The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel Read Free Page A

“Sound as a drum.” He heaved over a carrier bag and dumped it at Ravi’s feet. It said Surinama Silk House. “Mangoes for you and your lady wife. Brought them from Lalit’s farm—remember Lalit, your uncle’s cousin? The best mangoes in Karnataka.”
    Ravi watched two men cross the lobby. They fetched their keys from Reception. Suddenly, the thought of checking into a clean, empty hotel room was so seductive he nearly swooned.
    “Flying to Frankfurt tomorrow,” said Sonny. “You know Meyer Systems? They’re relocating to Bangalore, to our very own Silicon Valley—these techies, they have their heads screwed on, they all want a piece of the action. You wouldn’t recognize the place, yaar , you know how much software we’re exporting? We have the satellite links, we have the know-how …” He counted on his fingers. “Motorola, Texas Instruments … The world’s shrunk, my friend …”
    Ravi’s temples throbbed. Outside an ambulance sped by, its siren wailing. Today he had failed to revive a cardiac arrest. Asthma attack, a young man with newborn twins.
    The drinks arrived. Sonny was still blathering on. Ravi took a sip of orange juice and put down his glass.
    “Sonny,” he said. “I’m having a terrible time.”
    That he confided in his cousin of all people, a man not overly interested in others, took him by surprise. Once he started, however, the words gushed forth.
    “Pauline’s father’s come to live with us; we can’t get rid of him and I’m going out of my mind. Last week he set fire to the kitchen. He was boiling up his revolting old hankies in my Le Creuset saucepan, nearly burned the house down. I can’t tell you how disgusting he is. The toilet stinks of pee, prostate problem, scatters it everywhere; he babbles on when I’m trying to concentrate, he makes horrible slurping noises on purpose, he tells the most offensive jokes, he farts, he belches …” Ravi’s voice rose. “He strains his tea through the fly-swat, he never lifts a finger to help, he drops biscuit crumbs everywhere, I can’t stand him, I can’t get any sleep, Pauline and I are quarreling all the time, sooner or later I’m going to have to move out, I can’t stand it anymore, I think I’m cracking up.”
    Ravi paused for breath. He thought: What a sign of my desperation, that I’m telling all this to a coarse, Bacardi-swigging little man I hardly know. Who I don’t even like much.
    “Jesus.” Sonny let out his breath.
    D riving home, Ravi felt violated. He only had himself to blame. This, of course, only made it worse.
    Ravi was a private man. “Knock knock, anybody there?” Pauline would ask. After the miscarriage he had never spoken of his grief. Twenty years ago, that was; their child would be an adult now. During the Flower Power years he had never let it all hang out, he was busy studying. Confidences made him uneasy; it was like handing over your luggage for somebody else to unpack, picking through your underwear.
    Now he had blurted it out and soon it would be all around the family. His Auntie Preethi in Chowdri Road, Delhi, would be phoning her sister, his mother, who was at present visiting his brother in Toronto (The world’s shrunk, my friend) . They would be discussing his problems, shaking their heads sorrowfully, hissing at their grandchildren to turn down the TV …
    Ravi parked outside his house and sat there in the darkness. He had betrayed his wife and, much as he loathed him, he had betrayed the old boy. In the main, he considered himself a man of integrity. If Norman were lying on a hospital bed, he would be all compassion. But then, work was easy. It was appallingly, drainingly difficult, but it was easy.
    Ravi looked up at the house. It was dismal, this reluctance to enter one’s own home. The upstairs window was steamed up. Pauline must be having a bath. Downstairs, needless to say, Norman had not closed the curtains. The room was exposed to the street. None of the lamps was