The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: A Novel

  Her words detached themselves from her and moved away. They were like a stream, babbling over stones … little hisses when she said an s. Muriel watched herself subsiding, like an empty hot-water bottle. And then she was swallowed up in the darkness.

  Remove the Curtain of your Heart and see the Beloved sitting inside yourself. Close your Ears to the Outside and hear the Cosmic Sound going on within you.

  MIRA, POET-SAINT OF RAJASTAN

  “When they shake their heads, Evelyn, they don’t mean no, they mean yes.”

  “Well, not quite,” said her husband. “They mean yes if that’s what you want it to be.”

  “Don’t complicate things, Douggy. You’re confusing her.” Jean turned back to Evelyn, leaning across the aisle. “You see it of course in shops and things in England, but in India it’s sort of symptomatic of the whole subcontinent, of their philosophy—of their very Indianness.” She sank back in her seat to let a passenger pass. Dinner was finished and people were making their way to the toilets. They stood in a queue, exposed in their need. Jean Ainslie leaned over again. “It’s an acceptance of karma.”

  “Plus a strong sense of hospitality,” said Douglas. “Pleasing the visitor to their country—”

  “You can’t ask a straight question, like how long is something going to take,” said Jean. “It’ll take as long as you want it to take—”

  “And if you get rattled it only makes it worse,” Douglas shouted over his wife’s head. He was sitting in the seat next to hers. “You just have to go with the flow—”

  “We’ve learnt that, haven’t we, darling?”

  “Learnt it on our first trip—”

  “Trekking in the Himalayas—a wonderful experience, wasn’t it, Douggy?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Extraordinary.”

  The retirement company had put Evelyn together with the Ainslies; it was their policy, apparently, to arrange for people to travel on the same flight if it was at all possible. Evelyn felt relieved to have made friends so soon, and with such a pleasant couple. The Ainslies were obviously seasoned travelers; they seemed to have been everywhere. What an indomitable pair! Even in their sixties they had still been driving around Europe in their camper van. In comparison, Evelyn’s life seemed timid and dwindled.

  “Our other visit, we did the Golden Triangle,” said Douglas. “Delhi, Agra, Jaipur—”

  “We even went to Jaisalmer,” said his wife. “That was in the days before anybody went there—”

  “Miles away in the Thar Desert—”

  “Nowadays of course it’s full of coach parties, but then it was quite extraordinary, wasn’t it, Doug?”

  “Fantastic.” He beamed across at Evelyn. “Well, you only have the one life, haven’t you?”

  Evelyn was about to reply that in India it seemed you didn’t, but she couldn’t recall the details of the conversation with Beverley. It sounded so ludicrous now; she would only make a fool of herself.

  “A couple of vagabonds, that’s us,” said Jean.

  Suddenly, Evelyn missed Hugh so fiercely it took her breath away. Hugh’s smiling face, that awful old jumper he refused to throw out, Hugh’s skin flayed by the wind as they tacked out of Chichester Harbor. “Ready, old girl?” Evelyn ducked as the boom swung around. He called both Evelyn and his boat (the Marie-Louise) “old girl,” and with the same exasperated affection. She and Hugh had been vagabonds, too, in their way, clinging together in this disorienting world with their children mutating into strangers.

  “All you need is an open mind,” said Jean.

  “And a cast-iron gut,” said Douglas.

  This, of course, was one of Evelyn’s greatest worries. What if she fell ill with dysentery or hepatitis? Typhoid, even? Some health tips had been included in the brochure—always eat peeled fruit, only drink boiled water—but the very mention of digestive disorders set her tummy fluttering. She already felt queasy, even though she had only consumed a British Airways dinner of chicken Provençal and apple crumble.

  When she tentatively voiced her fears, Douglas said: “Don’t you worry, Evelyn. Everyone gets Delhi belly—”

  “It’s part of the Indian experience,” said his wife.

