The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: A Novel

  By the path of good lead us to final bliss, O fire divine, thou god who knowest all ways.

  ISA UPANISHAD

  By late August it was all set up. The Marigold had closed to passing trade and a new sign had been erected: THE BEST EXOTIC MARIGOLD HOTEL: RESIDENTS ONLY. Rates had been fixed—advantageously low compared to their British equivalent. With Sonny to crack the whip, a lethargic workforce had been galvanized into activity: the rooms were ready, the lobby had been repainted and a wheelchair ramp installed. Visa arrangements had been sorted out and cut-price flights had been negotiated through Blenheim Travel, where Pauline worked. As the brochure pointed out, India was a country of contrasts. Though baffling and frustrating, bogged down by bureaucracy and corruption, it was also a place where, if you spoke in the right ear, things magically happened. Sonny saw to that. “You soon get used to it, dear lady,” he told Pauline over the telephone. “It’s not called greasing palms. It’s called I wanna hold your hand.”

  And, as yet, the two cousins hadn’t fallen out. Until this venture they had hardly known each other. Separated since childhood, the fastidious doctor and the brash entrepreneur had had little in common until now. There had been some snippiness over the company name: in Sonny’s opinion, Ravison gave his cousin too much weight—who, after all, was doing most of the donkey work? But Sonnyrav sounded clumsy and he had to admit that his real name, Sunil, didn’t fit into any combination. This apart, they were united by their shared zeal.

  At home in Dulwich, however, tensions were rising. Ravi had become a driven man. He shut himself away in his study—a room from which Norman was now barred—and spent the evenings hunched over his computer. He had grown even thinner, if that were possible, and there was a manic look in his eye. Unfamiliar words flew out of his mouth—“prioritize,” “the bottom line.” Pauline, however, suspected that the bottom line wasn’t his newly discovered business flair, but hatred of her father.

  Of course it was difficult, having the old man in the house. Indeed, after a long summer matters were at breaking point. Of course Pauline herself had complex feelings about her father. But she was allowed to.

  “Why are you so nice to your patients,” she asked Ravi, “and foul to him?”

  “They’re work.”

  “Pretend he’s a patient then.”

  “He’s not,” said Ravi. “He’s a disgusting, selfish old brute.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “You do.”

  “I’m his daughter.” Pauline glared at him. “It’s easy for you to be a good son. Your parents live in India.”

  “Exactly. That’s why your father should go there.”

  Norman refused to go.

  “You’re trying to get rid of me,” he bleated. “Been traveling all my life. Doesn’t a fellow deserve some rest?” His eyes grew moist. “I’m seventy-six, dear boy. My one wish is to end my days near to my only child.”

  “But she’s at work all day,” said Ravi. “Think of the sunshine and the company.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be around long,” said Norman. “Then I needn’t trouble you anymore.”

  Nonsense, thought Ravi, you’ll outlive both of us. At this rate, you will. Ravi felt breathless. Probably early-onset emphysema from the passive smoking.

  “If India’s so bloody marvelous,” said Norman, “why did you leave?”

  “Because the medical facilities are better here.”

  “Ah!” Norman snorted with laughter. “Bit of an own goal there!”

  “I mean were,” said Ravi. “It’s improved out of all recognition.”

  Pauline looked at her husband. Her father brought out the worst in Ravi; he became prissier, more self-righteous. She had a suspicion that Ravi found her less appealing nowadays. Sometimes he gazed at her oddly, inspecting her face, his eyes lingering on her chin.

  Suddenly she realized: My marriage is at stake. She saw Ravi walking up to another front door, sinking into a strange armchair. She saw it with perfect clarity. Within a matter of months he would find another woman; he was needier than he looked. She laid the brochure on her father’s knee.

  “Have another look at it, Dad. I’ll fly out with you and settle you in.” She smiled at him. “You’ll be our pioneer.”

  “No fear,” said Norman. “You mean I’ll be all on my own.”

