The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: A Novel

by Deborah Moggach

  Christopher closed his eyes. He could step into another world and start all over again; the coach would drive on and nobody would notice he had gone. He would be like Jack Nicholson in that film, when he crossed the forecourt at the petrol station. In his new life, Christopher would have children who laughed at his jokes and a beautiful wife who called him Topher in her lilting Indian voice filled with love. Who would squeeze out his shirts in the river and straighten up when she heard his footfall, shading her face from the sun. He would be cherished.

  The coach moved on. Christopher gazed at the passing countryside. His old life could evaporate, just like that. The lumber of it—the skis and pasta machines, the things, the stuff—they could disappear with a click of the fingers. Nothing had weight here; it was all insubstantial. He thought of the moths that fluttered in the wardrobe back in Sussex. One clap and they were smears of powder between his palms.

  The coach shunted forward. Marcia closed her eyes. She was back in the temple at Halebib. A group of young men were wandering around looking at the friezes. Young Indian men, office workers maybe—short-sleeved shirts, oiled hair. They moved into the inner sanctum, and stopped.

  Marcia lay on the plinth, her skirt bunched up around her waist. The stone was warm under her skin. Look at me, a goddess of sex! Her blouse was unbuttoned; with one hand she stroked her breast. She stroked with a gentle, circular movement; her forefinger brushed her hardening nipple.

  Her legs were spread open. Luxuriously she pleasured herself. As she did so, she turned her head to look at the young men.

  They stood there, gazing at her. Their hands moved to their crotches. Closing her eyes, she heard their collective breath … rasping, quickening …

  “Mom, are we nearly there?”

  Marcia opened her eyes. They were traveling through the outskirts of a city—open drains, apartment buildings topped with a scribble of TV aerials.

  “Soon, honey,” she said.

  “I’m thirsty.”

  She passed the bottle of water.

  “I want a Coke.”

  Marcia closed her eyes again. Each night, in bed with her husband, she concentrated on different faces. As she lay there, gripping Christopher’s soft, middle-aged flesh between her thighs, it was a brown face that loomed above her; it was a big brown dick pumping inside her, making her cry out. And while she was doing it there were more men watching her; she brought them into the bedroom too. Those Kerala fishermen, naked except for loincloths, sat against the wall; they gazed at her open legs, her hips rising and falling. A row of sweepers, ravishing young men gray with dust, fondled themselves under their lunghis.

  Everywhere in India men were watching her. Christopher never looked at her, not really. Too damn English. These men hungered for her; they brought her to life. They delivered up a new Marcia to herself—desirable, thrillingly pale, and beautiful at last.

  For the rest of his life, Christopher replayed that moment. A number of years remained to him; the date of his death was written on a palm leaf, but he was ignorant of its existence. For the rest of his life, which was a long one, he remembered that moment when the doors of the Taj Balmoral sighed open and he stepped into the lobby. Muzak played. A turbaned doorman bowed and a woman stepped up to him. He supposed his family was with him, but they evaporated as if they had never been.

  She wore a midnight-blue sari shot with silver. Of course she was beautiful, but then most Indian women were exquisite. There was something else about her—a yielding, ineffable sweetness, a grace. She lifted a garland of flowers. Christopher bowed his head and she laid it around his neck.

  “Namaste,” she said, placing her hands together. Her bangles, tinkling, shifted down her wrists. She bowed. You are my lord and master.

  “Namaste,” he said, sounding like a fool.

  She was blessing him; she was making it all better. She dipped her finger into a pot and pressed it to his forehead. As she concentrated, the tip of her tongue protruded between her teeth. Her eyes met his and she smiled.

  “Welcome to the Taj Balmoral,” she said. “We hope you enjoy your stay.”

  Christopher had never believed in love at first sight; not until that moment. He simply felt accepted, in all his pallid clumsiness. Later she told him she was just finishing her shift. Five minutes later and she would have gone for lunch. Christopher, newly sensitized by love, had pictured the many obstructions he had encountered on eight days of Indian roads. Another herd of goats, another crashed truck, another holy cow just standing there. Another blithering comfort stop, and Aisha would not have stepped into his life with her marigolds and musky, dizzying promise of happiness. Such was the fragility of it all. Out of its chaos, India had delivered him up a miracle. It would bring suffering in its wake, but then India knew all about suffering, too.

