No apology, Simon noted with gratitude as he pushed a plastic tee into the ground, one from a set given to him by Sarah. “It is difficult, yes. Shall I tee-off, given that I am the immeasurably poorer player?”
“I’m sure we have a similar handicap, don’t we?”
“We do not, Pavit, and you jolly well know it. I shall spend much of the next hour repairing the course. Right then. Stand back.” Simon swung at the ball, hitting, despite his modesty, a perfectly respectable shot. “Beginner’s luck. I was sorry to hear that you missed out on the consultancy, Pavit. I don’t spend much time at the hospital anymore – well, only as a punter, so to speak. I don’t really keep up with the news, but I was up in Medical Staffing arguing about my out-of-hours clinic rota and I heard Ferguson got it. Seemed a rough deal for you, to be honest.”
Pavit swung his club, sending the ball in a perfect arc over the green towards the hole. “I didn’t really expect it. Ophthalmic surgery is as political as politics. Ferguson had been playing a long game. How the man ever gets any sleep, I will never know. He seems to be attending or throwing a dinner party or cocktail ‘do’ every night. To be honest, it’s not my scene. I like my golf. I like a quiet life. Shreya was not too happy, though.”
They heaved their bags onto their shoulders and started to walk towards where their balls lay in the distance. Simon was quietly taken aback to see how close he'd got to the hole. He generally just aimed for the green. “I’m not surprised. It’s time you got the consultancy. I hear you are very talented.”
Pavit snorted. “Surgeons are not just rewarded for their clinical skills. You have to network, entertain. Shreya doesn’t understand this. It might be true that I spend a little too much time on the golf course, but Shreya’s determination to remain so, well, Asian, has meant that I have lost a lot of brownie points.”
“You're not suggesting racism?” Simon paused, stopping to look at his friend. West Yorkshire was heavily populated with those of all faiths and ethnic backgrounds. The hospitals were completely integrated, doctors from all over the world being promoted without reference to race. Not to say that the area was not inherently racist – tensions simmered and seethed all over the West Yorkshire towns, well-documented riots and BNP electorates were regular newspaper items. But the hospital? From Simon’s experience, racism in the hospital was unheard of. Doctors earned respect through their work, not their color or creed.
Pavit shook his head. “No. Not entirely. The problem is that one has to fill a certain social quota. Charity galas, concerts, hospital benefits. Shreya is not comfortable with it. As you know, she prefers shalwar kameez or sari, she doesn’t drink, and she doesn’t enjoy gossiping with the wives. I’m not blaming her, but things may have run smoother if she had been happy to play the role of Consultant’s Wife.”
“All sounds a bit ‘Holby City’ or ‘ER’.”
“It is all a bit ‘Holby City’, though they wouldn’t want you to know that. There’s your ball there,” Pavit pointed.
Simon self-consciously placed himself in the position he'd been taught by the resident golf pro. Melissa had given him lessons as a Christmas present one year. Buoyed with confidence from his last shot, he whirled the club round at high speed, only to completely miss the ball. He grinned at Pavit. “I thought that last shot was a fluke. Here we go again …” This time he struck the ball and also the ground and a large chunk of the course flew into the air. “Ah, the first of my many divots. And a shot of about three meters. That’s more like my usual standard.”
Pavit chuckled and, after locating his ball, performed a perfect swing. The ball soared through the air in elegant flight. “If you spent as much time here as I do, you would improve.”
“I know. I might start to. Sarah went into her hospice last night. I’m going to have some free time …” He stopped awkwardly. “Actually, Pavit, it’s funny I banged into you today. I was meaning to ask you. You’re Hindu, yes?”
“I’m a good Hindu boy, yes.” Pavit winked and heaved his golf bag back onto his shoulders.
“I was wondering if you could tell me about Sati. Or is it Suti?” Simon shouldered his own load, wondering not for the first time why he bothered with so many clubs when he only ever used two. Many had been presents from Melissa, specially hand carved, monogrammed, and weighted specifically for him. It was a pity, he mused, that Melissa hadn’t realized in twelve years of golfing presents that he didn’t particularly like golf.
