* * *
Mohan Lal got home around four and yelled for Siddharth to help him with the groceries.
“Five minutes,” said Siddharth.
“With you it’s always five minutes,” his father said, but he was smiling.
Mohan Lal walked through the family room cradling two paper bags brimming with hairy ears of corn. He had on new khaki shorts, with extra pockets on the side. He also had on new suede running sneakers and a pair of tan dress socks, which were pulled up way too high. He was wearing a collarless green T-shirt, and Siddharth wondered if he had ever seen his father leave the house in a T-shirt before. This one depicted a hotel in Martha’s Vineyard, a place that nobody in the Arora family had ever visited.
Siddharth went outside and stretched his arms. He’d been avoiding the outdoors lately, as all the freshly cut grass made his eyes itchy, but he was glad for a break from the sofa. A breeze sliced through the sticky air and cooled his skin. He looped some bloated plastic bags around his fingers and lugged them inside, then froze before entering the kitchen. His father and Ms. Farber were in front of the sink with their arms around each other. Her lips were near Mohan Lal’s ear. Siddharth couldn’t tell if she was kissing it, or just whispering.
He stepped toward them, dumping his bags on the table. “Did you give it to him?”
“Give me what?” asked Mohan Lal. He slackened his embrace, but his bulging belly remained pressed against her apron.
Ms. Farber playfully smacked herself on the head, then slid open a kitchen drawer. She pulled out the letter and handed it to Mohan Lal. He unsuccessfully attempted to open the envelope with his fingernails, then removed a letter opener from the bottom drawer of the family room bookcase. Years ago, Siddharth had used it as a toy; it resembled a samurai sword.
Mohan Lal sliced open the envelope and read the letter on the family room armchair.
“Come on, already,” said Ms. Farber, who was leaning against the kitchen doorway. “Give us the good news.”
Mohan Lal removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Siddharth grabbed the letter from him. It was signed by Reginald Feldman, senior editor, and not Mr. Wasserman, the assistant editor who’d previously written.
“Read it out loud,” said Mohan Lal.
“Huh?”
“Are you deaf? I said read it aloud.”
Siddharth seated himself on the love seat. “Dear Dr. Arora, this letter is regarding your manuscript entitled Marketing for the Twenty-First Century: A New Paradigm, which we received on June 12, 1992.”
“Louder,” said Mohan Lal.
“While I applaud your efforts to push the boundaries of your field and raise interesting ethical questions, our editorial team—”
“Stop,” said Mohan Lal. “Skip to the next paragraph.”
Siddharth cleared his throat. “Though I personally appreciate your approach, your manuscript, in its current form, might be considered too eso—” He was unfamiliar with this last word and hesitated.
“Esoteric,” said Mohan Lal. “You should know that.”
“. . might be considered too esoteric. Some readers might be repelled by its partisan nature,” continued Siddharth. “However, if you can rework your project along the lines we’ve previously discussed and resubmit in December—”
“Enough!” snapped Mohan Lal, pounding his fist onto the chair’s wooden arm. He shot up and stomped to the dining room. Still holding the letter, Siddharth followed behind, looking on as his father poured himself a tall glass of whiskey, the fancy stuff Barry Uncle had brought over.
“Mo, honey, hang on a sec,” said Ms. Farber.
“Leave me,” said Mohan Lal.
“We need to talk this through.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s definitely a silver lining here. Actually, that’s an understatement. If you ask me, this is encouraging news.”
“She’s right, Dad,” said Siddharth.
Ms. Farber started rubbing Mohan Lal’s back, and Siddharth turned his head toward the window. Outside, a hummingbird was hovering over a withering pink blossom.
Mohan Lal sipped some whiskey. “Listen. Ours is a world of sheep, and this man is the biggest sheep of them all. He’s a bullshitter — a coward.” He grabbed the letter from Siddharth and crumpled it into a little ball. He chucked it at the window, and the hummingbird fled. “I’m in a useless profession — a useless profession in a useless country.”
“Oh, Mo.” Ms. Farber brought his fingers to her mouth and kissed them. “They want you to make a few small changes. Just some minor alterations.”
“You see, publishing is a business, and businesses exist to make money. Books that sell are written by stooges — people who are willing to uphold prevailing ideas, not challenge them.” Mohan Lal scowled. “The dean. He has a long arm now. His fingerprints are all over this affair.”
“The dean, Dad?” said Siddharth. “Are you for real?”
Ms. Farber retrieved the letter and placed it on the counter, smoothing it down with the palm of her hand. “I know you’re upset, Mohan. But is that really rational? Do you honestly think the dean had something to do with this?”
Mohan Lal slammed his glass down. “What do you know about it, Rachel? What do you know about anything?”
“Chill, Dad,” said Siddharth. “We’re just trying to help.”
* * *
Siddharth sat in front of the television, feverishly flipping through the channels, regretting that he hadn’t thrown the letter in the garbage as soon as it had arrived. He wished that his father hadn’t lost it in front of Ms. Farber. She entered the family room and flashed a nervous smile, then went out to the porch and lit a cigarette. He wondered if Mohan Lal had told her she could smoke out there. He wondered if Walton was right about the book. What if it was too esoteric? — whatever that meant. Arjun had once said that their father was addicted to his freakish opinions because he felt so small inside. Poor Dad, Siddharth mused, the man is a genius, but people never appreciate him.
He plodded down the hallway to his parents’ bedroom, where Mohan Lal had holed himself up. The door was locked. Siddharth knocked, but nobody answered. He picked the lock with a tiny screwdriver meant for repairing eyeglasses, something he hadn’t done in years. Hearing the shower running, he entered the bathroom. Mohan Lal’s dirty undergarments were draped on the toilet seat, and Siddharth brushed them onto the pink vinyl floor.
“Rachel?” said Mohan Lal.
“No, it’s me,” said Siddharth.
The bathroom was dark and steamy, and he found it peaceful. Mohan Lal shut off the water and started soaping himself. He then turned the tap on to rinse off the suds, muttering a Buddhist prayer to himself. After shutting off the shower a second and final time, Mohan Lal reached for his rough yellow towel. “Son,” he said, “your old man can be a fool sometimes.” He wiped himself down slowly and meticulously, then exited the bathroom and threw his towel on the patchwork bedspread.