  “ ’Course you won’t. We’ve only just started advertising. We’ve had a lot of phone calls already.” Two, in fact, but it was a start. “And afterwards I’ll come and visit you lots. Look.” She pointed. “We’ve got this relatives’ package. They can combine it with a week at the seaside; Bangalore’s only two hundred kilometers from Kerala. Goa’s not far. Toby and Eunice spend every winter in Goa—remember them? Your old neighbors?”

  “ ’Course I do. I’m not completely gaga, you know.”

  “And no worries about the language,” said Ravi. “Everybody speaks English there—after all, you used to rule the place. You’ll find there’s still a lot of respect for the British—good old-fashioned courtesy.”

  Norman’s eyes narrowed. “Stop buttering me up. Send me somewhere in England and I’ll go quietly—”

  “None of them will take you—”

  “But I’m not going to blasted India. It’ll kill me. If this operation doesn’t kill me first.”

  On Monday, Norman was due to be admitted to St. Jude’s for his prostate op. Ravi could no longer bear the smell in the bathroom, nor its urine-freckled carpet. He had made some phone calls and moved his father-in-law up the waiting list. Besides, it would get the man out of the house for a couple of days.

  Ravi drove him there on Monday morning. Sitting beside him, Norman was uncharacteristically silent. For a moment, Ravi was almost sorry for the old bastard.

  “It’s purely routine,” he said. “Nothing to be scared of.”

  “Now we’re alone …” Norman lowered his voice. “Man to man …”

  “Everything will be fine in that department.”

  “The old todger …” Norman took a breath. “Between you and me, it’s not what it was. Another nail in the coffin and all that.”

  “Nothing’ll change, except you’ll ejaculate inwards rather than outwards.”

  There was a stunned silence. Ravi felt gratified by the effect of his words. The traffic shunted forward.

  “Come again?” asked Norman.

  “The semen travels back into the vascular sac. But you’ll be able to get an erection, the same as usual.” Ravi said this with feeling, having just received his phone bill—proof that the old tosser had still been availing himself of his computer.

  It was this conversation that gave Ravi an idea.

  At lunch break he took the lift up to the Genito-Urinary Unit. He had a burning desire for Norman to sign up for The Marigold—not just for the obvious reason but as an augury for the future. If Norman went, others would follow. Beneath his rational exterior, Ravi had a deep and regressive streak of superstition. Back in India, in another life, he might have bargained with the gods—a trip to the temple on an auspicious day, a gift of sweetmeats.

  Here he resorted to human intervention. He went into the office and sought out his consultant friend, Amir Hussain.

  Norman had nothing against Indians per se. His daughter was married to one, for God’s sake, though in that case his initial horror had been replaced by relief when he discovered that Ravi was more British than the British.

  No, he was a broad-minded fellow. On his travels he had bumped into a lot of them. In Africa they ran the place—shops, businesses—working hard, working their way up. The same thing was true of England, of course: from Paki corner shops to the big companies, they were all over the place like a rash. Nobody could accuse him of bigotry.

  Still, his heart sank when the consultant walked into the ward. Nothing personal, of course. It was just that in times of crisis, especially of such an intimate nature, it was reassuring to see a white face.

  The chap sat down on his
bed. He was accompanied by a comely nurse, probably Filipino.

  “Any questions, Mr. Purse?” asked the consultant. His name tag said Amir Hussain.

  “Nobody told me about the ejaculation business. Bit confusing, eh?” Norman grinned at the nurse. “Won’t know if I’m coming or going.”

  “Ha! Glad to see you’ve got a sense of humor.” The consultant sent the nurse away and lowered his voice. “In Bangalore, where I come from, they call this op the Great Rejuvenator.”

  “Bangalore, you said?”

  He nodded. “In fact, many men request the operation before they actually need it. The effect on women is very powerful”—Dr. Hussain winked—“know what I mean? Men, they have to fight them off—my God they’re popular, bees round a honeypot. Removing the risk of pregnancy is a most liberating experience for a woman, and the women in Bangalore are the most voluptuous in India.”

  “That true?”

  “And famously inventive. In India, you know, sex is the very basis of our culture. I’m sure you’ve heard of our Kama Sutra.”

