Hari Kunzru - Gods Without Men

“But what does it matter? It’s just a piece of skin.”

“It’s — I don’t know, Jaz. It’s about identity. We’ve been oppressed for so many generations—”

“Oh, so remind me who was oppressing you at your private school?”

“Don’t be an asshole. It’s a symbol. There was … the Holocaust, the pogroms. If I didn’t do this for him, they’d have won. All the bastards who wanted us to disappear.”

“The Nazis.”

“Yes, the Nazis.”

“And the Tsar.”

“Actually, yes.”

“Listen to yourself. Do you even know how ridiculous you sound? You don’t even believe in God. The only time I’ve ever seen you in a synagogue was at our wedding.”

“It’s not about religion. It’s culture.”

“And what about my culture? What about our Guru Arjan Dev, who was executed by the Mughals for refusing to change the words of our holy book? Or Guru Tegh Bahadur, who was so cruelly tortured that he had to be cremated in secret? Sikhs have been persecuted. The Muslims tried to convert us by force. They tried to circumcise us by force . Do you understand?”

“I thought you were an atheist.”

“Agnostic.”

“You used to rant about the death of God. You used to wave Nietzsche at me.”

“And you seem to be saying God wants you to mutilate my son.”

“ Our son, Jaz. And there are health reasons too. Transmission of STDs, for example.”

And so it would go on. Round and round, for days, weeks. She looked up what the Sikh scriptures said. It sounded like a borscht-belt joke, a line delivered by a fat man in a ruffled tuxedo shirt. I don’t believe in it, O siblings of destiny. If God wished me to be a Muslim, it would be cut off by itself . She read about the Mughal persecution of the Sikhs. She guessed they had as much right to memory as the Jews, though she couldn’t say she felt it, emotionally. There was something special about the Jewish people. About Jewish experience. At least that’s what she’d always been taught. Perhaps that was all she retained of her religion — a vague sense of election. She wondered if Jaz, for all his passion about the tortured gurus, felt anything deeper.

So they kept putting off a decision. There were other things to think about. She agreed to the naming ceremony, hoping Jaz would compromise on the other thing. Her son Raj (not Seth or Conor) was prayed over in that awful gurdwara, that dingy room that smelled of hair oil and feet. The women scowled at her as the baby yelled, as if she were doing something wrong. Look at the white bitch, who obviously didn’t know how to raise a child. After the ceremony she locked herself into a bathroom and refused to come out. Jaz tried to talk to her through the door, his voice strained. She made him swear that nothing like that would ever happen again, that he’d protect her from those women.

“You have to stand up for me, Jaz. You never stand up for me against your family.”

“I will, darling. I will, I promise.”

He swore. And now he was giving in again, to all their vile superstitions, their primitive crap.

• • •

She paid the check and got back into the car, where she sat for a long time, watching customers walk in and out of the diner, having no thoughts about them, barely seeing them as people, just moving shapes. Cars sped along the highway, pulled in and out of the parking lot, disgorging more meaningless forms. Later she found herself driving through town, past plate-glass storefronts. Computer supplies. Weight-Loss Club. She turned onto a side street, then another. Cracked concrete and chain-link fences. A collection of self-storage units fronted by desiccated palms. A community whose landmarks were Laundromats and 7-Elevens, trailer parks for the unlucky and for the slightly luckier, subdivisions of low, mean-looking ranches, bunkers with double garages and dead brown lawns strewn with children’s toys. There were yellow ribbons everywhere, schematic loops on bumper stickers, forlorn sun-bleached rags tied to streetlights and fenceposts. SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. Win the war. On the side of a McDonald’s was painted a mural of Marines fighting in the desert, men in goggles and helmets shouting and pointing, surrounded by helicopters and burning oil wells. Two soldiers helped a wounded civilian, carrying him between them, his arms flung around their shoulders.

She got out of the car and stared, then remembered she had a camera in her purse. Broken glass crunched under her feet as she walked forward to fill the frame. It was the first picture she’d taken in months. She’d brought the camera as a sign to herself that she was on vacation. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to remember this mural, or if she really did. A shiny black truck went past, blasting bass out of the open windows. The teenage driver stared at her from behind a pair of dark glasses, then blew a kiss. She was startled. How long had it been since someone put the moves on her?

Her stomach was growling. It was lunchtime and all she’d had was coffee. She thought about going back to the motel. It would be the right thing to do. But, on the other hand, fuck it. Across the street was a Mexican place with a fake mission bell tower and a pizzeria offering a three-ninety-five dinner special. YES, WE’RE “OPEN,” said a hand-lettered sign taped to the door. “Open” was obviously not the same as open. Trash was blowing about in the parking lot. The windows were smeared with soap. She drove back toward the highway and found the UFO Diner, a cheesy theme restaurant that looked like it had seen better days, probably during the Nixon administration. The place was pretty full. She ordered a chicken Caesar, dressing on the side. She watched the teenage waitress wobbling about taking orders, the Latino busboy. Shapes. The salad arrived. She’d just started picking out the croutons when two women in head-to-toe Muslim tents — hijabs, or whatever they were called — walked by the window. One was pushing a stroller, the other leading a small boy by the hand. Slouching along behind them was an older boy in jeans and T-shirt, carrying a skateboard. The effect was jarring, like a transmission from Baghdad.

She needed to pull herself together. What would her father say? Suck it up, girl. Put your troubles in your pack and hump them on down the road . But Poppy, I can’t. Can’t? No such word, baby . When they first got Raj’s diagnosis, her parents had been amazing. She’d sobbed down the phone and her dad, who never knew what to say, had said exactly the right thing, which was nothing at all, just There, there, baby girl, there, my little one . Whispering it down the line: All better now, all better . At least she’d be with him in a few days, would be able to crawl into his arms and smell his comforting smell, that den fug of pretzels and old magazines.

To fall for that evil-eye crap! To put that nasty little string on her boy!

When they found out about Raj’s autism, Jaz had seemed completely floored. For weeks he barely spoke, just hung around, listlessly watching as she tried to cope with yet another tantrum, another screaming fit. His passivity made her so angry. Why couldn’t he man up? She’d been raised not to give in to a challenge. Her poppy had taught her to fight. Of course they both felt guilty; try as she might, she couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that they’d done something wrong. What rule had she broken during the pregnancy? Used a cell phone? Eaten a tuna steak? A couple of times when they were with friends at a restaurant she’d drunk a glass of wine with her meal. Jaz had never raised an eyebrow, had even encouraged her. They’d made their decisions together. So why could she deal and he couldn’t?

Nothing happened without a reason. No problem was without a solution. If her husband wasn’t going to provide one, then it was down to her. She started browsing support forums, reading posts from mothers who sounded just as desperate as she was. She took notes, ordered books on Amazon. One night she found details of a conference for parents of autistic children and booked herself a ticket. She told Jaz she had to go and see a friend; he’d have to look after Raj by himself. He stared at her like she was insane.