  Ravi had insisted on accompanying Pauline to Bangalore. “Of course you can’t go alone, not now.” Pauline suspected that now that her father was no longer in residence, The Marigold was a more attractive proposition. She couldn’t say this, of course, not when Ravi was being so supportive. He thought she needed him in her hour of grief.

  In fact, her father’s death had affected Pauline less painfully than she had expected. It was the strangest sensation, the world without him in it, but Norman had led an enjoyable life entirely devoted to satisfying his own needs and had died at a ripe old age, waited on hand and foot by kindly staff and surrounded by pleasant companions. There seemed worse ways to go. Pauline was surprised at her own equanimity. Maybe she had absorbed some Indian fatalism without realizing it. In fact, it was Ravi who seemed more upset. She suspected this stemmed from guilt.

  Sonny, too, seemed powerfully affected. Pauline couldn’t understand this. Was the busy little wheeler-dealer really that fond of her father? She knew that they sometimes had a drink together, but Sonny’s reaction to his death seemed out of all proportion; the man seemed genuinely upset.

  Norman was cremated the day after they arrived and a small service was held at St. Patrick’s Church. Sonny snuffled throughout. Afterward they went outside. Pauline pointed at the gravestones: the young subalterns cut down in their prime—Lawrence Lennox, Standish Wilson—their wives and children too. “Look, typhoid fever and only twenty-two years old,” she said. “Only six.” She put her arm around Sonny’s plump shoulder. “Compared to them, my dad had a good innings.” Really, she thought, it should be Sonny comforting me.

  She suspected that the true causes of his distress were the various crises that had gripped the hotel in the past few days. Dr. Rama had been sacked. The manager’s marriage had broken up and his wife had moved out to her sister’s. The cook, upset by Norman’s death, had gone on a drinking binge and hadn’t been seen for the past two days. The residents seemed unaware of these backstage dramas; meals had been cobbled together by Minoo and the kitchen boy, and Mrs. Cowasjee had all but retired from public life anyway.

  “No doctor, no nurse,” whispered Ravi. “What happens if anybody gets ill?”

  “They’ve always got you,” said Pauline.

  Ravi didn’t reply. Along Lady Curzon Street the sun was sinking. They were returning from the church in a minibus Sonny had organized for the residents to pay their last respects. Tongas clopped home from Bangalore’s modest tourist attractions. Pauline looked at the skinny horses, at the concrete buildings molten in the evening light. The sunsets were so beautiful here they brought tears to her eyes. It seemed to be India, rather than her father, that had the power to make her cry.

  Ahead lay the melancholy task of sorting out her father’s things. It would be an odd Christmas, celebrating with near-strangers. But no odder, she thought, than it must be for them.

  Evelyn was having dinner at the Taj Balmoral with her son, his wife and Theresa. Her grandchildren, thank goodness, had been sent to bed. She had to admit that their behavior had disappointed her. Those two little darlings, Joseph and Clementine, had grown into American brats. She could hardly believe they were rela
tions of hers at all, and, by the look in their eyes, she suspected they felt the same. Not a word of thanks for the gifts she had given them nor the slightest interest in their surroundings; all they did was whine that the TV didn’t work. How could children who had everything be so ungrateful? Indian children, who had so little, were by comparison enchantingly polite, even when asking for money.

  Apart from this, the visit had been an unexpected success. Christopher and his sister hadn’t quarreled once. It was strange how the thing you most dreaded could just evaporate. The two of them, in fact, looked somewhat distracted—dreamy, even. Nor did Theresa show any of her normal hostility to Marcia. And how attractive Theresa looked—almost vampish—in a red strappy dress trimmed with spangles. It must have raised a few eyebrows in the ashrams.

