’s begging for Mohan Lal to sign on the dotted line.” He downed some more whiskey and sighed, then launched into a familiar speech about the need to take Nehru and Gandhi to task, to make a tangible impact on actual people and places.

When he was finished, Ms. Farber said, “Barry, that’s really very exciting — very interesting. But I still have some reservations. I mean, Mo’s a marketing man. How would a book about India affect his tenure?”

Barry Uncle scowled, swatting the air with his fingers. “A book’s a book,” he said. “And once it’s out, you’re not gonna have to worry about this tenure-shenure. He’ll be into bigger things.”

Ms. Farber tilted her head to one side. “But the same thing could happen again. How can we trust your friend, Barry?”

“Yeah, Dad,” said Siddharth. “I bet this Vineet guy is just another sheep.”

Barry Uncle jammed his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Impossible,” he said. “One hundred and fifty percent impossible. Vineet’s a personal friend. And once we win the elections, he’ll be a giant in the Indian media. Satya Publishers will be big-time.”

Mohan Lal instructed Siddharth to go get his copy of Islam and the Infidel, one of Vineet’s books. He protested but then trudged over to his father’s office. He found the volume in between hardcovers by Peter Drucker and M. Scott Peck, recognizing it by its well-drawn cover — the one with the muscly Muslims destroying a temple. He returned to the family room and handed it to Ms. Farber.

After studying the book, she pinched the bridge of her nose and said, “Mo, this is exciting. This could be a serious opportunity for us.”

For us? thought Siddharth. What did his father’s writing career have to do with her?

Ms. Farber draped her arm around Mohan Lal and drew him close. “I mean, isn’t this what we’ve been talking about? Isn’t this what they call synchronicity?”

“Imagine that,” said Mohan Lal. “This foolish old man might finally get a break.”

Barry Uncle nodded. “Boss, what can I say? You’ve found yourself a perfect woman.” He raised his whiskey glass in the air. “I think a toast is in order. To the future — to old friends and new beginnings.”

The three adults clinked glasses.

Siddharth got up from the armchair to toast with the remnants of his Coke.

3. The Pinko Returns as a Mullah

The morning Arjun was scheduled to arrive, Ms. Farber had her hair straightened at the salon beside the West Haven Martial Arts studio. Siddharth told her it looked nice, and he wasn’t lying. She seemed more sophisticated with straight hair, possibly even sexy. Mohan Lal disagreed. He told her she’d wasted her money. “Darling, you look much better in a natural state.”

She said, “I know there’s a compliment in there somewhere.” She had a shopping bag in her hand, from which she pulled a brand-new metal picture frame. She then put a photo of the four of them in the frame, one from the tournament in Springfield in which both boys were wearing their karate uniforms. Siddharth helped her find a place for the photo, and he decided the best location was on the dining room counter, where his mother used to showcase Christmas cards.

When Mohan Lal said it was time to leave for the airport, Siddharth prayed for Ms. Farber to change her mind and stay at home, but she went to Mohan Lal’s bedroom and put on a flowing white skirt, then yelled for Marc to get off the sofa and change his clothes.

“I’m not coming,” said Marc.

“And why’s that?” asked Ms. Farber.

“Because he’s not my brother. We’re not even related.”

She groaned. “Fine, Marc, you can be rude — but don’t think there won’t be any consequences.”

Mohan Lal honked the horn from the driveway, and she dashed outside. As Siddharth was putting on his sneakers, Marc grabbed him by the wrist. He pulled a condom from his sweatpants pocket and dangled it in front of Siddharth’s nose.

“So?” said Siddharth.

“Dinetta’s coming over. I’m finally gonna bang her.”

“Dude, we’re gonna be back in, like, two hours,” he said, imagining Dinetta underneath Marc’s pale body.

“Two hours? If my dad were driving, it would take, like, three. With Mo behind the wheel, we’re talking at least four.”

Soon they were on the Merritt Parkway, a Clinton campaign speech blaring on the radio. It was a hazy, humid day, and the air-conditioning struggled to cool the car. He sat there wondering what he could do to make Marc happier about their new living arrangements. He wondered if Marc would ever be like a real brother to him, like on a television show. He wouldn’t mind having a Jewish stepbrother. He swallowed. At least Arjun was coming home now.

As they merged onto I-91, Mohan Lal was telling Ms. Farber about a recent conversation he’d had with his new editor. Half-listening, Siddharth recalled the day that his father had signed the contract with Satya Publishers. He’d been at Luca’s all day, and when he walked through the front door, Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber were sitting with Barry Uncle and the famous Vineet in the dining room. Siddharth asked what was going on, and his father told him it was an adult conversation. “Go watch some TV,” said Mohan Lal. “And keep the noise down.” Siddharth asked why she was allowed to be there under his breath. Either nobody heard his words, or they chose to ignore him.