  Norman nodded enthusiastically.

  “The lingam is worshipped, of course—especially in South India, and especially in the area around Bangalore. In fact, we have some of the most erotic carvings in the world.” Dr. Hussain leaned forward. “My dear fellow, they’d bring your eyes out on stalks.”

  Norman stared at him. The chap was a consultant; he must know what he was talking about.

  “Trust me. If you were ever lucky enough to go there, I’d guarantee you wouldn’t want to come home.” The fellow leaned even closer; Norman could smell peppermint on his breath. Dr. Hussain winked at him and whispered: “So much pussy you’ll be coughing up fur balls.”

  The day after the operation, Ravi took the lift up to the G-U unit. Norman, in his pajamas, sat in the TV room. Next to him sat an elderly Jamaican patient. They were watching Gilda. Beside them their catheter sacs, filled with urine, sat on the floor like handbags.

  Norman pointed to Rita Hayworth. “What a woman. Don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

  The Jamaican man nodded. “What a woman,” he said.

  “How are you feeling today?” asked Ravi.

  “Piece of piss.” Norman chuckled. “Get it? Piss? Feel like a new man.” He nodded at his neighbor. “Just telling my friend here about that home you’re setting up.”

  The other man nodded. Ravi felt a sudden tenderness toward them, sitting side by side like aunties, their handbags on the floor. For he knew, when Norman spoke again, that his plan had worked.

  “Can I have another dekko at that brochure, old chap?”

  Speak or act with an impure mind

  And trouble will follow you

  As the wheel follows the ox that draws the cart …

  Speak or act with a pure mind

  And happiness will follow you

  As your shadow, unshakable.

  SAYINGS OF THE BUDDHA

  Evelyn Greenslade was a dear, one of the favorites at Leaside. She was a little vague, of course, and inclined to live in the past, but that was hardly unusual. The past was palpable to the Leaside residents—memories of their youth so close they could feel the breath on their faces. Those far-off years remained inviolate; golden afternoons revisited as the elderly inhabitants sat in the lounge or watched TV in their rooms, their hands clasped around a cooling cup of tea. Evelyn drifted there, rudderless—why should she resist? The undertow pulled her back. They waited, her brothers and her school friends; they waited like fairground figures, needing her only to throw the switch and set them in motion. Moments of her childhood returned to her, crystal clear as if they had happened yesterday.

  Evelyn had always been a docile, dreamy woman, no trouble to anyone. That was why the staff liked her. That was why she had come to live at Leaside, agreeing to her children’s suggestion that she could no longer cope on her own. “I don’t want to be a burden,” she said.

  Her son and daughter had their own lives to lead. Besides, they were far away. Christopher was installed with his wife in New York; he had an incomprehensible job and a young family. On his last visit he had bought Evelyn a computer so they could exchange emails, but there had only been half an hour to learn how to use it. She had pretended to understand—she knew how fussed he became—but for the past six months it had sat there, reproaching her for her ineptitude. At first it sat on her dressing table, taking up valuable space, but then she demoted it to the floor.

  It was her son’s idea that she should sell the house. Christopher was right, of course. Since Hugh’s death she simply couldn’t manage; everything seemed to break down at the same time, all the things her husband had normally fixed. How feeble she had become! It seemed to have happened overnight, that the stairs became too steep and bottle tops too stiff; suddenly, for no reason, she would burst into tears. And the countryside felt threatening now she was alone in it. She would wake at night, her heart pounding. Had she bolted the door? Sometimes she woke still groggy. For a moment everything was all right; Hugh was down in the kitchen, checking the corks on his disgusting homemade wine. A strange time to check, but still … And then she would realize.

  When Christopher told her how much the house was worth, Evelyn was staggered. In her part of Sussex, apparently, property prices had soared. To think what she and Hugh had paid for it! This, combined with breaking her hip, made the whole thing inevitable. She put herself in her son’s hands. It was such a relief, to let a man take care of things again, and Christopher was a lot more efficient with money than his father. He suggested a place where she would be looked after but still retain, as he put it, a measure of independence—her own furniture around her, maybe a section of garden. Proceeds from the house sale should pay for this, he said, adding ominously, “Until, as may be, more comprehensive care might be needed.”

