“The truth is,” said Mohan Lal one night, “most people lack the capacity for introspection. For most people, genuine change is an impossibility.”
“Hell yeah,” said Marc. “Once a loser, always a loser.”
“That’s awful,” said Ms. Farber. “I actually don’t think there’s a grain of truth to what you’re saying. I mean, if she can get to the bottom of that trauma — if she can articulate it — then she can definitely stop being so. . so. .”
“So retarted?” said Marc.
“So self-destructive,” said Ms. Farber.
“Well, I think people can change,” said Siddharth. “Look at Arjun.”
“How interesting, honey,” said Ms. Farber. “And just how did your brother change?”
“Just look at the way he dresses. First it was heavy metal T-shirts, and then everything had to be preppie. Now all his clothes are torn up. He’ll only wear a shirt if it’s made of—”
“Let me tell you about the problem with the West,” Mohan Lal cut in. “The Western mind always wants to blame everything on the past — the past and the parents.”
Siddharth shot his father a look, partially because Mohan Lal had interrupted him, but mainly because he didn’t want him to go off on some ridiculous tangent. If Mohan Lal got political, everything could go to shit.
Ms. Farber placed her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Siddharth closed his eyes and swallowed.
Mohan Lal began to speak again, but Ms. Farber started shaking her head back and forth, her hands still cupping her ears. “I’m not listening. . I’m not listening.” She kept shaking her head, but soon let out a muffled laugh.
Mohan Lal started chuckling, which made her laugh even louder. Siddharth felt relieved and started laughing too.
Marc said, “What freaking cornballs.” But Siddharth was pleased to see that he was also smiling.
* * *
Marc was sleeping over at his father’s on a Thursday in early March, so Siddharth had to spend a few hours alone with Ms. Farber. He tried to concentrate on the television, but she insisted on making small talk. She asked him if things were getting any better with Mr. Latella. He lied and said everything was going great at school. She then told him about her charity work at the Jewish Community Center. She was running a clothing drive for struggling settlers in a place called the West Bank. All this talk bored Siddharth, and he was relieved when his father showed up early.
But Mohan Lal had dark pouches under his eyes. His tie was already off, and the two top buttons of his shirt were open, exposing the top of his worn, ribbed banyan. Siddharth asked him what was wrong, then fastened one of his father’s buttons.
“Get your things,” said Mohan Lal. “We have troubled Rachel enough for today.”
“No way,” said Ms. Farber. “First, you’re gonna have some dinner.”
She was about to place three slices of white clam pizza in the microwave, but Siddharth grabbed the plate and put the pizza in the toaster oven. His father hated microwaved pizza.
Ms. Farber asked if Mohan Lal wanted a glass of wine, and he said he wouldn’t mind a Scotch.
“Bourbon?” said Ms. Farber. “That’s what you-know-who used to drink.”
“Fine, a bourbon with ice and water.”
Mohan Lal devoured an entire slice in just two bites. He took a large gulp of bourbon and immediately started in on his second slice, but then started coughing until his cheeks turned red.
“Dad!” said Siddharth. He wished his father wouldn’t eat like an animal in front of Marc’s mom.
Ms. Farber placed her hand on Mohan Lal’s back and gave it a rub. Once his breathing went back to normal, she said, “Okay, time to spill it, mister.”
“Beg your pardon?” said Mohan Lal.
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell us what’s up.”
Mohan Lal cleared his throat. “It’s nothing. I just had a very unsatisfying meeting.”
“What?” Siddharth sat down next to his father. “But you said there was nothing to worry about.”
“Well, I was wrong. The dean said the university would be making a decision about my position next year. I told him, Fine, no problem, all my paperwork’s in order.” Mohan Lal paused to crunch an ice cube. “The bastard, he tells me my paperwork isn’t the problem — it’s my track record.”
“What does that even mean?” asked Ms. Farber.
“Your students love you,” said Siddharth.
Mohan Lal sighed. “He was referring to my publications.”
“He’s a fool,” said Siddharth. “You did, like, two articles last year.”
“And I edited that idiotic journal,” said Mohan Lal. “But that’s not enough these days. Nobody gives a damn about education. The dean said he wants a world-class program, and in a world-class program, everyone must have a book.”
“Loser,” said Siddharth. He watched Ms. Farber pour Mohan Lal more bourbon, fighting the urge to tell her to stop. She’s a psychologist, he reasoned. She knows what she’s doing.
Ms. Farber said, “Mohan, I fail to see the problem. You’re working on a book. I mean, you even have a contract.”
A memory flashed in Siddharth’s mind of the day Mohan Lal had actually signed his contract with Walton Publishers. They had gone out to an Italian restaurant in West Haven, one next to a costume store that no longer existed. Arjun raised his glass and said, “To new beginnings.” Mohan Lal had replied, “Son, you don’t get new beginnings at my age. Only endings.” Recalling that evening, Siddharth felt grateful for all the new things he had — karate and Marc. Even Ms. Farber.
Mohan Lal began shaking his head. He explained that Walton wanted a complete draft by September. Between teaching and everything else, there wouldn’t be enough time to turn in anything worthwhile.
Ms. Farber dabbed his chin with a paper towel. “That’s plenty of time,” she said. “Especially if you have some help.”
“Rachel, what can you do? Teach my classes?”
She placed both of her hands on his wrist. “Of course not. But I can do other things. I can help with Siddharth.”
Siddharth cleared his throat. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I can take care of myself.”
The adults didn’t respond. They had goofy smiles on their faces and were having some sort of staring contest.
Siddharth cleared his throat more loudly. “Let’s go, Dad. It’s time to go home.”
Mohan Lal stood up and brushed the crumbs from his blazer.
2. Conspicuous Consumption
On a foggy Saturday morning, Siddharth was sitting on the shabby white armchair in front of the television, eating cereal alone off the three-legged Indian end table. When his father woke up, Siddharth asked him if they could watch something together, or go somewhere — just the two of them. Mohan Lal told him he had to work. He grabbed a paperback from the bookshelf behind the portable television stand and headed to the kitchen. Siddharth got up and followed him. “But I thought you needed a break,” he said. “I thought you couldn’t write another word.”
“This is other work,” said Mohan Lal.
Siddharth snatched the book out of his father’s hands. It was called Taj Mahaclass="underline" The True Tale of a Ruined Temple, and published by some company called Satya. He shook his head. His father used to go on about the Taj Mahal all the time. He called it an “emblem of decadence,” an “ostentatious graveyard.” Siddharth flipped through the pages of the slim paperback. “Looks fun. . Are you kidding me?”