The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel Read Online Free PDF Page B

years?”
    “Don’t they have grandchildren?”
    “Drapes Galore?” asked Vinod. “What will they be doing buying curtains? Surely their hotel rooms will be furnished?”
    Sonny pooh-poohed this. Fired with entrepreneurial zeal, he saw that anything was possible. He himself owned a half-share in the Surinama Silk House. “A sari imparts an air of timeless elegance, particularly to those of mature years.”
    “But these are Englishwomen,” said Vinod. “They’re not going to start wearing saris.”
    “Don’t be bloody negative.” Sonny paused. “Ah, that has given me an idea. Fashion shows! I shall lay on entertainments. Once they are living in our country our customers will have money to burn! The gray pound, it’s called. Or the white pound.”
    Suddenly, Vinod started to enjoy himself. Most jobs were a simple matter of getting all the relatives in the picture and making sure the jewelry was in focus. It was a long time since he had had a creative argument.
    Filming at The Marigold would include an establishing shot accompanied by Sonny’s sales patter. “And British music,” said Vinod. “The Enigma Variations would be just the ticket. I have the CD at my residence.”
    “A panning shot around the garden,” said Sonny. “The trees, the flowers, the tranquility. A hummingbird sipping nectar.”
    “Who’s making this film?” said Vinod. “Leave the shots to me.”
    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