  “You should see their loos! Talk about the Black Hole of Calcutta—”

  “Doug, stop it! You’re alarming her.” Jean turned back to Evelyn. “Don’t mind him. He’s always had a wacky sense of humor.” On her fingers, Jean ticked off the items they had packed. “Water purification tablets, mozzie nets, Senokot …”

  Evelyn drifted off. She thought of safe old Britain, left behind them as they hurtled through the night. Of course nothing was safe, she had realized that: your husband, your home, your money—all could be stripped away. But to fly across the world! The bravado with which she had signed the acceptance form, that startling burst of rebellion, had long since disappeared.

  “The thing is, I haven’t traveled much on my own,” she said. “Since my husband died—”

  “Ha! Count yourself lucky,” said Jean. “Honestly, Doug can be more trouble than he’s worth, always rushing up to people and talking to them in pidgin English, always dragging me off to see some old ruin or other. Sometimes one just wants to relax, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes, I—”

  “But I’m not really a beach person, am I, Doug? I mean, people said why don’t we retire to Spain or Portugal, somewhere like that, but there’s nothing to do, is there? I mean, imagine a lot of old biddies sitting around knitting—we’d die of boredom wouldn’t we, darling?”

  Evelyn was silent. Implicit in this, of course, was her own status as an old biddy. I’m not really! she wanted to cry. She thought of Hugh’s hands. Of course she missed his face, his voice, the whole Hughness of him—the smell of his skin, his barks of laughter—but it was his hands she missed just now … his forefinger rubbing a smudge of earth off her face when she straightened up from her weeding; his hand slipping into hers at night, when she turned over in bed. Sometimes they laced their fingers like teenagers. She longed for him to be beside her, the bigness of him, shifting in his seat. She longed for him so much that her ribs ached.

  “How did you hear about this place?” asked Jean. “Our son suggested it—he makes documentaries for the BBC.”

  “How nice,” said Evelyn. She was going to say that her manicurist suggested it, but hearing Beverley’s voice in her head—“What a hoot!”—made her miss her.

  “Adam knows us so well—”

  “That’s our son—”

  “He knew this was just our sort of place. We’ve always been adventurous, haven’t we, Doug?”

  Douglas nodded. “Though we’d draw the line at bungee-jumping.”

  “You’re as young as you feel,” said Jean.

  “Young people are drawn to India, aren’t they?” said Evelyn. “Theresa, my daughter—you may have seen her in the departure lounge—she goes to ashrams.” Of course, Theresa was no longer young. She was forty-nine. Theresa’s own children, if she had had any, would be grown up now. This gave Evelyn a scooped-out feeling. “Has your son had any children?”

  Jean shook her head. “Of course there’ve been plenty of girls who’ve been keen enough, but he hasn’t found the right one yet.” There was a silence. Jean closed her eyes and sank back in her seat.

  Later, Evelyn tried to sleep but her old heart went pitter-patter. How could she cope with the terrors ahead when even the idea of catching a connecting flight filled her with dread? Beyond lay the unknown—a void.

  Lead us, heavenly Father, lead us

  O’er the world’s tempestuous sea;

  Guard us, guide us, keep us, feed us,

  For we have no help but Thee.

  All her life Evelyn had sat in a pew, boxed in by certainties, mouthing the words alongside first her parents and then her husband. One by one they had deserted her, leaving her among strangers.

  On the third day He rose again …

  Where were they now?
The cabin lights were dimmed; for these hours of the night she and the other souls were in the care of the captain, whose disembodied voice warned them of turbulence ahead. Evelyn sat there, her seat belt securely buckled. Under the blanket her hands sought each other. Her fingers laced together. Round and round she pushed her wedding ring; nowadays it moved easily on her finger.

  Across the aisle Jean Ainslie was asleep. Her mouth hung open, slackly. Sleep aged her; only the blanket, rising and falling, showed that she wasn’t already a corpse. Evelyn thought: These people will be my last new friends, this couple and whoever is there awaiting me at the hotel. She thought: I must make the strange into the familiar. Have I got the courage to do this, at my time of life?

  She knew, of course, that she had no choice. Wherever she went, this was what she had to do now. Even if she came home again, which she might, this same situation would face her.

