During their phone conversations, he and Sharon soon began talking about topics unrelated to English or earth science. At first, he preferred to keep focused on simple things, like their teachers, music, or the latest season of Beverly Hills 90210, a program Arjun said was indicative of America’s postwar decline. But Sharon, just as before, liked to get more personal. She told him about her weekends, which were surprisingly exciting. He had imagined that she sat in her bedroom alone on weekends playing trumpet and reading, but she usually hung out with her older brother’s friends, some of whom had dropped out of high school. These kids were often at Sharon’s house, drinking beer and playing bumper pool while her mother was at work. Sharon said she didn’t like booze, but she smoked cigarettes, one a day and more on weekends. She said, “Drinking’s lame. It turns people into jerks. Cigarettes are different though. They help you think more. They make all the annoying shit in life a little bit better.”
He told her about his weekends, though he was careful to censor these conversations and leave out any details involving Luca. He also avoided mentioning Mohan Lal and Ms. Farber. But as the weeks passed, he found himself opening up about other parts of his life; Sharon was the only person he told about Arjun’s Pakistani girlfriend.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “What’s the big deal?”
He tried to explain that Pakistanis were bad people.
“But why?” she asked. “What did they ever do to you?”
“It’s complicated. They’ve just always been cruel to Indians, for like thousands of years. And if my dad finds out, he’ll go ape shit.”
“I think it’s romantic,” said Sharon. “Very Romeo and Juliet.”
“That’s Shakespeare, isn’t it?”
“Duh.”
“Shakespeare fucking sucks.”
“Siddharth, you sound stupid when you say things like that. You sound like such a typical guy.”
“What’s wrong with that? I am a typical guy.”
“No you’re not.”
Sharon told him about her parents’ legal battles over alimony and their fight over their large collection of LPs. Her father now lived on a lake in North Carolina and sometimes played harmonica in a band. She hadn’t yet visited his new house, as he was usually driving his truck, moving freight between Florida and Kentucky. Her mother worked the night shift at the phone company, and on Fridays as a waitress at a Tex-Mex restaurant; she spent Saturday evenings with her new boyfriend, who Sharon said was dopey but fine. On the phone one night, Siddharth asked her if her mother was going to marry him.
“I hope not,” she said. “What about your dad?”
“What about my dad?”
“Him and Ms. Farber — are they gonna tie the knot?”
“What are you even talking about?”
“Come on, Sid. Don’t be so immature.”
“I’m not being immature.”
“So answer my question. How serious are they?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“You’re not stupid,” said Sharon. “I mean, they’re sleeping together — right?”
“Gross. No way.” He needed to change the subject. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Have you ever done it?”
“I just turned thirteen, for Christ’s sake.”
“Well, how far have you gotten?”
“Siddharth, what I do with my boyfriend is none of your business.”
“Boyfriend? You have a boyfriend?”
“It’s no big deal. He’s just a friend of my brother’s.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying. He’s from East Haven.”
“Sharon, I can tell when people are lying.”
“Don’t believe me. What do I care?”
2. Some Sort of Zionist
Whenever Arjun called to check on Siddharth during the first days of September, he refused to say hello to Mohan Lal. Arjun said he didn’t have time to rehash a bunch of bullshit with a closed-minded bigot. The situation frustrated Siddharth, especially because his mother would have wanted him to fix it. He pleaded with Arjun to make up with their father, and Arjun eventually relented.
By the first week of October, Arjun and Mohan Lal were talking once a week. This truce pleased Siddharth, at least at first. But soon they were speaking several times a week, causing him to feel pangs of jealousy. He began listening in on their calls, to find out if they were exchanging declarations of love or secrets about his progress at school. He needed to know if Mohan Lal was telling Arjun about a covert plan to marry Ms. Farber.
Each time he eavesdropped, he was relieved — and also annoyed — to discover that they were just going on about India. Mohan Lal called Gandhi a “traitorous homo,” a stooge who had “let the British chop India in two,” whereas Arjun said that “the Mahatma altered the course of modern politics.” Arjun said, “Don’t you get it? If you fight force with force, then the violence never ends.” When he called the Indian Congress Party a “truly progressive political party,” Mohan Lal said, “Bullshit. It’s a criminal organization. How can a party be progressive when it murders innocent Sikhs?”
“So it’s okay to kill Muslims?”
“Did I say that?” asked Mohan Lal.
“It’s what you’re implying, Dad. You’re starting to sound like some sort of Zionist.”
“What’s wrong with that? Son, the Israelis have done quite well for themselves. Thanks to the Jews, an impoverished desert is now a blooming civilization.”
“I’d talk to a couple of Palestinians about that. I’d look up the word oppression in the dictionary.”
Many of their debates led back to Israel, and Siddharth couldn’t fathom why his brother had such a problem with that country. Andy Wurtzel had gone there the previous summer, and he got to drink in bars and go spelunking. Andy had also reported that Israeli girls gave good blow jobs. When Siddharth tried to ask his father about Israel, Mohan Lal was dismissive. He said, “For now, just focus on your studies. One leftist son is enough.”
Mohan Lal was in his own world as summer faded into fall. He was always working on his new India book, or reading some paperback or magazine from India. He had taken to pacing around the house with an old tape recorder, sometimes listening to cassettes of motivational speakers provided to him by Ms. Farber, but usually studying recorded political speeches in Hindi. Barry Uncle acquired these for him on his frequent business trips to Delhi.
Mohan Lal kept listening to one particular politician over and over again, a woman who sounded rather manly. Ms. Farber said the woman sounded so passionate, and Mohan Lal explained that her life was truly inspiring. She had been born a pauper, but thanks to the BJP, she had managed to make a success of herself in one of the most backward places on earth. Siddharth hated these tapes, which he found scratchy and whiney.
Mohan Lal sometimes went to meetings with Barry Uncle and other BJP supporters, and one time, Barry Uncle said it would be a good idea if Siddharth came along. Siddharth protested at first but gave in upon finding out that the meeting was being held in a Fairfield home whose owner possessed an actual Lamborghini. When they finally made it to the place, it turned out the Lamborghini was in the shop, and Siddharth had to spend two hours sitting around while some hairy-eared Indians drank cans of Coors Light and droned on in Hindi about politics. They talked about the same things over and over — Ayodhya and Advani, and Hindus being proud to call themselves Hindus. Once the political discussions were over, they all sang a song in Hindi — or maybe it was a prayer. Siddharth wasn’t sure, but hearing the men sing together made him want to vomit.