Siddharth took hold of it, pulling and releasing the cord as Barry Uncle had done. The Connor brothers had a slingshot, though theirs was much sleeker, with a special fiberglass attachment for extra leverage. But this slingshot wasn’t bad. It was definitely better than a crappy snake-charmer’s flute, or some other shitty toy from India.
“Thanks a lot,” he said.
“Pleasure, boy. You and me can do a little hunting come spring. Your father — he was a great one for hunting.”
Ms. Farber walked in carrying a glass of her pink wine. “Mo used to hunt? How awful. Why is this the first time I’m hearing this?”
“I could write a whole book about him,” said Barry Uncle. “But I’m not the writer.”
Grinning, Mohan Lal seated himself on the love seat. He picked up a whiskey and raised it in the air. “Cheers, chief. Chalo, let’s watch your little video.”
Barry Uncle and Ms. Farber sat down, and the trio clinked glasses.
“Siddharth,” said Mohan Lal, waving his new tape in the air, “put this in and press play.”
Siddharth sighed but did as he was told. He was about to flee to the guest room when Barry Uncle said, “Stay, boy — this is important. You should know about your culture.”
Static shimmered on the screen, but soon the words Jain & Son Productions were streaming across a blue background. Siddharth let out a muffled laugh. These graphics looked cheap, the work of amateurs. Blowing a bubble, he realized that his gum had already lost its flavor. That was the thing with Ms. Farber’s sugar-free stuff — it tasted like crap and never lasted.
The camera focused on a gloomy, vacant prison cell. Suddenly, a little blue boy with a bow and arrow flashed on the screen. He kept on flashing on and off, as if he were a ghost. He then multiplied into four distinct boy-gods, which started rotating in a kaleidoscopic fashion.
A narrator started speaking in Hindi.
Ms. Farber leaned forward, squinting and grasping her chin. “What are they saying?”
“That is the god Ram,” said Barry Uncle. He explained that Ram used to have an important temple in a place called Ayodhya, but a Muslim king came and destroyed it. “And then — surprise, surprise — that bastard invader erected a bloody mosque.”
Ms. Farber was riveted. “Jeez, it’s always the same story, isn’t it?”
Siddharth sat down beside Barry Uncle, who squeezed his knee. Barry Uncle said that some years ago, Ram had appeared in the dream of a Hindu holy man. The god urged the Hindus to demolish the mosque and rebuild their forsaken temple. Soon, little statues of Ram mysteriously appeared in the mosque, and these were further proof of Ram’s wishes.
“Don’t worry,” said Mohan Lal, draping his arm around Ms. Farber, “he doesn’t actually believe this drivel.”
“Call it what you want,” said Barry Uncle. “All movements need myths to mobilize the masses.” He poked Siddharth in the thigh. “Boy, fast-forward a bit.”
He begrudgingly got up and pressed the forward button. It was 11:23, and he didn’t want to miss the festivities in Times Square.
“Stop, stop, stop,” said Barry Uncle. “This is it. This is what we need to see.”
When he pressed play, the screen was much shakier.
“This is my own handiwork,” said Barry Uncle. “Shot it all myself.”
“Forgive me, Barry,” said Ms. Farber, “but I wouldn’t quit your day job.”
Mohan Lal chuckled, then kissed her on the shoulder.
“Hah,” said Barry Uncle. “We’ll see who laughs last.”
Siddharth remained standing, spitting his gum into an old receipt that he found in his pocket. The screen now showed a dusty Indian square with some sort of religious structure in the background.
“That’s it,” said Barry Uncle. “That’s the mosque.”
“You mean the temple?” asked Ms. Farber.
“Bright bird,” said Barry Uncle, snapping his fingers.
Thousands of men were gathered in front of the mosque. A few of them were cops with perfect mustaches, and some were grubby holy men with painted foreheads. But most were ordinary Indians — not the kind who spoke English, like Siddharth’s relatives, but the ones who rode around on mopeds with their entire families, the ones who worked as cooks and drivers. These men were wielding sticks and shouting slogans.
As Siddharth rolled his gum into a perfect ball, the men on the screen were getting angrier. A few of them jumped over a fence and bolted toward the mosque. They started hurling things at it, mainly stones, but also bricks and bottles.
The camera zoomed in on the huge dome that capped the building. It reminded Siddharth of the Colt factory near Hartford — and of that nice park with the parrots near his uncle’s Delhi home. He picked up his new slingshot, grazing its cold metal prongs against his warm cheeks.
“Boss, I hope you’re paying attention,” said Barry Uncle. “Isn’t that something?”
“Amazing,” said Mohan Lal. “I never thought I would live to see it. The Hindus have finally grown a spine.”
Several men standing atop the dome began battering it with pipes. Others kept pelting it with bricks from afar. The thing began to crumble. This video was the first decent one Siddharth had seen about India. Something actually happened in it. He placed his pellet of gum into the slingshot’s leather holster, then aimed at the screen. He knew his father would get upset, but he needed to test out his weapon.
6. I-95 to the BJP Hospital
The weather had been strange lately. On Siddharth’s thirteenth birthday, it had hit fifty-three degrees. Then, during the first week of January, a record-breaking nor’easter pummeled the East Coast with two feet of snow. Now, as he dozed in the family room, freezing rain clicked and crackled against the skylight.
Marc walked through the front door and started unlacing his tan work boots, a recent gift from his father.
“Hey,” said Siddharth, “I thought you were staying at your dad’s.”
“Things change, young Sidney. Get used to it.” Marc grabbed the cordless phone and headed toward the bedroom.
Ms. Farber entered the house carrying the small black suitcase she used to transport personal items between her home and the Aroras’. She patted him on the head on her way to the love seat. “Honey,” she said, “what did Dad say about straightening up the coffee table?” She organized the chaotic swamp of bills and catalogs into three tidy towers, then proceeded to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she called for Siddharth.
“What is it?” he yelled back, shaking his head.
“Could you turn on the outside lights?”
He groaned, then got up and walked to his bedroom.
Marc was on the phone, examining one of Siddharth’s old model cars, a die-cast Mercedes SSK that Siddharth and his mother had built together. “Hang on, Andy,” said Marc. He turned to Siddharth and squinted. “What?”
“You wanna do something?”
“I am doing something,” said Marc.
Siddharth returned to the family room and pressed his forehead into the cold glass of the sliding doors, wishing he could go back in time to those afternoons on Foster Pond. He eyed a broken hedge trimmer, the porch’s musty cane furniture that had been there since he was born. He couldn’t see into the backyard but heard the maple’s branches scratching against the house. The wind chimes Ms. Farber had gotten Mohan Lal batted against each other, producing notes that were hollow and spooky.
A loud noise jolted him out of his trance. It had come from the front of the house and sounded like an explosion. He rushed to the living room and looked out the window.