  Even after this transaction a substantial amount of money remained. This, Evelyn insisted on giving to her children. They had, of course, protested, but she reasoned that they had better enjoy it when they really needed it. Finally, they agreed. After all, better to use it now before the government clobbered them. Death duties were iniquitous. What right had the Treasury to seize 40 percent from those prudent enough to save and prosper? Christopher could get quite emotional on this subject. Hadn’t it already been taxed? What message did this double whammy give the honest citizen?

  So it was settled. “Shrouds have no pockets,” said Evelyn.

  “Oh Mum, don’t be so morbid!” replied Theresa. Gratitude made her daughter snappy; Theresa had always been a turbulent woman.

  Theresa lived up north, in Durham. Nowadays she seemed to be some sort of counselor, though Evelyn couldn’t quite imagine what sort of people would need her daughter’s help. Theresa came down to visit, of course, usually on her way to some holistic weekend. Evelyn found these events curiously exhausting. Theresa did take things to heart. She cross-questioned the staff on her mother’s behalf; when Evelyn made a mild complaint about the food, Theresa barged into the kitchen and demanded to see the cook.

  Worse still were their tête-à-têtes. Theresa was processing the past, she said; she was working on her feelings of rejection. Had Evelyn felt ambivalent about her husband’s hostility toward his daughter, when she was little? Did she, as both wife and mother, find her loyalties split? This sort of talk confused Evelyn. The past she remembered bore almost no resemblance to Theresa’s version; the events might be the same, but it was like seeing a foreign film—Serbo-Croat or something—that was vaguely based on them but all in black-and-white and somehow depressing. Then off Theresa would go to some Group Hug in Arundel. Why, thought Evelyn, does she hug strangers, and never me?

  Evelyn missed being touched. She missed Hugh’s arms around her. Without the casual contact of skin upon skin she felt brittle and unwanted; she felt like an old schoolbook, filled with irrelevant lessons, that somebody had shoved into a cupboard. The only hands upon her belonged to professionals—the visiting nurse takin
g her blood pressure or anointing the bruises that bloomed, after the slightest knock, on her papery skin. She had never considered herself a sensual woman, it wasn’t a word in her vocabulary, and she hadn’t expected this hunger. Nor the need to be needed. Nor the loneliness, in a building full of people. She was only seventy-three but, gradually, those familiar to her were deserting her by dying—her two brothers, several of her friends. People who understood what she meant. Now she had to start all over again with strangers—fellow residents whose wrinkled faces reflected her own mortality—she had to explain things to them. If, that is, they could be bothered to listen. Most of them didn’t, of course; old age had deepened their self-absorption. Even after a year it felt like being at a new boarding school, with no possibility of going home.

  Evelyn hadn’t predicted this. She had expected the aches and pains, the failing vision, the reliance on others. She knew she sometimes became confused. But she hadn’t predicted the loneliness. She remembered Hugh, stuck with tubes, turning to her and smiling. “Old age is not for sissies,” he said. And then he had gone, and left her to it.

  That was why she loved Beverley. Once a week Beverley visited Leaside to do yoga and manicures. She was a chatty, affectionate girl and had taken a shine to Evelyn. She kissed her and called her darling; she brought in a blast of fresh air. Beverley’s life was go-go-go; she whizzed around Sussex in her little car, running classes at a dizzying variety of venues: Pilates at the Chichester Meridian Hotel (Mondays), aerobics-’n’-line-dancing at the Summerleaze Health Club (Tuesdays), St. Tropez tanning at the Copthorne (Wednesday evenings) and Table Decorations for Special Occasions once a month at the Billingshurst community center. Then there was the acupuncture, which she was learning from a videotape, and her home hairdressing business. Among all this she found time for a packed and disastrous love life. It was no wonder that the arrival of Beverley’s yellow Honda, radio blaring, lifted Evelyn’s spirits.