Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

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.

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.