The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel Read Free

could see him. Norman gazed longingly at the rack of magazines. Just for a moment he felt that rare thing: embarrassment. He couldn’t, not with this lovely creature here, so young and dewy.
    There was nothing for it but to go down to the high street. It took him a good ten minutes; his back was playing up. Finally, however, he reached its welcome anonymity, cars thundering past, and went into a newsagent’s.
    “Morning,” he said to the man behind the counter. He scanned the top shelf of magazines. Lifting his walking stick, he dislodged a copy of Asian Babes . It fell to the floor.
    Norman bent to pick it up. A spasm shot up his spine. He froze. Bent double, he waited for the pain to pass.
    “Here, Granddad.” The man came over and picked it up for him.
    “It’s for my son-in-law,” Norman muttered at the floor. “He’s Indian.”
    “I’m sure he is.” The man grinned. “I expect he’ll be wanting it in a bag, too.”
    Clutching the carrier, Norman hobbled back along the road. A siren screamed. He jumped. A fire engine rushed past. Suddenly he wanted to be home, safely ensconced on the sofa. Today the world seemed more than usually hostile—the traffic, the heedless passersby, the newsagent with his insolence. Somebody unloaded a crate of bottles. Norman jumped again. He wanted his daughter to be home, instead of miles away in some office or other. She would bring him a cup of tea. She would rub Ibuleve into his back and tell him he wasn’t that old, it was all right, he wasn’t going to die. Everything was going to be all right.
    Norman paused, leaning on his stick. Suddenly he saw himself as others must see him. Just for a moment, like the clouds parting. Then they closed again.
    He thought: I miss my wife. Rosemary would understand.
    This surprised him so much that he didn’t notice what was happening at the end of the street. Something was up. What looked like a fire engine seemed to be parked outside his daughter’s house. A crowd of people stood watching.
    Norman hobbled closer. He stopped and stared. At 18 Plender Street, black smoke was billowing out of the side window.

 
Let us meditate on the Divine Light that is inherent in us, May it dissolve all Ignorance and Darkness.
     
G AYATRI M ANTRA
     
     
    R avi hadn’t seen his cousin Sonny for years. The man lived in Bangalore, for one thing; they had grown up four thousand miles apart. Besides, they had nothing in common. When they met, they regarded each other with mutual incomprehension. But Sonny was in London for a couple of days, en route to somewhere or other, and none of the other family members was around to pick up some stuff he had brought over.
    They had arranged to meet in the lobby of the Royal Thistle Hotel, Bayswater. Ravi spotted his cousin straightaway—a portly man in shirtsleeves, pacing up and down and shouting into a mobile. The fellow had put on weight. Hard to imagine that he was once a playboy, bopping the night away in the Lotus Room at the Oberoi Hotel, Bangalore, in the company of Bollywood starlets. Still talking, Sonny snapped his fingers at a waiter. “Bacardi and Coke, plenty of ice!”
    Ravi’s heart sank. Sonny was a wheeler-dealer, a businessman of boundless energy. Ravi had forgotten how sapping that could be for someone in a fragile state. He longed to go home.
    Sonny turned. “Ravi old chap!” He barked something into his phone and clicked it off. “Come over here! You look terrible, you poor fellow. Overworking as usual?”
    “No—”
    “Don’t know how you stand it, your hair’s gone gray. You should try the stuff I use, Tru-Tone—I’ll get you a bottle, you’ll feel a new man.” Sonny snapped his fingers again and ordered Ravi a drink.
    “And you should lose some weight,” said Ravi. “You’re storing up trouble for later.”
    “Aye, aye, doc.” His cousin’s face was shiny with perspiration; he had always been a sweaty man.
    “Think of your heart.”
    Sonny patted his chest.