  The Indian gentleman on her left side, to whom she hadn’t talked, was snoring. His head lolled an inch from her shoulder. Evelyn shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Her joints were stiffening.

  “Try this.”

  Douglas leaned across his sleeping wife. He passed an object to Evelyn.

  “It’s a neck cushion,” he said. “I’ve blown it up for you.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “Go on, take it. Makes all the difference.” He smiled at her, his face illuminated by the reading light. The beam shone down onto his thick white hair; it reminded her of the heavenly ray piercing through the clouds in her Child’s Book of Bible Stories. “Sweet dreams,” Douglas said. “See you in India.”

  Break the boundaries of limited mind and body. Experience bliss throughout yourself and around yourself. Find yourself in the Ultimate.

  SWAMI PURNA

  Razia was still sulking. Her sulks could last for weeks; this one had. It was now the beginning of October and Minoo, usually an amiable man, was losing patience.

  “Please, my dear love, my lotus blossom—” He tried to put his arms around her but she pulled away.

  “What did I do wrong, to be married to a duffhead like you? You and that man, in cahoots together, wheeling and dealing behind my back, and I—silly me—I was thinking we could sell this place and enjoy a peaceful old age—”

  “Please keep your voice down—”

  “They’re all deaf—”

  “But isn’t it going swimmingly?” asked Minoo.

  “Swimmingly?” Razia hoisted her sari over her shoulder. “Always they’re complaining—the heat, the mosquitoes, the food—”

  “No more complaints than is usual—”

  “But those guests, they left! Now we’re stuck with these ones, day in and day out; you have no consideration, I’m worn down to the bone, look at me, oh I should have listened to my family!”

  Minoo nearly added: I should have listened to mine. He didn’t care to voice this, however; it would only inflame things further. His stomach churned; arguments with his wife affected his digestive organs.

  “A prosperous old age!” snapped Razia.

  “Aren’t we making a good profit now? Look at the figures. Sonny said that within three years—”

  “Sonny! Your new good friend! Sonny this and Sonny that! You really think that man can be trusted?”

  The bell tinkled. Minoo heaved himself to his feet and left the small, windowless office and his seething wife. Stepping into the lobby was like stepping onto a stage: he shed his private life and became a professional, faced with demands that were unmuddied by guilt and resentment. More and more, as the years passed, he felt this.

  Mrs. Evelyn Greenslade stood at the desk. “I’m so sorry to trouble you,” she said. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

  “Madam, I am at your service.”

  Mrs. Greenslade had arrived only two days earlier, but Minoo had already taken to her. A small, fragile woman—the desk reached up to her chest—she had that unmistakable air of refinement he so admired in the British. She was a true lady: fine bone structure, wavy white hair and beautifully dressed, too, in a cream blouse and pearl necklace.

  “You are settling in comfortably?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, though of course it’s all a little strange. The heat, of course, and all the people—I mean, so many of them everywhere and so poor, so terribly poor, it’s very shocking. I come from Sussex, you see.”

  “I’ve heard it’s very pleasant,” said Minoo. “Several of our past guests, they have their homes in Sussex.” He rummaged under the desk for his box. “I have letters of appreciation here, one is from a Colonel and Mrs. Penrose from Pulborough, Sussex, perhaps you are acquainted with them?”

  “There’s a legless beggar,” she said. “Have you seen him? Just outside, at the crossroads. Somebody’s made him a little trolley and he sits there all day, begging from the cars when they stop at the junction. Just a young man, and no legs at all.” She gave a little laugh. “It certainly puts my hip into perspective.”

  “This is India, madam, you soon grow used to it.” Mrs. Evelyn must have been a dazzler in her youth. In fact she was still pretty, in a faded, self-deprecating way. Minoo, susceptible to beauty, felt himself becoming gallant. “The situation of beggars I am powerless to solve, but if there is any way I can help to make the stay of such a charming lady more enjoyable, please feel free to ask me.”

  “Well, to be perfectly honest, there is.”

