3. The Pinko Returns as a Mullah
The morning Arjun was scheduled to arrive, Ms. Farber had her hair straightened at the salon beside the West Haven Martial Arts studio. Siddharth told her it looked nice, and he wasn’t lying. She seemed more sophisticated with straight hair, possibly even sexy. Mohan Lal disagreed. He told her she’d wasted her money. “Darling, you look much better in a natural state.”
She said, “I know there’s a compliment in there somewhere.” She had a shopping bag in her hand, from which she pulled a brand-new metal picture frame. She then put a photo of the four of them in the frame, one from the tournament in Springfield in which both boys were wearing their karate uniforms. Siddharth helped her find a place for the photo, and he decided the best location was on the dining room counter, where his mother used to showcase Christmas cards.
When Mohan Lal said it was time to leave for the airport, Siddharth prayed for Ms. Farber to change her mind and stay at home, but she went to Mohan Lal’s bedroom and put on a flowing white skirt, then yelled for Marc to get off the sofa and change his clothes.
“I’m not coming,” said Marc.
“And why’s that?” asked Ms. Farber.
“Because he’s not my brother. We’re not even related.”
She groaned. “Fine, Marc, you can be rude — but don’t think there won’t be any consequences.”
Mohan Lal honked the horn from the driveway, and she dashed outside. As Siddharth was putting on his sneakers, Marc grabbed him by the wrist. He pulled a condom from his sweatpants pocket and dangled it in front of Siddharth’s nose.
“So?” said Siddharth.
“Dinetta’s coming over. I’m finally gonna bang her.”
“Dude, we’re gonna be back in, like, two hours,” he said, imagining Dinetta underneath Marc’s pale body.
“Two hours? If my dad were driving, it would take, like, three. With Mo behind the wheel, we’re talking at least four.”
Soon they were on the Merritt Parkway, a Clinton campaign speech blaring on the radio. It was a hazy, humid day, and the air-conditioning struggled to cool the car. He sat there wondering what he could do to make Marc happier about their new living arrangements. He wondered if Marc would ever be like a real brother to him, like on a television show. He wouldn’t mind having a Jewish stepbrother. He swallowed. At least Arjun was coming home now.
As they merged onto I-91, Mohan Lal was telling Ms. Farber about a recent conversation he’d had with his new editor. Half-listening, Siddharth recalled the day that his father had signed the contract with Satya Publishers. He’d been at Luca’s all day, and when he walked through the front door, Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber were sitting with Barry Uncle and the famous Vineet in the dining room. Siddharth asked what was going on, and his father told him it was an adult conversation. “Go watch some TV,” said Mohan Lal. “And keep the noise down.” Siddharth asked why she was allowed to be there under his breath. Either nobody heard his words, or they chose to ignore him.
Thanks to a traffic jam near Hartford, it took them more than two hours to reach Bradley Airport. They drove though the arrivals area twice without spotting Arjun. Mohan Lal said he would keep on circling while the other two looked for him, but Ms. Farber insisted that he park, and that all three of them go inside and greet him together. They eventually found Arjun on a bench outside near a car rental booth. He was reading a copy of Harper’s and carrying a green backpack, the kind you would use for camping. His goatee was still there, but there was also a lot of stubble high on his cheeks — as if he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days.
Mohan Lal greeted him first with a trademark side hug, his face beaming. “Welcome home, son. What happened to your beard?” he asked, grasping Arjun’s chin. “Has my pinko turned into a bloody mullah?”
Smiling, Arjun clapped him on the back. “Oh, Dad,” he said. “Maybe it’s good that some things never change.”
Ms. Farber placed both of her hands on Arjun’s shoulders. She was wearing heels, and was almost as tall as him. “Let me have a look at you. You’re so handsome — just like Dad.” She kissed him once on each of his cheeks.
Finally, it was Siddharth’s turn to say hello, but he found that he was frozen. He just stared at his brother, a lump forming in his throat.
“You’re huge,” said Arjun. “I bet I can’t even pick you up anymore.”
Arjun bent down and embraced him, and the sound of the screeching cars and chattering travelers suddenly disappeared. In that moment, it was as if he and his brother were the only people at the airport — the only living people in the world. Arjun’s strong arms were the best thing he had felt in ages.
* * *
As they cleared the airport, Arjun asked if they could turn off the air-conditioning, as it aggravated his breathing. He told them about his bumpy flight, which had arrived forty minutes early, and how he had sat next to a state senator, talking to him about reproductive rights for the entire time. Siddharth couldn’t take his eyes off his brother’s Indian sandals, which were made of leather and exposed his bristly toes. He hoped Arjun would take off these faggy shoes before meeting Marc.
Ms. Farber asked Arjun for his thoughts on the upcoming election, but before he could respond, Siddharth said that voting for a third party was the best thing for the health of a nation, mimicking one of his father’s current talking points.
“Good man,” said Mohan Lal.
“Unlike my brother,” said Arjun, “I can’t say that I share my father’s views. A vote for Perot is basically a vote for Bush.”
They passed the Colt factory, the one that looked like a mosque, and then a bright billboard advertising an alternative rock station that Siddharth had started waking up to on his clock radio. While he stared out the window, resting his thigh against his brother’s, Arjun went on about the inner-city poor. He said that the government needed to give these people tools to live with dignity, and that Clinton was the only candidate who might do this.
“Oh, you’re so articulate,” said Ms. Farber. “I guess it runs in the family. My only worry about Clinton is Israel. I’m just not convinced he’ll prioritize the Jewish people.”
Arjun nudged him and arched his eyebrows. Siddharth smirked, though he had no idea what his brother was getting at.
“The point is,” said Arjun, “Bush led this country into a ridiculous war. Thousands of innocent people are dead, including some Americans.”
“What about the Kuwaitis?” asked Ms. Farber. “Didn’t someone have to stand up for Kuwaitis?”
“Exactly, Rachel,” said Mohan Lal. “If you ask me, the world should be thanking Bush.” Siddharth wasn’t surprised by Mohan Lal’s words — he was used to his father changing his mind. “Say what you will,” Mohan Lal continued, “but this man has done a great thing.”
“Great?” Arjun responded. “Invading a country for oil is now a mark of greatness?”
“Why do we revere the kings of antiquity?” said Mohan Lal. “Not for making peace, but because they secured resources.”
Arjun pulled at his whiskers. “You’re kidding me, Dad.”
“Why would I be kidding? Son, Bush has shown the world how to stand up to these Muslims. For that I admire him.”
“I know you know better,” said Arjun. “I know you’re not that dumb.”
Siddharth shot his brother a look.
“Yes, son,” said Mohan Lal, “your father is a very—”
“Arjun,” interrupted Ms. Farber, “I hope you’re hungry. Your father has prepared quite a feast for you.”
* * *
When they got home, Marc greeted Arjun at the door and shook his hand. Arjun said he had heard that Marc was a big Yankees fan. Marc said, “The Mets. I think you mean the Mets.” Siddharth knew this was a lie, that his friend really loved the Yankees. But he didn’t say anything. Ms. Farber showed Arjun to the guest room and brought him a bath towel, and Siddharth found this whole interaction unsettling. She seemed to be treating his brother like a guest even though this was his house, not hers. But Arjun didn’t seem to mind the attention. Before getting into the shower, he told Ms. Farber that the place felt so alive with her and Marc around. These words wounded Siddharth. He wondered what it had seemed like before. Was it too depressing? Or just really boring?