On the car ride home, he said, “Dad, this BJP crap is so stupid.”
“Son, this stupid crap just might change the world.”
“I thought Hindus were weak, Dad. I thought Hindus didn’t have backbones.”
“Precisely, son. That’s what I’m trying to change. I am being the change that I want to see.” Upon uttering this sentence, Mohan Lal chuckled to himself.
Siddharth didn’t get what was so funny. All he knew was that his father was a hypocrite.
* * *
When Mohan Lal wasn’t working on his book, he was preoccupied with finishing up his application for tenure at Elm City College. Everything about the application put him in a bad mood, like using a typewriter to fill out countless lengthy forms. The most difficult part of the tenure process was getting original copies of his Indian degrees, which resulted in several calls to Delhi University, and even a phone consultation with an Indian lawyer. After these phone conversations, Mohan Lal snapped at Siddharth about cleaning up his room or doing his homework, about turning down the television so that he could focus on his work. Eventually, Barry Uncle stepped in, placing a call to a politician friend in India. A few days later, Mohan Lal’s degrees arrived via DHL. Siddharth was impressed with Barry Uncle. Yet he was anything but pleased with his father.
Even though Mohan Lal was stressed all the time, staying up late and sleeping in, he still managed to be such a kiss-ass with Ms. Farber. Whenever she cooked something, even if it was horrible — like her salmon cakes — Mohan Lal told her that dinner was delicious before locking himself in his office. Mohan Lal, who hated “brownnosers,” was himself being a brownnoser, and Siddharth knew why: his father was being a brownnoser because he was addicted to Ms. Farber’s pussy.
Siddharth wanted to remind his father that he was more important than a piece of pussy. He tried doing small things to demonstrate that he was the most valuable person in Mohan Lal’s life. But when he offered to type up his dad’s handwritten pages, Ms. Farber said she could type much faster. When he checked Mohan Lal’s manuscript for spelling mistakes, Ms. Farber rechecked the pages afterward, even though he had done a fine job on his own.
Ms. Farber went way too far with her editing. She not only made comments about Mohan Lal’s writing style and vocabulary, she also told him to rearrange sentences about Stafford Cripps and Lord Mountbatten. Siddharth thought this was ridiculous, since she hadn’t even been to India before, but when she made these suggestions, Mohan Lal beamed. He told her that she was a genius. He told her that she should leave psychotherapy and go into publishing. All this gushing nauseated Siddharth.
He started keeping a written tally of the annoying things that she did in one of his old sketchpads that he rarely used for actual drawing anymore. Thanks to Ms. Farber, anyone who entered the house had to remove their shoes in the entranceway. The sandwiches she prepared for his lunch were served on dark-brown bread that tasted like cardboard, and she stuffed them with disgusting things like sprouts and hummus — pussy-ass poser food, according to Marc.
An especially annoying thing about Ms. Farber was the way she took pleasure in meddling in his personal life. Once, when Siddharth had gotten off the phone with Sharon, Ms. Farber said something about Sharon not being the right type of friend. Siddharth said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Things are pretty complicated for Sharon,” replied Ms. Farber. “I’m not at liberty to divulge the details — just trust me on this. Sharon has a difficult situation.”
“Maybe I’m the one with the problem. Sharon should watch out for me. My home life is pretty damn complicated.” He looked to his father for a reaction, but Mohan Lal was lost in a book, unaware that he was even speaking.
But the single most irritating thing about Ms. Farber was that she made both he and Marc do chores. One week, Siddharth had to do the vacuuming, while Marc had to place the recycling bin at the end of the driveway, and then they switched jobs on the following week. They also had to help with the dishes. On a Wednesday evening, when the four of them were finishing one of Mohan Lal’s Indian meals, Ms. Farber said it was Marc’s turn to help clean up. Marc, who was in the middle of football season, complained that he was tired.
“Don’t worry,” said Mohan Lal, patting him on the shoulder. “Marc, go and rest.”
“Oh no,” said Ms. Farber. “Mo, he’s gotta learn. If he’s gonna reap the benefits of this household, then he’s gotta give something back.”
Marc muttered something under his breath.
“I didn’t hear that, honey,” said Ms. Farber. “If you have something to say, speak up.”
Marc said, “Rachel, can you give a man some peace?”
“Marc, my parents would have whacked me if I spoke that way.”
“So whack me then,” said Marc. “I know you want to.” He was smiling, but his eyes looked deranged. “And for your information, I don’t give a shit about this household.” As he spoke this final word, he flexed his fingers to mime quotation marks. “If it was up to me, I’d be back in my own freaking household.”
She took a long sip of water and then grasped the top of her head. “Jesus, why doesn’t anyone want me to be happy? Nobody has ever wanted me to be happy.”
“Mom, there are these things called psychologists,” said Marc. “Maybe you should go and see one.”
A part of Siddharth enjoyed watching his friend stand up to his mother, but he hated hearing him talk about their life together like that. He wanted Marc to be his second brother. Brothers fought, but at the end of the day, they were family. They were there when you needed them. In some moments, it was painfully obvious that Marc didn’t feel the same way. He had been distant and cold ever since the August incident with Dinetta. After that night, he’d been grounded for a second time. But this grounding was brief. Now he was free again, and out all the time. When he was home, he watched TV in silence or lay on Arjun’s bed listening to his new Discman, a recent gift from his father. He only seemed to get animated when speaking on the phone, or getting ready for a football game.
Siddharth blamed himself. He should have kicked that rum bottle under the bed. He tried doing things to get Marc to like him again, such as taking an interest in baseball, but Marc would only talk sports with Andy or his father. Siddharth even pilfered some expensive whiskey from Mohan Lal’s dining room stash. The boys drank it down together, but the alcohol didn’t bring them any closer.
* * *
Fights between Marc and Ms. Farber became more frequent, and they gave rise to slightly revised living arrangements. Marc had been spending one night a week at his father’s Hamden condo, but he soon began spending two. And he and Ms. Farber started staying at their own home at least two nights a week, usually without the Aroras. These changes meant even less time with Marc, and Siddharth began to wonder if Marc hated him.
But the new routines had an upside. With Ms. Farber and Marc spending more time at their own house, he had his father all to himself some days. When Ms. Farber wasn’t around, he didn’t have to eat lentils or tofu steaks. He got to order pizzas with extra cheese and pepperoni, and they ate their meals in front of the television for the first time in months. When Ms. Farber wasn’t there, Mohan Lal sometimes asked him to read passages from his manuscript out loud, claiming that hearing the rhythm of the words made his sentences stronger. Even though Siddharth was so sick of Gandhi and all that shit, he showered praise upon his father’s writing. He said that his book would make them rich, but Mohan Lal told him that real intellectuals weren’t in it for the money.