“Sati? Sati or Suti – you can use both terms. Well it doesn’t really happen anymore, you know. It’s illegal for one thing. I think occasionally there is a story from a backwater in India of some poor woman flinging herself onto a funeral pyre, but it is very much frowned upon by modern Indians. Why do you ask?”
Simon’s thoughts went back to his dream and to the young couple at the centre of the wedding party. Why did he ask? The scene had been obstinately stuck in a corner of his mind ever since then. The idea of following someone you love into the afterlife had become embedded somehow in his semi-conscience. A nagging ‘what if’ - a persistent ‘perhaps’.
“I read a novel recently. It only touched on the subject. Sparked an interest, that’s all.” Simon hacked again at his ball, dislodging it further along the green, along with yet more clods of earth.
Pavit treaded in the divots. “Well, as you know, Sati is the term generally used to describe the practice of wives self-immolating at the death of their husbands. The name comes from the goddess Sati who couldn’t bear her own father’s humiliation of her husband Shiva. It is considered an example of perfect wifely loyalty.” Pavit chuckled again. “I can’t imagine my wife flinging herself to her death in defense of me.”
They walked on towards Pavit’s perfectly placed ball. “Sati was reborn to become the consort of Shiva once again. Her name was given as ‘Parvati’, which is a common Hindu name now. Henceforth, ‘Sati’ became the term or title for a woman showing exceptional devotion to their husband. Sati means ‘righteous’. Ah! Close!” Pavit took a long putt and the two men watched the ball roll seamlessly forward, coming to a halt inches before the hole. “I might get a birdie.”
“Good shot.” Simon moved off towards his ball, no way near as close now. “So Sati is the term for a wife being burnt on her husband’s funeral pyre, or for the wife herself?”
“Originally, it became a title for the woman, and it wasn’t necessarily linked with the funeral pyre. Another story, for instance, was that Savitri was named Sati for her selfless act for her husband. Her husband died and the Lord of Death, Yama, came to take his soul. She begged Yama to take her life instead, which he could not do. In defiance and grief she followed Yama and her dead husband for many miles on their journey to the underworld. Yama was impressed, or irritated, I do not know. He offered Savitri an alternative - anything, in fact, apart from her husband’s life. Savitri asked for children from her dead husband. Of course, in order for this wish to be granted, he had to be given life. So Savitri got her husband back. Fairytales, Simon.” Pavit shrugged. “You know, you turn your body a little too much. That’s it. A bit more, and drop your shoulders. There now. Better.”
Simon took his shot, which was a vast improvement over his previous attempt. “Thanks. Perhaps you should give up reattaching retinas and become a golf-pro. So Sati isn’t strictly to do with suicide?”
Pavit tapped his ball expertly into the hole and lifted the flag to retrieve it. “Do you have a pen?” He took his game-card out. “The custom of burning a widow on the funeral pyre of her husband is more cultural than religious. Frankly, there are plenty of stories of widows being forced onto the pyre, without consent. Particularly in wealthy families, where the heirs did not wish to see the man’s fortune go directly to the wife.”
Pavit scribbled
“Ostensibly it was about the prestige of the woman’s wish to avoid living the ghastly life of a Hindu widow. It became common in wealthy warrior dynasties. The Rajputs, for instance. The family of any woman
performing Sati would gain huge respect and the woman would receive honors, almost like a saint. But it didn’t happen in most of India. Only in small communities. The Mughals tried to ban it. The British, along with Indian reformers, managed to put a stop to it in the early 1800’s.”
Simon attempted a long putt, missing the hole by quite a few meters. “Damn it. So it doesn’t happen anymore?”
“There aren’t any exact figures. Before it was banned there were records of a few hundred a year. Officially, the practice has been completely stamped out, though there are occasional incidents. In the 80s a young wife, a teenager, demanded to commit voluntary Sati. The villagers supported and praised her, taking part in the ceremony. Disgusting. So backward. Interestingly, a woman a few years ago – 1999 perhaps, jumped hysterically onto her husband’s funeral pyre and burnt to death. The incident however, was declared suicide and not Sati, as the woman was not compelled, forced or praised for committing the act. Nearly there now, Simon. This one should be – ah. Next time.”