  Evelyn had told them about the cremation that afternoon, about Dorothy’s revelations and the manager’s marital troubles. “He sent his wife packing on Tuesday. The poor man was so unhappy. Nobody knew except me; we’re friends, you see. He even showed me the shoes he wore, when they met.”

  “Has he fallen in love with someone else?” asked Christopher, putting down his fork.

  Evelyn shook her head. “He just felt beaten down by her. His wife was very bossy.”

  “Really?” asked Christopher.

  “Don’t be fooled by those saris,” said Evelyn. “Indian women can be very domineering. The man was a wreck; she made him feel so inadequate, you see.”

  There was a silence. Christopher toyed with a prawn.

  Marcia gazed at the sitar player, a young man in full Indian dress who sat on a plinth in the corner. “Isn’t he beautiful?” she murmured.

  Marcia wore a turquoise top embroidered with mirrors. They seemed to be flashing messages of whose significance only their owner was aware. Perhaps India was having a beneficial effect on their marriage, Evelyn thought. The last time she had seen the two of them, relations seemed strained. Marcia was such a nervy woman, but now it seemed that her inner wires had been cut. She looked relaxed, almost pretty.

  Evelyn would never discover the reason. Tomorrow, Christmas Eve, they would be gone.

  “Just think, Christmas on a beach!” said Evelyn. Her son and his family were traveling to Goa.

  “I’m sorry we can’t be here,” said Marcia. “It’s the itinerary.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s been lovely seeing you,” said Evelyn. They had been to the Bull Temple and the Botanical Gardens; they had crammed a lot into the two days. The visit could be counted a success despite the strangely bland atmosphere, as if everybody were sleepwalking.

  “I feel very spoilt having you with me at all,” said Evelyn. “Some people have relatives flying out in January, after they’ve spent the actual day with their nearest and dearest.” She stopped. Weren’t grandparents supposed to be one’s nearest and dearest? “Muriel Donnelly thinks her son’s going to appear, poor soul. It’s the only thing that keeps her going. Hermione’s been praying for her each Sunday.”

  “Where is her son?” asked Theresa.

  “God only knows.” Evelyn smiled. “Perhaps that’s why Hermione’s been asking him. No answer so far. He sounds rather a rum character.”

  “Who, God?” asked Theresa.

  “No dear, her son. Into all sorts of shady dealings, apparently.”

  “What sorts?” asked Theresa.

  “Haven’t a clue. Nor has Muriel.”

  A horrible suspicion was dawning on Evelyn. Perhaps Theresa was taking drugs. That would explain the long absences, sometimes for a whole afternoon. She returned bright-eyed, her cheeks flushed. Bangalore was apparently awash with drugs; Evelyn had read it in The Times of Karnataka, their reliable supply of English newspapers having died with Norman.

  “Organized crime is rife in the city, with corruption at the highest levels. Crores of rupees are at stake in the escalating drugs traffic.”

  Evelyn watched her daughter. Theresa swabbed a piece of naan bread around her plate and tore at it with her teeth. As she did so, she gazed dreamily into space. In the candlelight, Evelyn squinted at Theresa’s arms. Were those needle marks or mosquito bites?

  Evelyn felt a sinking sensation in her bowels. Oh Lord. Perhaps this explained her daughter’s frequent trips to India. I’m an India junkie, she had said once. I need my fix. Evelyn wasn’t entirely ignorant on these matters. Oh Lord.

  “How’re your young call-center friends?” asked Christopher.

  Evelyn rallied. “Surinda got the sack last week, I’m afraid. Her heart wasn’t in it. She kept asking people about England and never got around to making any sales. Such a shame.”

  Maybe she should ask the doctor’s advice—the real doctor from England, Dr. Ravi Kapoor, not the VD one with the hair. The fellow’s a charlatan! Suddenly, ridiculously, she missed Norman. Surinda, too, had disappeared from her life. It had been nice to have young faces around, faces that didn’t mirror back her own mortality. Living with old people was so ageing. That was the point of families—well, one of the points. Different generations thrown together. Now she had lost her surrogate granddaughter, Surinda, and her own daughter, the drug addict, would soon be gone.