Thanks to a traffic jam near Hartford, it took them more than two hours to reach Bradley Airport. They drove though the arrivals area twice without spotting Arjun. Mohan Lal said he would keep on circling while the other two looked for him, but Ms. Farber insisted that he park, and that all three of them go inside and greet him together. They eventually found Arjun on a bench outside near a car rental booth. He was reading a copy of Harper’s and carrying a green backpack, the kind you would use for camping. His goatee was still there, but there was also a lot of stubble high on his cheeks — as if he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days.

Mohan Lal greeted him first with a trademark side hug, his face beaming. “Welcome home, son. What happened to your beard?” he asked, grasping Arjun’s chin. “Has my pinko turned into a bloody mullah?”

Smiling, Arjun clapped him on the back. “Oh, Dad,” he said. “Maybe it’s good that some things never change.”

Ms. Farber placed both of her hands on Arjun’s shoulders. She was wearing heels, and was almost as tall as him. “Let me have a look at you. You’re so handsome — just like Dad.” She kissed him once on each of his cheeks.

Finally, it was Siddharth’s turn to say hello, but he found that he was frozen. He just stared at his brother, a lump forming in his throat.

“You’re huge,” said Arjun. “I bet I can’t even pick you up anymore.”

Arjun bent down and embraced him, and the sound of the screeching cars and chattering travelers suddenly disappeared. In that moment, it was as if he and his brother were the only people at the airport — the only living people in the world. Arjun’s strong arms were the best thing he had felt in ages.

* * *

As they cleared the airport, Arjun asked if they could turn off the air-conditioning, as it aggravated his breathing. He told them about his bumpy flight, which had arrived forty minutes early, and how he had sat next to a state senator, talking to him about reproductive rights for the entire time. Siddharth couldn’t take his eyes off his brother’s Indian sandals, which were made of leather and exposed his bristly toes. He hoped Arjun would take off these faggy shoes before meeting Marc.

Ms. Farber asked Arjun for his thoughts on the upcoming election, but before he could respond, Siddharth said that voting for a third party was the best thing for the health of a nation, mimicking one of his father’s current talking points.

“Good man,” said Mohan Lal.

“Unlike my brother,” said Arjun, “I can’t say that I share my father’s views. A vote for Perot is basically a vote for Bush.”

They passed the Colt factory, the one that looked like a mosque, and then a bright billboard advertising an alternative rock station that Siddharth had started waking up to on his clock radio. While he stared out the window, resting his thigh against his brother’s, Arjun went on about the inner-city poor. He said that the government needed to give these people tools to live with dignity, and that Clinton was the only candidate who might do this.

“Oh, you’re so articulate,” said Ms. Farber. “I guess it runs in the family. My only worry about Clinton is Israel. I’m just not convinced he’ll prioritize the Jewish people.”

Arjun nudged him and arched his eyebrows. Siddharth smirked, though he had no idea what his brother was getting at.

“The point is,” said Arjun, “Bush led this country into a ridiculous war. Thousands of innocent people are dead, including some Americans.”

“What about the Kuwaitis?” asked Ms. Farber. “Didn’t someone have to stand up for Kuwaitis?”

“Exactly, Rachel,” said Mohan Lal. “If you ask me, the world should be thanking Bush.” Siddharth wasn’t surprised by Mohan Lal’s words — he was used to his father changing his mind. “Say what you will,” Mohan Lal continued, “but this man has done a great thing.”

“Great?” Arjun responded. “Invading a country for oil is now a mark of greatness?”

“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 hiked 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?”

Siddharth nudged his brother.

The waitress arrived to clear their salad bowls. “We all set with drinks here?”

“I’ll have another beer,” said Mohan Lal.

“I’ll have one too,” said Arjun.

Ms. Farber told Arjun that he would make a great history professor. She told him that he would be a big help with the book Mohan Lal was writing about India.

“I highly doubt it,” said Arjun.

Siddharth didn’t like the way his brother was smiling, sensing trouble.

The waitress arrived with their beers, and Mohan Lal took a long sip. “You doubt it?” he said. “Son, what is it that you doubt?”

“Forget it,” Arjun responded.

“Be a man,” said Mohan Lal. “Speak your mind.”

“You want me to be a man? What does that even mean?”

Ms. Farber squeezed Mohan Lal’s wrist. “Arjun, I think your father just wants you to communicate a little more clearly.”

Arjun drank from his green bottle, then shook his head. “What I’m saying is that I want no part of that thing. I’m saying that I could never work with someone like him.”

Siddharth gave his brother a light kick on the shin. Arjun then stomped on his toes, and he had to bite his own wrist to keep from yelping.

