The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel by Deborah Moggach

girl again, kneeling beside her mother on a grassy knoll. Her mother was already ill, though nobody was saying. Her face was gray and clammy. They were sitting in a place called India, though Pauline knew it was the park in High Wycombe, where she grew up; she recognized the war memorial. Gravely, her mother passed Pauline a plate of food. When Pauline looked down, she saw it was monkeys’ heads.
    It seemed perfectly natural, those wizened faces sunk in gravy. They looked happy enough, smiling up at her like little old men. She wasn’t going to eat them, no fear.
    A shadow fell. It was her father. He sat down on the grass and lifted out a head. He put it into his mouth and started munching.
    “Be a good girl and get me another one.”
    Pauline woke up. Norman was holding up his empty whisky miniature.
    “Be a good girl,” he said to the stewardess, “and get me another one.”
    The stewardess caught Pauline’s eye and smiled. No doubt it was pity; Norman had been making a nuisance of himself throughout the flight. Then Pauline realized that her own face was drenched in sweat. Another hot flush.
    “We’ll be landing soon,” said the stewardess.
    Pauline pulled up the shade. Outside, dawn blazed, a rim of fire over the curved horizon. Five hours had been lost as they hurtled through time zones toward a new day. Her heart beat faster, or maybe it was just palpitations. This was what she did for others, sending them speeding through space, sending them to destinations on the far side of the earth. She too had traveled, of course. But tonight was no holiday; for her father, it was a new life. She pressed the dinner napkin to her face. The moon pulled at the earth’s gravity; the tides pulled women’s wombs—except for stewardesses, who crisscrossed the world and whose periods apparently stopped altogether, as her own would soon do.
    What a strange dream. Maybe there would be monkeys in India. There would certainly be babies. It was painful, having her mother so briefly restored to her. Suddenly, Pauline missed her so powerfully she felt nauseous. How could her mother desert her by dying? The old man in the next seat had sucked the life out of her; Pauline realized that now. There was no justice in the world. Her mother, a good woman, had died; her father, on the other hand, seemed indestructible. Selfishness was a powerful life-force; he would probably outlive them all, despite the abuse he had inflicted on his body by a lifetime of drinking and smoking—he had even lit up a fag in the toilet and been hauled out by the steward.
    “In a few moments we will be commencing our descent into Indira Gandhi International Airport … please make sure that your seat belts are fastened, your trays folded and your seats returned to an upright position …”
    Norman seemed to have got his way. He unscrewed the cap and poured whisky into his glass. “Going on to Bangalore,” he told his neighbor on the other side, a corpulent Indian who had slept most of the journey. “My daughter’s dumping me in an old folks’ home there.”
    “Bangalore is a charming city,” said the man. “Very pleasant climate, very up-to-the-minute facilities.”
    “See, Dad?” said Pauline.
    “It’s known as Pensioners’ Paradise,” said the man. “My countrymen live all over the world. Sometimes they have no family left in India, so they buy into new residential complexes for their old age.”
    “See, Dad? It’s not just you.”
    “It’s very similar to England, in many ways,” said the man. “Wait for Christmas. They all go to Midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s Church, and then it’s roast turkey and all the trimmings at Koshy’s.” He tapped Norman’s knee. “And for a man who likes a drink, Bangalore is the place to be. The home to Kingfisher beer. A pub on every corner!”
    Norman tapped the side of his nose. “And a few more things besides.”
    The plane hit turbulence. They jolted in their seats. The whisky slopped out of