“Sorry, Pavit. Are you losing the will to live? Pardon the expression.”
Pavit laughed. “No, not at all. I’m enjoying the sunshine and the company. And it's quite interesting talking about this kind of thing for a change. Did you know that Sati is not solely a Hindu act? The ancient Egyptians, the Goths and the Scythians, who invaded India, all practiced some form of immolation, where living family members would accompany those who had died into the afterlife. Egyptian pharaohs took wives, cats, even their servants, with them. You’d be rather disappointed to find that in the small print of your job description, wouldn’t you?
“Can’t see myself jumping onto Howard’s pyre, put it that way. So it was always women dying for men – never the other way round?”
“Well, I don’t believe a Sati exactly leaps onto her husband’s pyre. She walks to the burning ground in a procession and mounts the pyre before it is lit. She sits cross-legged, upright, cradling her husband’s head on her lap. But to answer your question, yes, usually, it was wives becoming sati for their husbands. In all but a handful of cases, I believe, though rarely, very, very rarely, husbands would follow their wives. True love indeed. More frequent were grieving mothers becoming Sati on their son’s pyres. Well done.” Pavit retrieved Simon’s ball from the hole, in which it finally lay. “Write it up and we’ll move on, shall we?”
Pavit strolled onwards, completely unaware of the fire he had stoked.
* * *
They lunched on prawn cocktails and coq au vin. The delightfully ‘retro’ menu was both comforting and satisfying. Conversation moved onto more jovial affairs, gossip from the golfing community, news from the medical world. Both declined pudding and were deciding whether to take coffee in the lounge or at the table, when Simon hissed a warning to Pavit.
“Shit. Don’t look now. It’s Jagger.”
Pavit groaned and visibly shrank down in his chair. “Is he heading in this direction?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think he’s going to the bar. Deplorable man. Dreadful bully. There was a time when a club like this wouldn’t have had him.” Simon immediately felt his color rise, his snobbery embarrassing him. There was a time, he reminded himself, when a club like this wouldn’t have had him. Or his dining partner.
“No, I agree. I can’t stand him. Had a run in with him last week actually. Did I tell you I won that raffle?”
“No.” Simon smiled up at the waiter and indicated that they would take coffee in the lounge. “Shall we?”
Simon signed the bill, indicating that it should go on his account, and the two men stood up.
Pavit continued. “Yes, I won a giant Easter egg. The size of a small car.”
“I’ll bet the kids were pleased.”
“They were. There’s still half left. You could sail to the Isle of Wight in it. Anyway, Jagger and that awful wife of his were there and he insisted on …”
“Bailey! And the other doctor. Well we are blessed with medical knowledge today. If anyone fancies having a heart attack, now’s the time to do it!” An all too familiar voice boomed across the room from by the bar.
Both men stopped, not turning but not moving forwards either. This was ridiculous, thought Simon. Like kids in a playground. He sighed and turned to face the man. “Kevin, nice to see you. Hope you’re well. Sorry, I think our coffee’s just been taken through to the lounge … catch up again soon, eh?”
“Not a problem, Simon, not a problem. Good to see you too. Not seen you about for a long time. Still I suppose you’re busy with your little one, especially seeing as she’s in cattle-class. You’ll have your hands full keeping an eye on the doctors who are supposed to be treating her. You’re with a lucky man there, Simon. I was just talking to our Jim here ...” He gestured at a sycophantic looking youth behind the bar, “ ... and we was saying, bit unfair your winning that egg last week, Pavit. What with you being Muslim and all.”
“Bye, Kevin.” Simon gave what he hoped was a winning smile, grabbed Pavit by the arm, and marched him into the next room.
Chapter 18
Porridge was whining and scraping at the back door when Simon let himself in at the rear entrance to his house. The Labrador shot past him and into the garden, relieving himself noisily against the wooden shed.