“You’re a hater, Dad.” Arjun said Mohan Lal had taught them how to hate since they were children — hate Gandhi, hate Nehru, hate the Muslims. “I guess I shouldn’t blame you. You were programmed by the British. They programmed your whole generation so they could control you.”

“The British?” Mohan Lal thumped his hand on the table.

“Guys, let’s keep it down,” said Ms. Farber.

Siddharth had been about to say the same thing, but it didn’t sound right coming from her. She wasn’t family, and she shouldn’t have butted in.

Mohan Lal leaned in toward Arjun. “Let me tell you something about the Britishers. If it wasn’t for them, we’d still be shitting in the trees. And as for your Nehru and Gandhi, these fools were British agents. Look what they did to your beloved Muslims. Look what they did to Jinnah.”

“That was politics,” said Arjun.

“Politics? What about Abdul Ghaffar Khan?”

“Who?” said Arjun.

Mohan Lal smirked. “You’re the one in chains, my son. The chains of a pseudointellectual.”

Arjun opened his mouth to speak. Siddharth knew that he was about to say something bad, something he wouldn’t be able to take back. Fortunately, just at that moment, Mustafa and the pimpled busboy arrived with their meals.

“Wow, what a feast,” said Mohan Lal.

“Buon appetito,” said Mustafa.

Mohan Lal said, “Mustafa, tell me what to do.”

“Why, what’s wrong?” asked Mustafa.

Mohan Lal grinned. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that my son is a bloody pinko.”

Siddharth watched Mustafa chuckle, and the combination of his smile and his thick mustache made him resemble Bugs Bunny.

Mustafa said, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s just an intellectual, like his pops.”

“Please,” Mohan Lal replied, “speak some sense into him. Tell him the truth about Gandhi.”

“Gandhi?” said Mustafa. “That guy was a crook. My pops, back in Pakistan, he said they were all a bunch of crooks. Gandhi, Nehru — Jinnah too.” He pawed his jet-black hair. “It’s the same with all the politicians. We work, and they stuff our money in their pockets. Only good one was Reagan. He locked up the crooks. He did something about all the welfare.”

* * *

After Mohan Lal paid the bill, they agreed to skip the movie and go straight home. Nobody said a word as they drove through the darkened streets of South Haven. Arjun put a hand on Siddharth’s knee, but he stared straight ahead at the pale hairs of Ms. Farber’s neck. For a moment, he wondered if he hated Arjun. He contemplated telling Mohan Lal about Arjun’s Pakistani girlfriend. But then he realized something: His mother would have wanted him to prevent Mohan Lal and Arjun from fighting. She would have wanted to keep them together. He swore that he would never tell his father about Arjun’s girlfriend, not for as long as he lived. He thought about Mustafa, which made him hopeful. If Mustafa could be so nice — so normal — then maybe Arjun’s Pakistani girlfriend would be normal too. If Mohan Lal could get along with Mustafa, then maybe he wouldn’t go ballistic about Arjun’s girlfriend.

When they walked into the house, the television was on, but the sofas were empty.

“Marc!” yelled Ms. Farber, peeking into the kitchen.

Siddharth found the remote control and started flipping through the channels.

Mohan Lal headed for the dining room; Siddharth knew it was for a whiskey.

“I hear music playing,” said Arjun. He walked toward the guest room and was soon yelling at the top of his lungs: “Dad, Rachel! You better get over here!”

Siddharth sprang up and sprinted through the kitchen, passing his brother, who was walking in the opposite direction and smiling. Somehow, Ms. Farber made it to the guest room before him. She was standing in the doorway, her bony fingers covering her mouth.

“Oh, Marc,” she said. “Marc, what the hell is going on?”

Siddharth was now behind her, and when he peered inside the room, his knees buckled.

Marc was on the guest room bed fastening his belt. Dinetta was next to him, buttoning up her checkered shirt. On the pink love seat, underneath the family portrait, sat Andy Wurtzel and Liza Kim. Andy was wearing plaid boxers, holding his face in his hands. Liza was swathed in a green blanket, one that Mohan Lal liked when watching late-night television. Various articles of Liza’s clothing were in a pile by her feet. There was a black bra, a pair of jeans, and a peach-colored T-shirt. Siddharth glared at Marc. How could he have done this? Liza was supposed to be for him.

Dinetta was bawling and babbling, saying, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Kaufman, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s not my goddamn name, Dinetta.” Ms. Farber’s teeth were clenched, and her nostrils were flaring. “I expected this from you, Marc — but not you, Andy. What am I gonna tell your mother?”

Marc stood up, his face red and sweaty. “Chill, Rachel. What? You and Mo are the only ones who get to have any fun?”

