Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

“The British?” Mohan Lal thumped his hand on the table.

“Guys, let’s keep it down,” said Ms. Farber.

Siddharth had been about to say the same thing, but it didn’t sound right coming from her. She wasn’t family, and she shouldn’t have butted in.

Mohan Lal leaned in toward Arjun. “Let me tell you something about the Britishers. If it wasn’t for them, we’d still be shitting in the trees. And as for your Nehru and Gandhi, these fools were British agents. Look what they did to your beloved Muslims. Look what they did to Jinnah.”

“That was politics,” said Arjun.

“Politics? What about Abdul Ghaffar Khan?”

“Who?” said Arjun.

Mohan Lal smirked. “You’re the one in chains, my son. The chains of a pseudointellectual.”

Arjun opened his mouth to speak. Siddharth knew that he was about to say something bad, something he wouldn’t be able to take back. Fortunately, just at that moment, Mustafa and the pimpled busboy arrived with their meals.

“Wow, what a feast,” said Mohan Lal.

“Buon appetito,” said Mustafa.

Mohan Lal said, “Mustafa, tell me what to do.”

“Why, what’s wrong?” asked Mustafa.

Mohan Lal grinned. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that my son is a bloody pinko.”

Siddharth watched Mustafa chuckle, and the combination of his smile and his thick mustache made him resemble Bugs Bunny.

Mustafa said, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s just an intellectual, like his pops.”

“Please,” Mohan Lal replied, “speak some sense into him. Tell him the truth about Gandhi.”

“Gandhi?” said Mustafa. “That guy was a crook. My pops, back in Pakistan, he said they were all a bunch of crooks. Gandhi, Nehru — Jinnah too.” He pawed his jet-black hair. “It’s the same with all the politicians. We work, and they stuff our money in their pockets. Only good one was Reagan. He locked up the crooks. He did something about all the welfare.”

* * *

After Mohan Lal paid the bill, they agreed to skip the movie and go straight home. Nobody said a word as they drove through the darkened streets of South Haven. Arjun put a hand on Siddharth’s knee, but he stared straight ahead at the pale hairs of Ms. Farber’s neck. For a moment, he wondered if he hated Arjun. He contemplated telling Mohan Lal about Arjun’s Pakistani girlfriend. But then he realized something: His mother would have wanted him to prevent Mohan Lal and Arjun from fighting. She would have wanted to keep them together. He swore that he would never tell his father about Arjun’s girlfriend, not for as long as he lived. He thought about Mustafa, which made him hopeful. If Mustafa could be so nice — so normal — then maybe Arjun’s Pakistani girlfriend would be normal too. If Mohan Lal could get along with Mustafa, then maybe he wouldn’t go ballistic about Arjun’s girlfriend.

When they walked into the house, the television was on, but the sofas were empty.

“Marc!” yelled Ms. Farber, peeking into the kitchen.

Siddharth found the remote control and started flipping through the channels.

Mohan Lal headed for the dining room; Siddharth knew it was for a whiskey.

“I hear music playing,” said Arjun. He walked toward the guest room and was soon yelling at the top of his lungs: “Dad, Rachel! You better get over here!”

Siddharth sprang up and sprinted through the kitchen, passing his brother, who was walking in the opposite direction and smiling. Somehow, Ms. Farber made it to the guest room before him. She was standing in the doorway, her bony fingers covering her mouth.

“Oh, Marc,” she said. “Marc, what the hell is going on?”

Siddharth was now behind her, and when he peered inside the room, his knees buckled.

Marc was on the guest room bed fastening his belt. Dinetta was next to him, buttoning up her checkered shirt. On the pink love seat, underneath the family portrait, sat Andy Wurtzel and Liza Kim. Andy was wearing plaid boxers, holding his face in his hands. Liza was swathed in a green blanket, one that Mohan Lal liked when watching late-night television. Various articles of Liza’s clothing were in a pile by her feet. There was a black bra, a pair of jeans, and a peach-colored T-shirt. Siddharth glared at Marc. How could he have done this? Liza was supposed to be for him.

Dinetta was bawling and babbling, saying, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Kaufman, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s not my goddamn name, Dinetta.” Ms. Farber’s teeth were clenched, and her nostrils were flaring. “I expected this from you, Marc — but not you, Andy. What am I gonna tell your mother?”

Marc stood up, his face red and sweaty. “Chill, Rachel. What? You and Mo are the only ones who get to have any fun?”

“Shut up, Marc,” said Ms. Farber. “For once, can you just shut up?”

Siddharth felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find his father standing there with a drink in his hand.

“Jesus,” said Mohan Lal.

“Just go, Mo,” said Ms. Farber. “Girls, put on your freaking clothes.”

Mohan Lal whistled. “What’s going on?” He stepped forward, his eyes wide and furious.

“Mo, you need to leave right now,” said Ms. Farber. “You need to let me handle this.”

Siddharth stared at Marc, who was gesturing at him and jerking his head toward the floor. He followed his friend’s movements and noticed Mohan Lal’s bottle of Old Monk rum on its side.

“Kick it,” whispered Marc.

He moved closer to the bottle. He knew that if he gave it a light tap, it would roll under the bed and might go undiscovered — but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

* * *

That night, Siddharth’s AC wasn’t working, so he went to bed with the window open. It was hot, and the cicadas were loud and relentless. He found it difficult to sleep. He stared up at an old hook that was screwed into the ceiling. His mother had put it there to hang a pole, from which his stuffed animals used to dangle. Had she done that for his birthday? Or was it just for the sake of it? He couldn’t remember, which made his chest feel even heavier. It was hard to think coherent thoughts with all that had happened. Ms. Farber and Marc had left with Marc’s friends. Mohan Lal had raised his hand behind his ear, the way he did when he was really pissed.

“Mo, take it easy,” she’d said.

“You want that I feel easy?” replied Mohan Lal. “This go easy mentality is the bloody problem.”

“The problem?” said Ms. Farber. “And what problem is that?”

“The problem, Rachel, is you. The problem is that you cannot control your son.”

“Right, you’re an angel,” Ms. Farber had said angrily, dabbing her eyes. “You’re parent of the fucking year.”

As Siddharth lay in his room, he wondered if this was the beginning of the end. If it were, would that be good or bad? His clock flashed 11:42. He wished his brother would come and check on him. He wished his brother wouldn’t give their father such a hard time. Mohan Lal had done so much for them both despite all that he had been through. But it wasn’t like things had been easy for Arjun either. He would be leaving tomorrow, and Siddharth felt horrible that his trip had gone so badly.

He got up out of bed and made his way down the hallway, scraping his fingernails against the wallpaper. His shoulder bumped one of his mother’s paintings, but he didn’t pause to straighten it. Mohan Lal was slouching on the sofa, a whiskey glass resting on his bulging belly. Siddharth rushed past him to the guest room.

Arjun was on the bed, shirtless, reading his India book — the one by Romila, or Brunehilda, or whatever her name was. His eyes were a little red, and Siddharth knew he’d been crying. Nothing made him feel more hollow inside than seeing his brother cry. He seated himself beside Arjun, resting his head on his thigh. He listened to the soft crackle of his brother turning his pages, to the cries of the ceaseless cicadas.