“That was much needed, Porridge. Have you had your legs plaited, lad?” Simon bent down and buried his face in the dog’s fur. Porridge, having dealt with his more immediate bladder concerns, now greeted his dad enthusiastically. “Where’s mum then, eh? Haven’t you had a walk?”
Man and dog strolled into the silent kitchen. Porridge headed straight for his empty bowl, looked pointedly at it and then back at Simon, who glanced at the clock. “Only three-thirty, boy. Please don’t look at me like that.” Simon rolled his eyes. “Come on then, give us that bowl and we’ll do a fresh one.”
He refilled Porridge’s bowl and checked the answer machine. There was one message from Lorraine, Melissa’s partner at the florists - something to do with ribbons. Simon scribbled a note onto a Post-it.
He opened the fridge, contemplated a beer and decided it was too early. He turned the TV on in the conservatory and flicked through the channels. Sport, no. Carry On Matron, no. 50 Best Looking Booties in Pop, no. He settled finally for the last half of 'Live and Let Die' and changed his mind about the beer. With a deep sigh, he sank into the squashy sofa with Porridge at his feet. He stared at the TV for a while, but despite his usual love of all things Bond, Roger Moore failed to hold his attention. Finishing his beer and grabbing another from the fridge, he started opening cupboards, deciding what to make Sarah for tea and then remembered that Sarah was not there.
He checked the time again – four-thirty now, and wondered where Melissa was. He knew she'd had a wedding that day, but usually the hard work was in the morning and they were finished and away for twelve. The venue usually took care of the leftover floral arrangements, no doubt recycling them for their non-wedding events or gala dinners. It wasn’t like Mel not to have checked in with him. And what about Porridge? She usually took him with her if she went out in the afternoon.
A prickle of concern registered but was quickly cast aside. Simon decided to call Madron House and check on Sarah for the evening. The nurses were in the habit of answering the main desk telephone if they happened to be passing, and he was pleased to get Fiona on the line. Sarah was tucked in for the night. The nausea that had plagued her the previous night was under control, and they were hoping she would have a good night. They let him speak to her briefly, though she was sleepy and tipsy on morphine.
There was, it seemed, a likelihood that Sarah would stay at the hospice permanently. She was increasingly unable to come down stairs and there was an escalated need for nursing care. There had, much to Sarah’s distress, been a couple of bed-wetting incidents. She was also becoming less able to take solid food. A decision was to be made on Monday, but it looked likely that Sarah had moved on.
Simon felt calmer with
that realization than he would have thought. The past week had been one of the hardest yet. Sarah’s illness was a constant dark presence haunting the household. He had come to recognize that she was more comfortable in the hospice. Since she slept throughout most of the day, she often woke in the night. At Madron there was always someone there with whom she could chat. A person who could read to her, soothe her. During the day she wasn't confined to watching yet more TV. She could interact with other children, play, paint. There had been a little theatre performance only recently. The troop had even visited the rooms of those children well enough to watch, but too poorly to leave their beds.
Still, the silence grated. Five-thirty. Three Budweisers. Where was Mel? He pulled his mobile out, checking to see if he had missed any messages. None. He reached into the fridge for another beer and then stopped, frowning as he noticed a folded piece of violet coloured paper propped against the last beer at the back of the fridge.
Simon opened his beer, seeing no rush to read what was clearly going to either hurt or infuriate him. He shoved a small slice of lemon in the top and sucked the rim of the bottle quickly as the beer foamed up. He walked over to the shabby sofa in the conservatory, chewing the inside of his cheek, and unfolded the paper.
Simon -
If you have found this (as I know you will), then you will have drunk nearly all the beer.
As you know, Sarah will not be coming out of Madron House. Therefore, as per our conversation at the florist’s, I want you out of the house. I am staying at my parents and would like you to be gone by Tuesday. As you do not start work again until next Thursday, this should give you time to find digs or whatever.
I’m sorry that it has come to this. I would have thought that I would need you more than ever during this time. But I find that I am the stronger one and that you, rather than providing strength, are merely pulling me down.
Simon's Choice Page 12