  There was a pause. From the lounge came a murmur of voices. The morning mah-jongg session, organized by Mrs. Rheinhart, was just getting down to business. Were there sufficient cold drinks in the cabinet? These old people certainly knocked it back—Fanta, Thums Up. Until recently, of course, guests came and went. Nowadays, however, they were on the premises all day and he must remember to increase the order. It was usually Razia’s job, to check on the stores, but Razia was sulking. At the moment she was on the phone to her sister. He could hear her aggrieved voice through the wall.

  “It’s Norman—you know, Mr. Purse.” Mrs. Greenslade cleared her throat.

  “Ah.”

  “It’s just—well, you know his room is next to mine?” She fingered the pearls around her neck. “Well, I was wondering—if it’s not too much bother—if you had another room available which I could move into? A little further away?”

  “What is the problem, madam?”

  “It’s just—you see, I’m a light sleeper and—well, he’s so loud. Banging about, and his wireless and everything …” Her voice died away. “And then, he and I, we have to share a bathroom …”

  Her cheeks flushed pink. From outside, on the veranda, came the scrape of the sweeper’s brush.

  “We do have one vacant room,” said Minoo. “But it’s a little smaller. Your son, when he telephoned from New York, insisted that you occupy a room with a garden view.”

  “I don’t mind about that,” she said.

  He fished for the key. “If you would like to inspect the room first—”

  “I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”

  He straightened up. “Very well, Mrs. Evelyn. I’ll tell the bearer to move your things.”

  She thanked him and left, crossing the lobby in her soft beige shoes. She made no sound. Such a self-effacing woman, it was as if she were already a ghost.

  A mid-morning torpor had settled on the hotel. Outside, the mali hawked and spat. Nirula was an elderly Tamil, naked but for the soiled dhoti tucked around his waist. He had worked at The Marigold since Minoo was a boy and would no doubt work until he dropped. Minoo was fond of him. Who would take care of this old gardener if the hotel was sold?

  Beyond him, in the shade of the flame tree, Norman Purse sat with his pen poised over the newspaper. Every day he sat there doing the crossword; it kept him quiet for an hour or so. Sometimes he nodded off, but even then he kept a tight grip on his Daily Telegraph in case somebody snatched it away. English newspapers, even last week’s, were precious.

  There had been several complaints ab
out Mr. Purse, but Minoo felt a certain male solidarity with the gentleman. Exhausted by his own wife and somewhat stifled by the predominantly female atmosphere, Minoo found Norman-sahib refreshingly male, a cock in the hen coop, with his coarse jokes and stop-me-if-you-dare smoking at meals. Besides, being the father of one of the company directors he was in a somewhat privileged position, which he exploited to the hilt. His daughter had now returned to Britain, but she frequently emailed to hear how he was getting on and would no doubt react badly to news of any problems. As both manager and owner, it was Minoo’s responsibility to keep the place running smoothly, and so far there had been no major disasters.

  He put this down to the age and nationality of his new clientele. Minoo had a deep respect for the British—not the young backpackers who used to frequent his hotel but those of a different class and generation, one that was now dying out. He was only a year old when Independence was declared; over half a century had elapsed since the British had ruled his country but, to him, the elderly English would always possess an innate superiority and an elegiac air hung over their imminent extinction. What an honor it was, that they were to spend their last years under his roof, in the country to which their ancestors had given so much—even, sometimes, their lives! You had only to look at the gravestones at St. Patrick’s Church.

  What piffle! Razia’s voice was in his head. You silly old snob!

  Minoo looked up. Mr. and Mrs. Ainslie were striding across the lobby. Mr. Ainslie, dressed in shorts, clutched a water bottle. With his tanned face and thick white hair, he looked in prime condition.

  “Just off to Tipu’s Palace!” he called out.

  “I shall order you a taxi, sir,” said Minoo.

  “No no!” replied Mr. Ainslie. “We’ll take Shank’s pony.”

  “Darling,” said his wife. “He hasn’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “We’ll walk!” called out Mr. Ainslie. “Or take a rickshaw. Don’t worry about us, we’ll get to know our way around in no time!”