The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

2012 Random House eBook Edition

Copyright © 2004 by Deborah Moggach

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

R
ANDOM
H
OUSE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Originally published under the name
These Foolish Things
in the United Kingdom by Chatto & Windus, an imprint of Random House UK, in 2004.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Moggach, Deborah.
 [These foolish things]
The best exotic Marigold Hotel : a novel / Deborah Moggach.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-679-64513-9
1. Older people—Fiction. 2. Old age homes—Fiction.
3. British—India—Fiction. 4. Bangalore (India)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6063.O44T44 2012
823′.914—dc23             2011035617

v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Two

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Part Three

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Also by Deborah Moggach

About the Author

The Truth will set you free.

S
WAMI
P
URNA

M
uriel Donnelly, an old girl in her seventies, was left in a hospital cubicle for forty-eight hours. She had taken a tumble in Peckham High Street and was admitted with cuts, bruises and suspected concussion. Two days she lay in A & E, untended, the blood stiffening on her clothes.

It made the headlines. TWO DAYS! screamed the tabloids. Two days on a trolley, old, neglected, alone. St. Jude’s was besieged by reporters, waylaying nurses and shouting into their mobiles, didn’t they know the things were forbidden? Photos showed her lolling gray head and black eye. Plucky pensioner, she had survived the Blitz for this? Her image was beamed around the country: Muriel Donnelly, the latest victim of the collapsing NHS, the latest shocking statistic showing that the British health system, once the best in the world, was disintegrating in a welter of underfunding, staff shortages and collapsing morale.

A hand-wringing why-oh-why piece appeared in the
Daily Mail
, an internal investigation was ordered. Dr. Ravi Kapoor was interviewed. He was weary but polite. He said Mrs. Donnelly had received the appropriate care and that she was waiting for a bed. He didn’t mention that he would kill for an hour’s sleep. He didn’t mention that since the closure of the Casualty department at the neighboring hospital, his own, at St. Jude’s, had to cope with twice the number of drunks, drug overdoses and victims of pointless violence; that St. Jude’s would soon be closing because its site, in the center of Lewisham, was deemed too valuable for sick people; that the private consortium that had taken it over had sold the land to Safeway, who were planning to build a superstore.

E
xhausted, Ravi drove home to Dulwich. Walking up his path, he paused to breathe deeply. It was seven in the evening; somewhere a bird sang. Beside the path, daffodil blooms had shriveled into tissue paper. Spring had come and gone without his noticing.

In the kitchen, Pauline was reading the
Evening Standard
. The story had gathered momentum; other cases were printed, outraged relatives told their tales.

Ravi opened a carton of apple juice. “Thing is, I didn’t mention the real reason the old bat wasn’t treated.”

Pauline fetched him a glass. “Why?”

“She wouldn’t let any darkies touch her.”

Pauline burst out laughing. At another time—another lifetime, it seemed—Ravi would have laughed too. Nowadays that place was unreachable, a golden land where, refreshed and rested, he could have the energy to find things funny.

Upstairs the lavatory flushed.

“Who’s that?” Ravi’s head reared up.

There was a silence.

“I was going to tell you,” said Pauline.

“Who is it?”

Footsteps creaked overhead.

“He won’t be here for long, honestly, not this time,” she babbled. “I’ve told him he’s got to behave himself—”

“Who is it?”

He knew, of course.

Pauline looked at him. “It’s my father.”

R
avi was a man of compassion. He was a doctor; he tended the sick, he mended the broken. Those who were felled by accident, violence or even self-mutilation found in him a grave and reassuring presence. He bandaged up the wounds of those who lay at the wayside, unloved and unlovable; he staunched the bleeding. Nobody was turned away, ever. To do the job, of course, required detachment. He had long ago learned a sort of numbed empathy. Bodies were problems to be solved. To heal them he had to violate them by invading their privacy, delving into them with his skilled fingers. These people were frightened. They were utterly alone, for sickness is the loneliest place on earth.

Work sealed him from the world that delivered him its casualties, the doors sighing open and surrendering them up to him; he was suspended from the life to which he would return at the end of his shift. Once home, however, he showered off the hospital smell and became a normal person. Volatile, fastidious, a lover of choral music and computer games, sympathetic enough but somewhat drained. Of course he was compassionate, but no more or less than anybody else. After all, the Hippocratic Oath need not apply on home territory. And especially not to a disgusting old sod like Norman.

Barely a week had passed and already Ravi wanted to murder his father-in-law. Norman was a retired structural engineer, a monumental bore and a man of repulsive habits. He had been thrown out of his latest residential home for putting his hand up a nurse’s skirt. “Inappropriate sexual behavior,” they called it, though Ravi could not imagine what appropriate behavior could possibly be, where Norman was concerned. His amorous anecdotes, like a loop of Muzak, reappeared with monotonous regularity. Already Ravi had heard, twice this week, the one about catching the clap in Bulawayo. Being a doctor, Ravi was treated to Norman’s more risqué reminiscences in a hoarse whisper.

“Get me some Viagra, old pal,” he said, when Pauline was out of the room. “Bet you’ve got some upstairs.”

The man cut his toenails in the lounge! Horrible yellowing shards of rock. Ravi had never liked him, and age had deepened this into loathing of the old goat with his phony regimental tie and stained trousers. Ruthlessly selfish, Norman had neglected his daughter all her life; ten years earlier, however, pancreatic cancer had put his long-suffering wife out of her misery and he had battened on to Pauline. Once, on safari in Kenya, Ravi had watched a warthog muscling its way to a water hole, barging aside any animal that got in its way. He retained, for some reason, a vivid image of its mud-caked arse.

“I can’t stand much more of this,” he hissed. Nowadays he and Pauline had to whisper like children. Despite his general dilapidation, Norman’s hearing was surprisingly sharp.

“I’m doing my best, Ravi, I’m seeing another place tomorrow, but it’s difficult to find anywhere else to take him. Word gets around, you know.”

“Can’t we just send him away somewhere?”

“Yes, but where?” she asked.

“Somewhere far, far away?”

“Ravi, that’s not nice. He
is
my father.”

Ravi looked at his wife. She changed when her father was around. She became more docile, in fact goody-goody, the dutiful daughter anxious that the two men in her life get along. She laughed shrilly at her father’s terrible jokes, willing Ravi to join in. There was a glazed artificiality to her.

Worse still, with her father in the house he noticed the similarity between them. Pauline had her father’s square, heavy jaw and small eyes. On him they looked porcine, but one could still see the resemblance.

Norman had stayed with them several times during the past year—whenever he was kicked out of a residential home, in fact. The stays were lengthening as establishments that hadn’t heard of him became harder to find.
“The man’s a menace,”
said the manager of the last one,
“straight out of
Benny Hill.
We lost a lovely girl from Nova Scotia.”

“Thing is, he’s frightened of women,” said Ravi. “That’s why he has to jump them all the time.”

Pauline looked at him. “At least someone does.”

There was a silence. They were preparing Sunday lunch. Ravi yanked open the oven door and pulled out the roasting tin.

“I’m so tired,” he said.

It was true. He was always exhausted. He needed time to revive himself, to restore himself. He needed a good night’s sleep. He needed to lie on the sofa and listen to Mozart’s
Requiem
. Only then could he become a husband again—a human being, even. The house was so small, with her father in it. Ravi’s body was in a permanent state of tension. Every room he went into, Norman was there. Just at the
Lacrimosa
he would blunder in, the transistor hanging on a string around his neck burbling the cricket commentary from Sri Lanka.