Hirsh Sawhney - South Haven

Several men standing atop the dome began battering it with pipes. Others kept pelting it with bricks from afar. The thing began to crumble. This video was the first decent one Siddharth had seen about India. Something actually happened in it. He placed his pellet of gum into the slingshot’s leather holster, then aimed at the screen. He knew his father would get upset, but he needed to test out his weapon.

The weather had been strange lately. On Siddharth’s thirteenth birthday, it had hit fifty-three degrees. Then, during the first week of January, a record-breaking nor’easter pummeled the East Coast with two feet of snow. Now, as he dozed in the family room, freezing rain clicked and crackled against the skylight.

Marc walked through the front door and started unlacing his tan work boots, a recent gift from his father.

“Hey,” said Siddharth, “I thought you were staying at your dad’s.”

“Things change, young Sidney. Get used to it.” Marc grabbed the cordless phone and headed toward the bedroom.

Ms. Farber entered the house carrying the small black suitcase she used to transport personal items between her home and the Aroras’. She patted him on the head on her way to the love seat. “Honey,” she said, “what did Dad say about straightening up the coffee table?” She organized the chaotic swamp of bills and catalogs into three tidy towers, then proceeded to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she called for Siddharth.

“What is it?” he yelled back, shaking his head.

“Could you turn on the outside lights?”

He groaned, then got up and walked to his bedroom.

Marc was on the phone, examining one of Siddharth’s old model cars, a die-cast Mercedes SSK that Siddharth and his mother had built together. “Hang on, Andy,” said Marc. He turned to Siddharth and squinted. “What?”

“You wanna do something?”

“I am doing something,” said Marc.

Siddharth returned to the family room and pressed his forehead into the cold glass of the sliding doors, wishing he could go back in time to those afternoons on Foster Pond. He eyed a broken hedge trimmer, the porch’s musty cane furniture that had been there since he was born. He couldn’t see into the backyard but heard the maple’s branches scratching against the house. The wind chimes Ms. Farber had gotten Mohan Lal batted against each other, producing notes that were hollow and spooky.

A loud noise jolted him out of his trance. It had come from the front of the house and sounded like an explosion. He rushed to the living room and looked out the window.

His father was back. He had crashed the minivan into the front steps, bending the cast-iron railing forward. Mohan Lal reversed a few feet, then pulled into the car’s usual spot. He cracked open his door, and the car’s overhead light illuminated his disheveled hair. He tapped his head against the steering wheel two times before emerging from the vehicle.

Siddharth hurried to the entrance hall, where Ms. Farber was already standing, one of her bony fingers on the waist of her burgundy dress. She threw her arms around Mohan Lal as soon as he entered, but he pushed her away.

“What happened?” asked Siddharth.

“What happened?” replied Mohan Lal. He placed his overcoat on its special wooden hanger. “What happened is that I live among foolish people.”

“What?”

Mohan Lal glared at Siddharth. “I ask you people one goddamned thing — to turn on the outside lights when I’m gone. But you’re useless.”

“Mo, it was my fault,” said Ms. Farber, flashing Siddharth a crooked smile.

He couldn’t tell if she was trying to make him feel better or express her irritation. Assuming it was the latter, he responded with a glare, then looked down at the old, cracked stones of the corridor floor.

“Thanks,” said Mohan Lal. “Your forgetfulness will cost me a thousand dollars.”

“So I’ll pay for it,” she said.

Mohan Lal placed his hat on the closet’s messy tool shelf. Siddharth thought that the furry, elliptical hat made him resemble the worst kind of person: a cross between an Arab and a commie. Mohan Lal stormed toward the dining room, Ms. Farber and Siddharth in tow. He took out his most expensive bottle of whiskey, the blue one he only opened on special occasions, finishing half of a tall drink in a single gulp. Siddharth knew it was something serious. Either something had happened to Arjun or his father had cancer.

“Mo, what’s wrong?” asked Ms. Farber. “You have to tell me what’s wrong.”

Pulling a handkerchief from his blazer pocket, Mohan Lal wiped the back of his neck. “Rachel, I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Dad, what the hell is going on?”

Mohan Lal’s lips formed a tight, bitter smile. “Son, your father has some news.”

“What?” said Siddharth, swallowing hard.

“That bastard did it.”

“Did what?” asked Ms. Farber.

“The dean,” said Mohan Lal. “He has denied my tenure.”

“What — why?” said Siddharth.

Mohan Lal finished his drink without responding.

Ms. Farber placed her hand on Mohan Lal’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mo. But you gotta talk about—”

“Talk, talk, talk!” Mohan Lal raised his palms in the air and stomped off to the family room, seating himself on the armchair and turning on the news. Siddharth sat down on the love seat and placed a hand on his father’s knee. Ms. Farber walked in a little while later carrying a glass of her pink wine. She stood beside the television, partially blocking the screen.

Mohan Lal said, “You weren’t made in a glass factory.”

“What?”

“I can’t see!”

She stepped toward him. “I’m your friend, Mo.”

“Everyone’s your friend in times of bounty. Drought is a different story altogether.”

She took a sip of wine. “Mo, it’s hard to see sometimes, but trust me, this is still gonna be our year.” She combed his stray gray hairs with her fingers. “This tenure thing, you can appeal it.”

He shifted, evading her hands. “Believe me, there is no future for me at Elm City College.”

“Mo, it’s that pessimism that’s holding you back. I know it feels really bad right now, but it’s not gonna feel that way tomorrow.”

Siddharth thought about telling her to shut up, but he just said, “Jeez, let him feel bad if he wants to.”

“No, they will never offer me tenure, Rachel.” Mohan Lal stood up and tossed the remote control at the large sofa. It bounced off the leather and landed on the carpet.

“And why’s that?” she asked.

“Because I’ve left them. I’ve quit my job.”

Siddharth gasped. “You’re joking.”

Ms. Farber stared up at the skylight. Siddharth could tell she was really pissed because of the way her nostrils were flaring. After a moment, she said, “I don’t know what to tell you, Mo. You didn’t wanna discuss this first?”

“So I needed your approval?” Mohan Lal had a fiendish grin on his face. “Shall I ask your permission before taking a shower?” He stormed off to his bedroom, his dress shoes clomping loudly on the corridor floor.

* * *

Later that evening, Siddharth tried to open his father’s door, but it was still locked. “Dad!” he called out, banging on the door and rattling the knob.

“Go away,” said Mohan Lal.

He kept knocking. “Open up, Dad. We need to talk.”

“Are you deaf? Leave me alone.”

Siddharth rested his forehead on the door. A few moments later, he felt her thin, cold fingers on his shoulder. She gave him a pat and tried to nudge him away. But he wouldn’t budge. He said, “My dad doesn’t wanna talk right now.”