Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

Mohan Lal took a sip of wine. “Yes, we could be like the caterpillar,” he said. “Death could just be our cocoon.” He let out a sigh of satisfaction. “The ancient Hindus, they understood some truths. They knew about maths — even love.”

Marc crunched on an ice cube. “If they were so smart, then why are they all so poor now?”

“Jesus, Marc!” snapped Ms. Farber.

“What? Haven’t you seen those commercials? The kids all got those big bellies. They got all those flies buzzing around their heads.”

Siddharth forced himself to cackle.

“He’s right, Rachel,” said Mohan Lal. “What can I tell you, son? If you aren’t a forward thinker, then it’s easy for others to destroy you.”

When the food finally arrived, Mohan Lal proposed a toast. He called Ms. Farber a wise entrepreneur. He said they felt grateful to her, and were lucky to call her a friend. It dawned on Siddharth that his father had never proposed a toast to him. He tried to remember if the man had ever toasted his mother.

* * *

He lay in bed that night wondering if he and Marc had been friends in a previous lifetime. Then he fell asleep and had another strange dream. In this dream, he got home from school and the house was completely empty. Everything felt eerie and looked the way it did when he was much younger. The family room had no skylight, the fake wooden paneling still lined the hallway that led to the bedrooms, and the old National Parks wallpaper covered the wall behind the leather sofas. Staring out the kitchen window, he found that the backyard was occupied by big machines — yellow backhoes and bulldozers and a couple of smaller orange ones. There were nine of them in total, just sitting there like giant, lazy animals. He felt relieved upon spotting Mohan Lal, who was standing beside a dozer, his hand resting on one of its enormous fanged tires. Mr. Iverson from up the street was standing next to Mohan Lal. He still had a ponytail and a thick beard. He was wearing a Red Sox cap. Siddharth jogged toward the men, and Mr. Iverson picked him up, raising him into the air so that he could peer inside the machine. A baby was lying on the driver’s seat sucking on a bottle. It was a girl, and she had brown skin and a big crown of curls. Siddharth felt as if he knew this child, and a jolt of electricity pulsed through his bones.

And then he woke up.

He stared at the ceiling, his father’s muffled snores echoing through the wall. His waist felt moist, so he ran a hand under his sheets. They were wet, as was his underwear. He felt hopeful. He might have just had a wet dream. He touched the wet patches again, then smelled his fingers. They were sour. Realizing what had actually happened, he went to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. As he soaped himself, the image of the curly haired baby lingered in his mind. It was her. He closed his eyes, allowing the hot water to pour over his face. He had previously told himself that dead meant the opposite of infinity. Like infinity, it was something human beings couldn’t truly understand, so there was no point in thinking too hard about it. But if all that caterpillar bullshit were real, then she might be alive.

She could be in a zillion possible towns or countries, and if they ever passed each other on the street, they wouldn’t even recognize one another. But it didn’t seem to matter. She would have a new family who loved her, and he wouldn’t have to feel bad each time he offered up his forehead to Ms. Farber. He could stop feeling tense whenever Ms. Farber grasped Mohan Lal’s hand, for his mother would one day love another person too.

Siddharth dried himself in his bedroom, then stuffed his soiled sheets into his closet. Sunlight streaked his worn, stained mattress. He heard a dull rumble overhead, squirrels scuttling across the roof. Some blue jays were squawking. His mother hadn’t liked these birds. They had ugly calls, and they bullied the other birds that frequented her feeder. He wasn’t thinking straight and needed to talk to somebody. He didn’t want Marc to think he was a freak, and he didn’t want to worry his father. Besides, Mohan Lal was clearly confused. One minute he was an atheist, and then he was a Buddhist. Now he wouldn’t shut up about the ancient Hindus. Siddharth picked up the family room phone and punched in Arjun’s eleven-digit number.

His brother answered after five rings, and his voice was tired and scratchy. Siddharth suspected he had a hangover. He started rehashing what had happened with Michigan in the NCAA finals, saying how Weber had really blown it.

“Are you serious?” said Arjun. “This is why you’re calling me at eight in the morning? Siddharth, we’ve been over it, like, five times already.”

“Jesus, shoot me for caring.”

“Siddharth, what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on. Can’t I just call my big brother?”

“You better tell me,” said Arjun. “Now.”

“Well, it’s kind of a weird question.”

“Just talk. You can tell me anything.”

Siddharth took a deep breath. “Like, reincarnation and all that stuff — do you believe in it?”

Arjun sighed. “You know, I wish Dad wouldn’t burden you with all of his fundamentalist crap.”

“It wasn’t Dad, I swear.”

“Look, you’re still young, but you’re mature — so I’ll be honest. I used to believe a lot of things, but the more I read, I just can’t anymore. Religion, it’s just meant to control people — to make them feel better. But it’s all a total fiction.”

“Dad used to say the same thing.”

“ Used to being the operative words here. If you ask me — and you are asking me — reincarnation was something cooked up by people in power. They just wanted to justify their lives. They wanted to suppress the people who were below them in the caste system.”

“What’s the caste system?”

“Siddharth, you should know that. Look it up.”

He swallowed hard. “Arjun?”

“What?”

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Say it, then.”

He paused, unsure of why he hadn’t said anything before — unsure of why he was saying something now. “I think Dad has a girlfriend, Arjun.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. Dad — he has a girlfriend.”

“A what?”

Siddharth told him about the karate tournament. He told him about the books they exchanged and the business plan — all the dinners, goodbye kisses, and hand-holding. As he spoke, he knew he was betraying Mohan Lal. He might have even been betraying Marc. But he couldn’t hold back. He couldn’t hold back even though he might be ruining things for himself.

Upon completing his narration, he was breathless. “You still there?” he asked.

“I’m here.” Arjun’s voice sounded higher. “I just don’t understand why this is the first time I’m hearing about this.” Nobody spoke for a while, but eventually Arjun broke the silence. “It’s just selfish. Dad is so fucking selfish.”

Siddharth bit the inside of his cheek, removing a sizable chunk of skin. He knew that he’d messed up. Why was he always messing up?

During his twenty-month career at Deer Run, Siddharth had been invited to a total of seven birthday parties. He had only attended one of them, Sharon Nagorski’s, back when they were still friends. The other invitations had either come from popular kids whose parents made them invite everybody, or those who were desperate for friends. As soon as any invitations arrived, he normally threw them in the compactor. Unfortunately, Ms. Farber was over the day the invitation from Bobby Meyers arrived. As he was eyeing the envelope, which had been penned in fine calligraphy, she said, “Ooh, what’s that, honey? Why don’t you open it up?”