She smiled. “Actually, I am paying a little more attention to what I put in my body. In fact, Arjun, I’d like to have a word about your diet.”
Siddharth hadn’t realized that she and Arjun were on a first-name basis. He hated the way she said his brother’s name, as if the j were French, like in Jacques.
Marc was suddenly lumbering down the hallway. He cut in front of Siddharth and gave Arjun a halfhearted hug and a handshake. “Nice beard,” said Marc. “I bet they’re just lining up to sit next to you at the airport.”
Marc was right. Arjun’s facial hair was longer, and thicker too. He looked like a real foreigner, like one of the bad guys from Die Hard.
Arjun finally stepped toward Siddharth and hugged him, but they were interrupted by their father, who appeared in the entryway wearing nothing but a pink towel.
“That was fast,” said Mohan Lal.
“You were right. The Tappan Zee was totally empty.”
Mohan Lal embraced Arjun, then patted him on the cheek. “Son, do me one favor.”
“What?” asked Arjun.
Mohan Lal smirked. “Cut your damn beard.”
“Dad, please,” said Siddharth.
Ms. Farber gripped Mohan Lal’s naked shoulder. “Go put some clothes on, dear.” She turned to Arjun. “Hon, you must be starving.”
* * *
Arjun brought gifts for everyone. He gave Siddharth a fitted Michigan baseball cap with Jalen Rose’s number stitched into the back, and handed a Michigan hockey T-shirt to Marc, who said, “Thanks, I guess,” but then immediately put it on. Arjun got Ms. Farber an expensive-looking set of candles and their father a Michigan pen that required special cartridges. Mohan Lal put on his reading glasses to examine it, then uttered a faint thank you.
“You don’t like it?” said Arjun.
“Your father loves it,” said Ms. Farber.
Arjun then presented Mohan Lal with a stack of essays he had written that semester. As Mohan Lal thumbed through them, Siddharth saw him genuinely smile for the first time in days. Siddharth peered over his father’s shoulder and read the strange titles of these papers—Elusive Truths in the Zen Koan, Woodrow Wilson: Liberator or Racist? Not surprisingly, Arjun had gotten As on all of them.
“Proud of you, son,” said Mohan Lal, grasping Arjun’s shoulder. “Next month, when my book is done, you will lend me your expertise.”
“Uh-huh, sure,” said Arjun.
As evening fell, Arjun told them about the treacherous drive on Interstate 80, and how the rural people of Tennessee were poor but inspiring. Ms. Farber and Mohan Lal were hanging on his every word. Siddharth thought about how they barely even listened to what he had to say anymore, but he was ready to drop that for today. It felt good to have Arjun home, and that’s all he wanted to think about.
Ms. Farber made paneer that night, using tofu instead of actual cheese. Mohan Lal and Arjun were complimentary, but Siddharth stayed quiet. Marc said she should stick to pancakes and leave the curry to the Indians. She quickly changed the subject, bringing up the Honda Civic Arjun had driven home from Michigan. “It’s very generous of your friend to lend out his car like that. It must be a thousand miles here and back.”
“Fourteen hundred, actually,” said Arjun. “But we don’t really look at things like that.”
“Like what?” Ms. Farber scrunched up her nose.
“With real friends, it’s not about quantifying things,” said Arjun. “It’s not about miles or money.”
Mohan Lal said that next year, Arjun wouldn’t have to borrow anybody else’s car. He could buy him his own vehicle.
“That’s a nice idea,” replied Arjun, “but it’s not exactly an ideal time for frivolous expenditures.”
Mohan Lal coughed midbite, then took a gulp of water.
Ms. Farber rubbed Mohan Lal’s back. “Arjun, this time next year, your father’s book’ll be out. It’ll be a whole new ball game.”
“If you say so,” said Arjun, giving her a tight-lipped smile.
Ms. Farber told the boys to clear the table and then brought out a lemon meringue pie that one of her clients had given her. She placed it in front of Mohan Lal, who served each person a slice, giving himself a particularly wide one. Siddharth struggled to eat his pie, but Marc quickly finished his and took seconds.
“My question is,” said Marc, “who’s gonna wanna read a book about India? If you haven’t noticed, Americans don’t really give a crap about much. They really only care about themselves.”
“Marc, I’ve had enough for today,” said Ms. Farber.
“Okay, lemme grab my muzzle.”
She pulled his pie away and placed it on the kitchen counter. “Arjun, if you had a car, you’d be able to get away from campus — do a little grocery shopping on weekends.”
“Honestly,” said Arjun, “I’d like to do without a car for as long as possible.”
Ms. Farber dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Oh, and why’s that?”
Arjun commenced a long speech about the pointlessness of automobiles, which had made Americans lazy and dependent on autocratic governments. “They created this,” he said, spreading his arms wide apart.
“This what?” asked Siddharth.
“This sprawl. It’s just. . disgusting. Americans are so isolated, so lonely. You ever wonder why?”
“Heavy,” said Ms. Farber. “Interesting.”
“But Mom,” said Marc, “I just said the same exact thing.”
Mohan Lal served himself more pie. “Son, what about your beloved workers? Didn’t Henry Ford give them jobs? Automobile factories have given the working class of this country some dignity.”
“Dignity?” countered Arjun. “Dad, Henry Ford was a racist.”
“Jesus,” said Mohan Lal. “What kind of pinkos are teaching you at the University of Michigan?”
Arjun cleared his throat. “I take it you won’t be applying for a job there. They’ll be devastated, I’m sure.”
* * *
After dinner, Siddharth was finally alone with his brother in the guest room, where Arjun carefully unpacked the contents of his worn backpack. He pulled out a wool sweater with little animals on it, then a hairbrush and several books. He placed these items in the dresser before picking up the photograph from Chandigarh that Siddharth had left for him.
“I heard they’re selling Nana-ji’s house,” said Arjun. “I wanna go back there this summer — see it one last time.”
“Great,” said Siddharth. “Have fun.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” He didn’t know where to begin.
“I can tell something’s up — so talk.”
Siddharth shrugged. “You know Dad’s book?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Come on, Arjun. Don’t be like that. I’ve got a serious question.”
“So ask your question.”
“Well, I wanna know if Dad’s book is gonna be a hit. You think it’ll make us rich?”
Arjun snorted. “You’re kidding, right? Siddharth, it takes years to write a real book, not a few months. Dad, he’s writing more of a pamphlet — a silly piece of propaganda.”
“Propaganda?” Siddharth’s throat was now scratchy.
“Yeah, fascist propaganda.”
“You mean like the Nazis?”
“Not the Nazis. More like Hindu fascism.”
“That’s not even a real thing, Arjun.”
Arjun sat on the bed and placed a hand on Siddharth’s shoulder. “Listen, as long as I’m alive — and I plan on being here for a while — you don’t have to worry about anything, especially not money. Dad’s gonna find another job. And he has some money to fall back on.”