The myth of male courage

On a visit to Gokarna, I found myself in unlikely company; an infantry colonel with decades of field service behind him, another companion who had retired after a long banking career and Praveena, the colonel’s homemaker wife. 

Together we were to  visit an ancient natural underground void, a slightly intimidating Gogarbha Cave, formed from a rock around 150 million years old.  Hindu mythology claimed, Lord Shiva emerged from the ear of a cow in this cave and therefore the name Gogarbha. 

The approach to the cave was deceptively serene. Coconut palms tilted lazily against the sky while shrubs and wild grass grew in the unlikeliest of places. Nothing had  prepared us for the cave’s entrance: a narrow, low slit in the rock that demanded physical concessions. We had to bend low, almost bow, before entering. 

All three men were past seventy. Age speaks at such moments though between us lay years of uniforms, offices, files and authority. The colonel examined the opening with practised assessment.

Years in the infantry had trained him to read terrain, anticipate hazard, calculate movement. The cave offered little visibility, uneven footing and the unmistakable message of being claustrophobic inside. 

I hesitated myself, but dressed the hesitation in intellectual curiosity. It is one thing to admire ascetics looking for ‘moksha’ in darkness; quite another to negotiate  darkness with joints that no longer trust sudden movement.

The retired banker, seasoned by decades of weighing risk against return, regarded the aperture with similar sobriety. Prudence is a habit that does not retire easily.

Praveena, stood quietly beside us. For decades she had followed the unpredictable rhythms of army life, packing up homes at short notice, managing long absences, raising kids across unfamiliar towns. Her courage had never required an audience.

The cave did not appear to her as an obstacle but as an adventure. Without fuss, she slipped off her sandals and moved forward. No proclamation, no challenge, just a decision. In that small act was a lifetime of unadvertised strength.

We remained outside.

The colonel, who had once led men through far harsher uncertainties, adopted an air of dignified watchfulness. The banker studied the rocks as though assessing accounting stability. I found myself absorbed in the play of grass and shadow, as if research would compensate for not entering the cave.

When Praveena emerged, there was no triumph in her expression, only composure. Inside she said, the air was cool and skylight emerged through an opening in the roof. There  were three meditating foreigners, all silent and in immobile postures. One of them offered her a lamp to study the walls and the low ceiling. 

As we left for our car park, the colonel resumed command of the open path, the banker returned to his calculations, me the writer to metaphor. But the cave had delivered an unmistakable verdict. In the narrowest spaces of life, it is often women who move first and men who follow. 

(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.)