The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel by Deborah Moggach Page A

page in front of her face—the closer it came, the more blurred the writing. There was so much senseless suffering in the world—what had Hugh done, to deserve those final months? To believe in heaven you had to believe in God, and during those last terrible months in the hospital she had lost Him.
    Beverley pointed to a photo. “That’s the doctor at the hotel. Dr. Sajit Rama, he’s called. Isn’t he gorgeous?”
    “He looks like Omar Sharif.”
    “Isn’t Omar Sharif about a hundred years old?”
    “He wasn’t always, dear,” said Evelyn.
    “Actually, isn’t he dead?”
    Evelyn thought suddenly: This life, it’s as if I’m dead already.
    Beverley gazed at the photo. “What do you think Omar Sharif should come back as?”
    “Himself, but younger,” said Evelyn. “And staying in the next room.”
    They burst out laughing. “Plenty of life left in you ,” said Beverley, “you naughty girl.”
    Evelyn was surprised at herself. “It’s those big dark eyes. We used to have a spaniel with eyes like that.” What was the dog’s name? Disappeared, along with so many others. Only that morning—was it that morning?—she had forgotten the name of Christopher’s wife.
    Oh Lord, what was it? If she tried to remember, it only became more frustrating. Sometimes it worked if she came at it casually, fooling herself that the name didn’t matter. Sometimes it felt like grabbing at shoals of minnows; they darted away in the water, tiny slivers of silver, they would never be caught.
    “Indian men are so fit compared to pasty English ones,” said Beverley dreamily. “Honest, you’d feel ten years younger.”
    Marcia . There, she wasn’t completely senile.
    This cheered Evelyn. She picked up the brochure and looked at a photograph. It showed the hotel garden. The place was bathed in a golden light, the light of long afternoons in her childhood garden, now tarmacked over to become the freight terminal at Gatwick. “The timeless beauty of India,” it said. Time didn’t really exist, not with the important things. Evelyn talked to Hugh in her head; his voice continued even though he himself had stopped. She could remember every inch of that garden—the brick path, worn in the middle; the moss beneath the rainwater tank where she had found a newt.
    “I remember now,” said Beverley. “With Hindus you’ve got to do good deeds. Then you come back as something better.”
    What had the newt done, to end up being a newt? Perhaps it had once been a cruel father who had beaten his children.
    “What’s so funny?” asked Beverley.
    “Nothing, dear.” Evelyn found this conversation invigorating; nobody at Leaside talked about things like this. The very word India sharpened her senses, like squeezed lemon. Even if she never went there, which was likely, it was bracing to think about it. Hugh would have been amazed that she even entertained the idea.
    She thought of her children and smiled. It was worth doing it, just to see their faces.
    But of course she couldn’t. What about the dirt and disease? “What about those Muslim terrorists?” Evelyn asked. They bred out there, hatching their suicide missions. She feared for her grandchildren, living in New York. She feared for herself.
    “Indians are Hindus, silly billy,” said Beverley. “The Muslims are in Pakistan, that’s why they made it. To put the Muslims there. Even I know that.”
    “I know so little,” said Evelyn.
    “Never too late to start.”
    Christopher, who was inclined to lecture, had tried to interest his mother in wider matters. On his last visit, when he had given Evelyn the computer, he had said that it was all one world now. “It’s called globalization, Ma. You see, I can download the kids onto your computer and you can talk to them.”
    “I’d rather see them.”
    “You do see them. It’s as if they’re in the room. Distance has become meaningless. I can work anywhere; all I need is my laptop. Time and space have been