After a little small talk about Ross Perot and Bill Clinton, the conversation returned to India. Barry Uncle said that the country’s main problem was its astronomical population growth, for which the Muslims were to blame. “These Mussulman breed like rabbits,” he said. “They have no loyalty to any nation — just to their bloody prophet.”
“Forget it, yaar,” replied Mohan Lal. “The real problem is the Congress and those bloody Nehrus. They’re the ones who let the Muslims get away with everything — just for their bloody votes. They’re a bunch of dictators — the reason why India is a sham democracy.”
“You said it, boss,” said Barry Uncle. “And that’s why we gotta get together and support a new party. I’m telling you, the BJP is gonna get India out of the Stone Age. They’ll make India a land where people can be proud to call themselves Hindus.”
Ms. Farber had been looking on in silence and smiling, but she finally chimed in: “It’s like I’m always telling Marc — if you really want success, you’ve got to love yourself, and that means loving your roots. Embracing your religion, your ethnicity.”
“Smart lady,” said Barry Uncle. “Rachel, hopefully some of your wisdom will rub off on your man over there.”
Your man. The words rang in Siddharth’s ears.
Ms. Farber was beaming. “Oh, he’s doing just fine in the wisdom department.”
Barry Uncle said Mohan Lal wasn’t dumb, just tight-fisted. “I’ve been asking him for a little cash — to get things rolling back home. But this man, he’s a Bania — that’s our version of the Jews.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Ms. Farber. She turned to Mohan Lal. “Mo, Shelly and I — that’s my ex-husband, Barry — we used to give to a charity in Israel. Let me tell you, when we cut that check every year, it felt so good — like I was really making a difference.”
When Barry Uncle asked how Mohan Lal’s book was progressing, Siddharth lowered the volume. Since the last letter from Walton, Mohan Lal had been working in the yard and cooking, but he hadn’t written a single word. Siddharth knew this wasn’t a good thing. When his father wasn’t writing, he got grumpy. He became mean.
Mohan Lal told Barry Uncle that things were going fine, which caused Ms. Farber to speak up: “Mo, he’s your best friend. You should tell him.”
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.