“Shut up, Marc,” said Ms. Farber. “For once, can you just shut up?”

Siddharth felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find his father standing there with a drink in his hand.

“Jesus,” said Mohan Lal.

“Just go, Mo,” said Ms. Farber. “Girls, put on your freaking clothes.”

Mohan Lal whistled. “What’s going on?” He stepped forward, his eyes wide and furious.

“Mo, you need to leave right now,” said Ms. Farber. “You need to let me handle this.”

Siddharth stared at Marc, who was gesturing at him and jerking his head toward the floor. He followed his friend’s movements and noticed Mohan Lal’s bottle of Old Monk rum on its side.

“Kick it,” whispered Marc.

He moved closer to the bottle. He knew that if he gave it a light tap, it would roll under the bed and might go undiscovered — but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

* * *

That night, Siddharth’s AC wasn’t working, so he went to bed with the window open. It was hot, and the cicadas were loud and relentless. He found it difficult to sleep. He stared up at an old hook that was screwed into the ceiling. His mother had put it there to hang a pole, from which his stuffed animals used to dangle. Had she done that for his birthday? Or was it just for the sake of it? He couldn’t remember, which made his chest feel even heavier. It was hard to think coherent thoughts with all that had happened. Ms. Farber and Marc had left with Marc’s friends. Mohan Lal had raised his hand behind his ear, the way he did when he was really pissed.

“Mo, take it easy,” she’d said.

“You want that I feel easy?” replied Mohan Lal. “This go easy mentality is the bloody problem.”

“The problem?” said Ms. Farber. “And what problem is that?”

“The problem, Rachel, is you. The problem is that you cannot control your son.”

“Right, you’re an angel,” Ms. Farber had said angrily, dabbing her eyes. “You’re parent of the fucking year.”

As Siddharth lay in his room, he wondered if this was the beginning of the end. If it were, would that be good or bad? His clock flashed 11:42. He wished his brother would come and check on him. He wished his brother wouldn’t give their father such a hard time. Mohan Lal had done so much for them both despite all that he had been through. But it wasn’t like things had been easy for Arjun either. He would be leaving tomorrow, and Siddharth felt horrible that his trip had gone so badly.

He got up out of bed and made his way down the hallway, scraping his fingernails against the wallpaper. His shoulder bumped one of his mother’s paintings, but he didn’t pause to straighten it. Mohan Lal was slouching on the sofa, a whiskey glass resting on his bulging belly. Siddharth rushed past him to the guest room.

Arjun was on the bed, shirtless, reading his India book — the one by Romila, or Brunehilda, or whatever her name was. His eyes were a little red, and Siddharth knew he’d been crying. Nothing made him feel more hollow inside than seeing his brother cry. He seated himself beside Arjun, resting his head on his thigh. He listened to the soft crackle of his brother turning his pages, to the cries of the ceaseless cicadas.

Arjun closed his book. “So I take it your friend has a girlfriend.”

“Kind of.”

“What about you?”

Siddharth shrugged. “That Korean girl — Liza — I hooked up with her once.”

“What do you mean, hooked up?”

“I mean I kissed her.”

“You’re lying,” said Arjun.

“I swear to God.”

“I don’t believe in God,” said Arjun. “Swear on my life.”

“Look, we French-kissed. At least she’s not a Pakistani.”

Arjun returned to his book, underlining a passage in pencil.

Siddharth cocked his head to one side and examined his brother’s beard. It looked neater now. Arjun had shaved his neck. A few bristles on his hairy chin were red, which Siddharth thought was a good thing. Perhaps some English blood cells flowed through their veins after all.

Arjun cleared his throat. “I just want you to remember that it’s not your fault.”

“What’s not my fault?”

“This whole thing with girls.”

“What whole thing with girls?”

“Listen, when the time comes, you might find it hard to get a girlfriend.”

“But I already told you — I hooked up with Liza.”

“It was hard for me too, you know.” Arjun smiled. “The white girls, they wouldn’t give me a second look. But that’s the way they’ve been conditioned. They’re attracted to guys who remind them of their fathers.”

“You don’t know everything, you know,” Siddharth muttered.

Arjun returned to his book once again. Siddharth lay down beside him and stared up at the white swirls on the ceiling. He remembered a day many years ago when Barry Uncle and Mohan Lal had painted the entire guest room. His mother had made them fresh puris, and everyone had seemed happy. He fought to keep his eyes open but was soon asleep.

He woke up to Arjun’s gentle snores and the singing of a bird. The lights were off, but morning was softly glowing outside the window. His elbow grazed the flesh of his brother’s back. Arjun’s skin felt nice, so he touched it with the tips of his fingers. He was dreading the day ahead of him. He was dreading the entire school year.