Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

Siddharth began to burp up a mixture of garlic and gin. He felt himself starting to shiver. He walked over to the toilet bowl and raised the lid. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out, so he shoved his index finger toward his tonsils and gagged. An acidic liquid singed his larynx but then retreated. He poured the rest of his drink into the toilet bowl and flushed.

When he got out of the bathroom, Marc was on the love seat thumbing through one of Mohan Lal’s books. “Yo, you done with your little hissy fit?”

“Shut up,” said Siddharth. “I’m not feeling good. I think I ate something bad at school.”

Marc waved Mohan Lal’s book in the air. “Funny shit. It’s like all sci-fi — like Total Recall or something.”

Siddharth snatched the book out of his hands and examined the cover. It was called Am I a Hindu? He had never seen it before.

“You know what my dad says?” said Marc. He put a stick of gum in his mouth and handed one to Siddharth. “He says Hindus and Jews, they only got two things in common: they’re both really bad tippers — and they hate the Arabs, and the Arabs hate them too.”

Siddharth threw the book on the table and suggested they watch a movie. He recommended Planet of the Apes, but Marc said it was too old. After some back and forth, they eventually opted for Back to School . Marc was laughing out loud the whole time, but Siddharth’s mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t believe his father was fucking Ms. Farber. He couldn’t believe the man had already forgotten about his dead wife. Dead, dead — when you’re dead, you’re dead . Siddharth’s brain burned with these words. He could feel a big, heavy sob building in his body. Dead was dead. You weren’t reincarnated, and you didn’t go to heaven. Arjun had pretty much said the same thing. Siddharth imagined the flames licking at his mother’s body. They had cremated her and left him with nothing — not even a strand of hair or a gravestone where he could say hello.

A key rattled in the front door.

Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber walked in, though they remained in the entrance hall. Marc didn’t seem to notice, but Siddharth peered at the adults from the darkened family room. Ms. Farber removed her coat and hung it up in the closet. She was saying something about being individuals — about not having to like the same things.

“It is not a question of liking,” said Mohan Lal. He loosened his tie and stuffed it into his blazer pocket. “Aren’t you the one always telling people to be more open?”

“Listen, it’s just not for me,” she said, grasping Mohan Lal’s lapels. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be for you.”

Mohan Lal stepped away from her. “What? So I’m a fool? My judgment can’t be trusted?”

Ms. Farber tied her hair into a bun. “Look, we just went over this. Paying thousands of dollars to learn how to be happy — it just doesn’t seem right. For Christ’s sake, normally you’re the skeptic. You’re the one who would call it consumeristic.”

Siddharth noticed that her boots made her look almost as tall as Mohan Lal. These boots were tall, black, and leather. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining her naked, wearing nothing else besides them. Did she keep them on while they were screwing? He shook his head to rid it of this perverted image.

Mohan Lal stepped into the family room. “As if you’re one who should talk of consumerism,” he muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She then noticed the boys behind her. “Why are you guys sitting in the dark?”

Marc brought a finger to his lips and shushed her.

She kissed him on the forehead. Her curls appeared eerily orange in the light cast by the television. Siddharth hoped she wouldn’t kiss him but then cursed her in his mind when she didn’t. Mohan Lal turned off the VCR and put on CNN, then seated himself beside Siddharth. Marc clicked his tongue. Ms. Farber sat down next to her son.

“What about dinner?” she suggested. “One of my famous stews maybe?”

“There are leftovers in the fridge,” said Mohan Lal.

“But what about your news?” said Ms. Farber. “We should celebrate.”

“Celebrating would be premature.”

Siddharth grasped his father’s knee. “Dad, I don’t feel so good.”

“What’s wrong?” Mohan Lal’s eyes were fixed on the television.

“My stomach hurts.”

Mohan Lal didn’t respond.

“Dad, I vomited.”

“What?” Mohan Lal grabbed his wrist. “Yes, you’re warm.”

Siddharth caught Marc smirking out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t care though.

Ms. Farber stood up and placed her fingers on Siddharth’s forehead. “How about I make him some soup?”

“I just wanna go to bed,” said Siddharth. “If I eat, I’m definitely gonna puke again.”

Mohan Lal said he would boil some fennel water that Siddharth could drink in his bedroom. He took him by the hand and began to lead him away.

“Mohan. .” said Ms. Farber.

“What?”

“Mohan, hang on a sec.” She sounded annoyed.

“What is it?” said Mohan Lal.

“Everybody else needs to eat, right? Why don’t I go ahead and make something for the rest of us?”

Don’t you get it ? thought Siddharth. He doesn’t want your fucking food.

Mohan Lal glanced down, and when he raised his head, his eyes were wide with anger. “Tonight’s not the night, Rachel.”

She placed a hand on her hip. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, my son is unwell.”

“Are you saying we should leave? Because if that’s what you mean, just say so.”

Mohan Lal sighed. “We’ll be seeing each other in just two days’ time.”

Ms. Farber’s chest was heaving. Her nostrils began to flare. “That’ll be perfect, right? I’ll watch the boys, and you can get down to work. I mean, Mohan, we talked about this. I packed a freaking bag.”

Siddharth groaned, then squeezed his father’s hand. “Dad, my stomach’s killing me.”

* * *

Later that night, after Marc and Ms. Farber were gone, Siddharth lay in bed on the verge of sleep. His stomach felt better now. He was alone in the house with his father, and everything was totally fine. The ringing phone startled him, and he got out of bed and crept down the hallway. He seated himself on the floor, right by the doorway that led to the family room. That way his father wouldn’t see him.

Mohan Lal was on the sofa wearing pink shorts and an untucked striped shirt that had once belonged to Arjun. A glass of whiskey stood on the coffee table, and the receiver was sandwiched between his ear and shoulder. He was frowning silently as somebody spoke on the other end of the line. One of his hands held a slice of mango, and the other wielded the serrated Ginsu knife he had ordered from the television.

Siddharth could almost make out Ms. Farber’s angry words all the way from where he was sitting, but more than a minute passed before he heard his father say anything. When Mohan Lal finally spoke, his mouth was full of mango. “I never said that. Why would I think we’re doing anything wrong?”

Siddharth wished he could hear Ms. Farber’s words.

“Look,” said Mohan Lal, agitated, “it sounds like you’re giving me an ultimatum.”

. .

“Well, to me it sounds like an ultimatum.”

. .

“So you’re the boss then?” said Mohan Lal. “If you think something is right, then that’s the final word?”

. .

“What if I said the same thing about you?”

. .

“I don’t give a damn what you meant.”

. .

“Frankly, I’ve also had more than enough!”

Mohan Lal slammed down the phone and took a long sip of whiskey. Then he used his free hand to suck on the heart of his mango. He devoured it like a savage, like someone who hadn’t eaten in ages.