The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (5 page)

Sonny was unabashed. “And a buffet in the dining room, my friend. Birianis and cream cakes!”

Fighting, Fucking and Feeding, thought Vinod. In his youth he had wanted to make wildlife documentaries. You had to have the three Fs; otherwise viewers switched off. In this particular case two of the Fs were inappropriate, but the Food aspect was vital. After all, when you were old, that was all you had to live for.

Sonny paced to and fro, across the backing sheet. Vinod willed him not to trip over the folds. Once, years ago, Vinod had sat his sons there, in their school uniforms, and taken their photographs. Perched on their chairs, they had radiated hope for the future. Twenty years later here he still was; nothing had changed except he was older, his sons had left him and the traffic had grown to a roar.

“And don’t forget the doctor,” said Sonny. Vinod snapped to attention. “He’s first-rate; I’ve been there for treatment myself. Take a shot of him in his workplace.”

D
r. Sajit Rama ran a clinic for sexually transmitted diseases. The next day, Vinod loaded his equipment onto a rickshaw and directed the driver to Elphinstone Chambers.

The waiting room was thick with bidi smoke. Rows of men sat there, gazing at their feet.
I’m not really here
, their bodies said. Vinod recognized the man who sold CDs in the street outside the Air India office. What brief pleasure has brought them here? wondered Vinod. Was it worth the price to be paid?

He was ushered into the doctor’s surgery. Dr. Rama stepped out from behind his desk and shook Vinod’s hand. “Any friend of Sonny is a friend of mine.” He was a handsome man with a fine head of hair. “To be perfectly frank, I’m not a geriatrician.”

“And I’m not Alfred Hitchcock,” said Vinod. “But we all have to make a living,
acha
?”

He set up his camera. The idea was to film a consultation. As it was a clap clinic, the dialogue would be mute. Vinod planned to shoot sixty seconds of the doctor listening to a patient, and play music over it.

He positioned the doctor in front of the framed diploma on the wall. The man was unfairly handsome; film star looks, in fact. Vinod pictured the English ladies imagining all sorts of aches and pains just to get him to visit. This fellow would always be doted upon.

Who will look after me when I’m old? Vinod wondered. Not his sons, that was for sure. Their treatment of him was shameful; had they no sense of family responsibility? Of respect?

The nurse ushered in a patient. He was a thin, hunted-looking man. He sat down on the edge of his chair and ran his fingers through his hair.

“What seems to be the trouble?” asked Dr. Rama.

“I have a discharge from my part,” said the man. He looked at the camera.

“I assure you, this is confidential,” said the doctor. “My friend is filming for another purpose entirely.”

“It only happened the one time, Doctor-sahib,” said the patient. The doctor nodded in sympathy. They all said this. “And now I’m punished for it.” The man lit a bidi. His hand shook. “Please don’t let my wife find out about this! She will kick me out of the house.”

“Step behind the screen, sir,” said Dr. Rama, “and lower your trousers.”

Once, Vinod had enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. For years he had visited Chula, a charming young lady who worked at an establishment near the Gandhi Market. Even his own wife had shown some enthusiasm in the early years before she started ganging up with their sons and dismissing him as a failure.

A yelp came from behind the screen. As Vinod packed up his camera he thought: Already I feel past it and I’m fifty years old. What must it feel like to be seventy? Eighty? The only answer was to endure this existence, try to perform good deeds—look, he was helping his friend, and for a very small fee—and pray for better things in his next life. He would go to the temple that very afternoon and perform
puja;
it never failed to restore his spirits.

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

I
SA
U
PANISHAD

B
y late August it was all set up. The Marigold had closed to passing trade and a new sign had been erected: T
HE
B
EST
E
XOTIC
M
ARIGOLD
H
OTEL
: R
ESIDENTS
O
NLY
. 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.”

N
orman 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.”

O
n 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.

N
orman 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
.”