Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

“Maybe I’m the one with the problem. Sharon should watch out for me . My home life is pretty damn complicated.” He looked to his father for a reaction, but Mohan Lal was lost in a book, unaware that he was even speaking.

But the single most irritating thing about Ms. Farber was that she made both he and Marc do chores. One week, Siddharth had to do the vacuuming, while Marc had to place the recycling bin at the end of the driveway, and then they switched jobs on the following week. They also had to help with the dishes. On a Wednesday evening, when the four of them were finishing one of Mohan Lal’s Indian meals, Ms. Farber said it was Marc’s turn to help clean up. Marc, who was in the middle of football season, complained that he was tired.

“Don’t worry,” said Mohan Lal, patting him on the shoulder. “Marc, go and rest.”

“Oh no,” said Ms. Farber. “Mo, he’s gotta learn. If he’s gonna reap the benefits of this household, then he’s gotta give something back.”

Marc muttered something under his breath.

“I didn’t hear that, honey,” said Ms. Farber. “If you have something to say, speak up.”

Marc said, “Rachel, can you give a man some peace?”

“Marc, my parents would have whacked me if I spoke that way.”

“So whack me then,” said Marc. “I know you want to.” He was smiling, but his eyes looked deranged. “And for your information, I don’t give a shit about this household.” As he spoke this final word, he flexed his fingers to mime quotation marks. “If it was up to me, I’d be back in my own freaking household.”

She took a long sip of water and then grasped the top of her head. “Jesus, why doesn’t anyone want me to be happy? Nobody has ever wanted me to be happy.”

“Mom, there are these things called psychologists,” said Marc. “Maybe you should go and see one.”

A part of Siddharth enjoyed watching his friend stand up to his mother, but he hated hearing him talk about their life together like that. He wanted Marc to be his second brother. Brothers fought, but at the end of the day, they were family. They were there when you needed them. In some moments, it was painfully obvious that Marc didn’t feel the same way. He had been distant and cold ever since the August incident with Dinetta. After that night, he’d been grounded for a second time. But this grounding was brief. Now he was free again, and out all the time. When he was home, he watched TV in silence or lay on Arjun’s bed listening to his new Discman, a recent gift from his father. He only seemed to get animated when speaking on the phone, or getting ready for a football game.

Siddharth blamed himself. He should have kicked that rum bottle under the bed. He tried doing things to get Marc to like him again, such as taking an interest in baseball, but Marc would only talk sports with Andy or his father. Siddharth even pilfered some expensive whiskey from Mohan Lal’s dining room stash. The boys drank it down together, but the alcohol didn’t bring them any closer.

* * *

Fights between Marc and Ms. Farber became more frequent, and they gave rise to slightly revised living arrangements. Marc had been spending one night a week at his father’s Hamden condo, but he soon began spending two. And he and Ms. Farber started staying at their own home at least two nights a week, usually without the Aroras. These changes meant even less time with Marc, and Siddharth began to wonder if Marc hated him.

But the new routines had an upside. With Ms. Farber and Marc spending more time at their own house, he had his father all to himself some days. When Ms. Farber wasn’t around, he didn’t have to eat lentils or tofu steaks. He got to order pizzas with extra cheese and pepperoni, and they ate their meals in front of the television for the first time in months. When Ms. Farber wasn’t there, Mohan Lal sometimes asked him to read passages from his manuscript out loud, claiming that hearing the rhythm of the words made his sentences stronger. Even though Siddharth was so sick of Gandhi and all that shit, he showered praise upon his father’s writing. He said that his book would make them rich, but Mohan Lal told him that real intellectuals weren’t in it for the money.

On a Thursday night in October, Marc and Ms. Farber left to attend a function at their synagogue, and they planned on sleeping in Woodford. This would be Marc’s third night away that week, which irritated Siddharth. What was the point of putting up with Ms. Farber if it didn’t mean more time with Marc? What was the point of letting her fuck his father? He shed some of his anger when Mohan Lal declared that he was treating him and Barry Uncle to dinner at Pasta Palace.

The place was packed that night, with dozens of cops. They were in uniform, laughing, shouting, and drinking. Mohan Lal told the hostess to get Mustafa, but she said he was busy in the kitchen. It took them twenty minutes to get a table, and once they were seated, the waitress took ages to gather their orders. Barry Uncle thumped Mohan Lal on the back. “Boss, if this is how they treat VIPs here, I’d hate to be an ordinary customer.”

Siddharth was starving by this point, and he thought Barry Uncle was right. But he needed to stick up for his father. “Trust me, Barry Uncle. The wait is worth it.”

Mustafa eventually showed up with a complimentary round of drinks — more whiskey for the men, and a Coke for Siddharth. He also brought over a free order of fried mozzarella.

Barry Uncle had a weird smile on his face. “Mustafa-ji, I’ve heard a lot about you, boss.”

Mustafa laughed, stroking his thick moustache. “Well, Arora sahib here is one of our best customers. His wife, she was such a fine lady.”

Siddharth coughed on his Coke and the table fell silent. After an uncomfortable pause, Barry Uncle asked, “So what about you? You married, Mustafa?”

Mustafa broke into a big smile. “Oh, very happily married indeed. I’m very blessed, actually. I got two daughters — twin girls.” He pulled his wallet out and handed Barry Uncle a picture. Siddharth glanced over and saw two baby girls wearing little dresses. He had to admit they were cute despite their very dark skin.

“Girls, eh?” said Barry Uncle. He handed the photo back and finished his whiskey in a single gulp. Then he took a long sip of the other one that had come for free. “Tell me something. You gonna make those little darlings cover up their heads?”

Mustafa’s lips gaped but no words came out.

“Because those kids are sweet,” continued Barry Uncle, “and it would be a shame to cover up their little heads.”

Siddharth knew that Barry Uncle shouldn’t have said this, but a part of him was glad — for in that moment, he loathed Mustafa for bringing up his mother. Staring at Mustafa, he saw anger flash in his eyes — a cold, hard look. But then it vanished, and Mustafa was his usual smiley self again. He said, “Well, folks, I better be going. A lotta work to do tonight. The PBA’s here — annual function. Don’t wanna tick off the coppers. Am I right?”

Mustafa started walking away, but Barry Uncle grabbed his wrist. “Hang on, man. Let’s finish our little conversation. Your wife — you make her cover her head too?”

Siddharth now realized that Barry Uncle had crossed a line, and he wanted his father to intervene. But Mohan Lal was gobbling a saucy bite of fried mozzarella, which dripped onto the tablecloth. He swiped it with his finger and lobbed it onto his tongue. Siddharth winced at his father’s dining manners.

Mustafa dusted off his shirt and gazed around the restaurant. “You know what, gentlemen? Dinner’s on me tonight. The service is gonna be slow, so consider it an early Christmas present.”

Siddharth said, “Wow, Mustafa, that’s really nice of you.”