  The Lotus Restaurant was on the top floor; below them spread the lights of the city. Tonight, India felt alien to Evelyn, alarmingly so. Her efforts to tune herself into the place during the past weeks felt phony and misguided. Having no option, she had willed herself into feeling at home. In fact this country had transformed her children into strangers—adults with secrets she could no longer penetrate. Look at them, toying with their napkins and smiling to themselves!

  No doubt this is natural, she thought. It doesn’t take India to turn one’s children into middle-aged adults with lives of their own. Oh Hugh, she thought. Oh Hugh.

  “Happy Christmas, Ma.” Christopher leaned across the table and gave her a package.

  Evelyn opened it. Inside lay some beautiful cloth, folded up: deep red silk with a gold border.

  “It’s a sari,” he said. “I know, I know, but maybe just once, for a special occasion.”

  “Where did you get that?” asked Marcia sharply. Evelyn suspected that it was Marcia who usually bought the presents.

  “Just a shop,” he said. “It’s a banarasi sari.”

  “A what?” asked Marcia.

  “A banarasi sari, for special occasions.”

  “How do you know that?” Marcia stared at him.

  Christopher cleared his throat. “I read it in the guidebook. Now, who’s for pudding?”

  Evelyn thanked him, though she couldn’t imagine ever wearing a sari, nor an occasion special enough to warrant such a thing. Widows in India wore white ones, as if they were already ghosts. She was glad Christopher hadn’t got her one of those.

  “He’s great, isn’t he?” said Marcia.

  Evelyn nodded. “So generous of him.”

  Marcia didn’t mean Christopher, however. She was gazing at the sitar player.

  “Look at those hands,” Marcia said softly. “The way they hold the instrument.”

  Evelyn folded up the wrapping paper. Her generation, like Indians, never threw anything away. It might come in handy later.

  “The way they move over the strings,” said Marcia, and relapsed into silence.

  Pauline took her husband’s hand and led him through the garden.

  “I want to show you something,” she said.

  It was late. She led him past the servants’ quarters. A light glowed through the window; someone hawked and spat. Here, in their own homes, the familiar old bearers were strangers.

  “Where are you taking me?” Ravi whispered.

  “Through the wall.”

  The moon was full. It was a clear night, the stars mirroring the lights of the city below. They were making their way through the farthest corner of the garden, where none of the guests ventured. In a pile of rubbish, something stirred.

  Ahead was the door, half-obscured by creepers. “The servants use this route,” Pau
line whispered. “When they go out. Errands and things. Back to their villages, perhaps, on their day off. I don’t know.”

  She turned the knob. The door creaked open. They stepped through and emerged into the waste ground behind the hotel. There was a smell of shit. Ravi lifted his foot and inspected his shoe. Thorn bushes stood frozen in the moonlight; plastic bags were caught in their branches. Beyond them were the huts where the rag-pickers lived.

  “Isn’t it like Alice Through the Looking Glass?” Pauline whispered. “Stepping into another world?”

  “What do you want to show me?” Ravi was trying to be kind. After all, today her father had been dispatched to wherever it was that people went.

  “Dorothy’s parents knew people who lived here,” she whispered. “She told me today. Years ago there was a garden here, and a bungalow. They were called Colonel and Mrs. Hislop, and she drank lemonade while they played bridge.”

  She wanted her husband to feel the magic of this place. Surely it was still hidden in him somewhere, a connection?

  “Sweetheart, I promised Minoo I’d look at the accounts,” he said. “The poor chap’ll be longing to go to bed.”

  “I want to look after people,” Pauline said. “You’ve done it all your life, but I want to do it now. Those children I met, I’ve got their photos but I’ll never find them. Imagine building them a home here, the ones who’re alone in the world. I could be some use, Ravi.” She looked at his beautiful, grave profile. “Old and young people could be together. Don’t you see, it makes sense?” She pointed to the hotel behind them. “They miss young faces around them, they pine for them. They could teach them things; they both like the same sort of food, they think the same way. Old and young people have an awful lot in common, second childhood and all that. And they have all the time in the world.”