Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

“Pardon me?” said Mohan Lal.

“This country used to be great? If it used to be great, then why stay? It’s not like you don’t have other options.”

Mohan Lal beat some eggs with an electric mixer. He said, “Siddharth, please tell me — what is the definition of wealth?”

“Dad, come on — I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“Just say it,” said Mohan Lal.

Siddharth explained that a wealthy country was one that had the ability to manufacture, a phrase his father had uttered thousands of times.

“Very impressive,” said Ms. Farber.

“You see, Rachel, when I came to this country in 1959, the Eastern seaboard was the manufacturing capital of the world. They made clocks and tools — such products of high quality, I tell you. Right here in Connecticut, the ball-bearing industry was the greatest in the world.”

“So what happened?”

“Greed — greedy politicians and greedy businessmen.” Mohan Lal launched into an explanation of how American ball-bearing manufacturers started helping the Japanese set up more cost-effective factories. “Yes, a few barons got rich. But the country — the people? No. They lost a genuine source of wealth.”

“But that’s capitalism,” said Ms. Farber. “Show me a better system and I’ll give you a million bucks.”

“True, there is no better system than capitalism. But what I have described isn’t capitalism. Tell me, where’s your free market if the Japanese government is subsidizing production? And what about our own government? It must provide conditions in which business can prosper.”

The kettle whistled, and Ms. Farber got up to finish making her coffee. Mohan Lal started sautéing some spices, and Siddharth cringed as the odor of Indian food filled the kitchen.

“That smells wonderful,” said Ms. Farber. “I’d love to learn a few dishes.”

“Anytime,” said Mohan Lal, dumping the onions into his wok. “Siddharth, set the table and put in some English muffins.”

Siddharth begrudgingly got four white plates out of the cabinet, and then some forks and knives. Ms. Farber was back at the table, pressing her mug against her cheek and staring out the window.

“Rachel?” said Mohan Lal.

She didn’t respond. Siddharth had seen her look this way before. Her mind was in some far-off place now.

“Rachel?” Mohan Lal repeated.

Siddharth glared at him.

She shuddered, then faked a smile. “I’m so sorry. I’m used to a little more sleep, I guess.”

Mohan Lal turned down the burner and dumped in the tomatoes. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

“Offended me?”

“Dad,” said Siddharth, “how many muffins do you want?”

Mohan Lal ignored him. “If you were a jingo, my words may have been offensive.”

Ms. Farber laughed, then grasped her mug with her long, bony fingers. “No, not at all. I was just thinking about my father. He had a factory in New Jersey. They made some sort of widget that went into fluorescent lightbulbs. He was always complaining about Japan — Japan, Taiwan, and, of course, the Germans.” She paused and shook her head. “To be honest, I always thought it was all a bunch of excuses.”

“Dad?” said Siddharth. “Hello? I asked you a question.”

“Put in three,” said Mohan Lal. “We’ll make a fresh one for Marc when he wakes up.” He poured in the eggs. “Let me tell you, this country’s greatest asset was its entrepreneurs — amazing men who we took for granted.”

“Amazing?” said Ms. Farber. “I would have settled for functional.” She arched her eyebrows. “My mother, she died a few weeks after my sixteenth birthday. Dad — he wasn’t like you. He fell apart, into a million little pieces.”

In the spring semester, Mohan Lal taught late classes on both Tuesdays and Thursdays, but Ms. Farber picked Siddharth up from school so that he could continue with karate. He loved these afternoons. All the other kids had to remain in their seats until their buses got called over the loudspeaker, but he enjoyed a solitary stroll down the corridor at 3:13, two minutes before dismissal. Marc was often waiting for him outside. He’d be leaning against the pay phone and listening to his Walkman, his lower lip puffy with tobacco, the asphalt around him splotched with tiny pools of brown. The boys would slap hands and walk over to Ms. Farber’s ailing Saab, Marc spitting out his pouch before they got there. Siddharth knew people stared at them — the gym teacher, the bus drivers, the principal — but for once he didn’t mind the attention. He would look straight ahead, not down at the laces of his imitation Keds, which he had bought because Marc had gotten a pair of real ones. He was still a faggot according to Luca Peroti, still the ex-friend of slutty Sharon Nagorski. But that didn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter that he spent recess alone and ate lunch with Bobby Meyers.

It was a cold month, with carrot-shaped icicles dangling from the roofs and drainpipes. The boys spent a lot of time indoors. Marc’s father bought him a new video game every weekend, and Marc wouldn’t relinquish the controller until he’d conquered it, which usually took forty-eight hours. Siddharth preferred it when they watched movies. Marc continued introducing him to the world of pornography, and he in turn introduced Marc to the joy of seeing a single film multiple times. They watched these films in Ms. Farber’s basement, where they’d been spending much more time because the guest room had been turned into her home office.

Marc said that building an office was easy when someone else was footing the bill.

“What do you mean?” asked Siddharth.

“Who do you think paid for this shit? Shelly did. My dad’s busting his ass so Rachel can play doctor.”

“Fucking ridiculous,” said Siddharth. But he didn’t actually think it was ridiculous. He’d met Marc’s father two times, and the man was grumpy. Too quiet. Marc sometimes said that he wished he could go live with his father full-time, but Siddharth didn’t think that would be a wise idea.

It took Ms. Farber more than a month to complete her home office, and she’d hired a team of three carpenters for the job. First they wrapped up the renovations that had ceased during her divorce, and then they put in a door that led directly from the guest room to the outside world. This door was essential, she claimed, for it would make her clients feel that they were in a real office. It would allow her to maintain healthy boundaries between work and home. Siddharth had watched the builders as they sawed and hammered, and he even helped a worker named Sean sand down some new oak shelving.

Three weeks after the Springfield karate tournament, he and his father went on another outing with Marc and Ms. Farber, this time to get her a new desk. They honed in on a hefty modern one that was on sale at the Post Road furniture warehouse where Siddharth’s parents had done a lot of shopping. But then Ms. Farber fell in love with something called a “secretary’s desk” at an antique shop in Westville, which cost twelve hundred dollars. Mohan Lal said that spending so much on a secondhand piece of furniture didn’t make sense considering the financial strain of starting a new business. But Ms. Farber was adamant. She explained that the antique desk reminded her of one that had belonged to her mother. Her father had left it out on the street when they moved out of their Victorian home and into their horrible apartment.

Marc bargained the antique dealer down to nine fifty, and Siddharth tried to help him load it into the back of his father’s minivan. He wasn’t strong enough, so Mohan Lal stepped in. Siddharth was proud to see his father heaving and lifting. Mohan Lal looked like a real man, not some crazed sand nigger from Indiana Jones. But the way he panted afterward embarrassed Siddharth. It also scared him.