Triple traits of a Woman

The Three Traits of a Woman - Uncle Gokhale speaks again

July 1998, Pen, Maharashtra

Arrival at Pen:

If you have read my last blog you would be conviced as to why i am in love with this place. The monsoon of 98 with a great training at IPCL Nagothane, and a great place to retreat after a long day at the plant, made those 10 days memorable. Apart from the occassion, what made the experience unforgettable was the magic of Pen - the house where we stayed and its owner Uncle Gokhale, who was the dad of my father's colleague. Many more trinklets and glistens formed the fine brocade of this magical place. It was also a different experience for a pampered and protected kid like me to stay away from the luxuries of a well provided, "automated" home.

Mounted on a rumbling n' wobbling four wheel box o' jagged tin ( God knows whether the fifth wheel existed in the drivers hands), which is locally called Maharashtra ST bus, we chug-chugged from Mumbai. After getting down we carefully followed the detailed directions noted by my dad and found ourselves far away from the bustling Goa highway into the quiet enclosure of old Pen where the trumpets of the great marathas can still be heard looking at some of the old "Waadas" and the old Shiva temple up the hillock.

Gokhale Uncle

We were welcomed by our elderly host, Mr. Gokhale, who assured us that his home was a peaceful and comfortable place to stay. We felt quite protected in his octogenerian company, despite feeling slightly insecure about the heavy rain falling on the age old mangalore tiled roof. He helped us quickly unwind. He told us that there had been few students of a nearby engineering college, who stayed as paying guest with him for a long time except for one who got bogged by drinking habit and had apparently put up some obscene posters in his rented room.

I could see Mr. Gokhale getting more talkative with growing enthusiasm which was a direct reflection of how lonely he had been staying all by himself long after the last paying guest had left him.... long after his wife passed away... long after he retired from the film editing lab where he glared at every frame of movie with his expert eyes, much before the burning light of the arclamps projected its image on an awaiting white screen. As he started talking more and more we could see the experiences he had been through and the many cycles of various seasons, some changing as per the nature's pattern and the others rather uncertain.

Uncle Gokhale pointed to the inner room and said " tum log yaahaan pe soneka.. chadar chatayi rakha hua hai.. laga ke so janeka Bhe**hod". The last word came naturally with an absolutely smooth allignment with the rest of the sentence. Kaushal my colleague who was a non-swearer till that point in life, wondered why uncle used a gaali for no mistake done!!! I was reminded of my Dad's description of few elders who use abuses like Ashtottara, which is a set of endearing names to God almighty.. I could feel the same music in his abuse, except that Kaushal took time to appreciate Hard rock music, which was clear from his question "Uncle ne humlog ko gaali kyon diya".

For the next two days Kaushal and mine sentences to each other ended with that word, while trying to imitate the smoothness in uncle's tone.. we could not :-). Saints as we were at that time when we never used any abuse, it was quite a try when no one else was hearing.

After our dinner, uncle said that there were many boys who stayed there but he never allowed a single girl to stay there.. I thought that with a small house as that it would be an obvious reason not to allow a girl to stay there. But before i could freeze my apprehensions, Mr. Gokhale vented out saying:

" Ek chatt ke neeche hazaar ladke reh sakte hain ... lekin do ladkiyaan kabhi nahin.. Kyonkin aurat ka teen gun hota hain" (teen and gun are hindi words not to be pronounced as in english, but what uncle meant was a more lethal weapon than a gun in english) .

I did not wonder too much as to why he was being so unfair to womankind because i myself was a MCP those days, much more than what i am today. Overcome with sleep after a sumptuous dinner and an equally filling long talk, I nodded at that statement thinking that it was one of the dialogues of his film and retired to bed in total darkness of not just the night, but in the darkness of my ignorance about where uncle Gokhale came from when he made that statement.

Next morning he spoke about his sons and their family, about the arrogance of his daughter-in-laws. One of whom had a love marriage with his younger son who was not even having a firm employment then. His older son's wife was arrogant and quite believed in staying separately. It was apparent by now that Uncle had seen the worst of women in them who were the reasons for him to stay away.. far away from urban civilizations in his own world where he experimented with herbs and ayurveda, where he carefully stored his collection of old film posters of those for which he did the editing, where he lived with the fond memories of his passionate and hard struggled past. He once again ended up saying "Aurat ka teen gun hota hain".. this time my eye brows went higher, the way it does when you see a catchy advertisement for the second time delving deeper into what it is trying to convey.

I heard this sentence a couple of more times before i finally blew the whistle asking "Uncle yeh teen gun hain kya??". He burst out laughing and asked "Tereko aurat ke teen gun nahin maloom? Kaisa aadmi hain tu bhi?" I told him that i honestly did not know about it. He then then repeated the phrase like a mantra.

"Aurat ka teen Gun hota hain"

Ater a pause he repeated and continued " Yeh teen gun ke wajah se saadaran si aurat Indira Gandhi ban jaati hai.. yeh teen gun se .....sirf yeh teen gun se woh apna raj chalati hai is duniya pe"

"Sabse Pehla gun: Shringaar" A lady expresses Shringaar through her beauty, through the way she carries herself, the way she decorates herself and makes her presence felt aloud. She grabs attention and then she robs unsuspecting sights and hearts.... she conquers. The charm of beautiful women like Madhubala was still present in the fading posters from uncle's collection of those movies he edited. Cleopatra unlike the hype was not known to be a particularly good looking woman, she had some odd features. What made her alluring was her sense of Shringaar. People go out of the way and ways fall apart when the lady in red calls for her shots, no matter however "strong hearted" a man may be. The way a woman carries herself can get her big tasks done by others without throwing her weight. I must confess here that i have been an unsuspecting victim to this weapon too and many among ye readers after raising your eyebrows will recollect a time when you have been vulnerable (men) or when you have used this deadly weapon (women) :-).... She dresses to kill and she rules.

"Doosra gun: Rodan" . I recollected Munshi Premchand's words which may be translated as "A woman's tears is the highest calorific fuel to keep masculine anger at its highest temperature". The toughest masculine carborandum-hearts have melted like butter on a frying pan at the first trickle of a feminine tear droplet. Tears may arrive as an indication of deep pain but have the immense capacity to mobilize action.

"Teesra Gun: Matsarya" .. Before uncle could tell me more about jealousy, i was reminded of the famous story of Goddess Parvati being jealous of her sister River Goddess Ganges residing in her husband, Lord Shiva's hair locks. She devised a fine conspiracy after that to ensure that Ganges was sent back to earth. However her Jealosy served a higher purpose of relieving the thirsts and sins of thousands of seekers in the downstream of Ganges. But I stood bewildered at the amount of action and change that Jealosy can drive.

Its amazing that these three forces are neatly concealed since they appear as signs of weakness or as means of getting attention. It is these notions that makes these forces unbeatable.

Mr. Gokhale's story was an eye-opener which showed clearly that men and women are not created equal, as women are more equipped with these three forces. As a matter of fact every woman is well armed to use these three forces for either rocking the cradle or ruling the world.

.... "yehi teen gunon se woh apna hukum chalati hai.... aur saadi si ladki Indira Gandhi ban Jaati hai"

The Little Green Woman

The Little Green Woman from Innerspace

Outset:

The monsoon of 1998 saw me excited upon a spectacular journey, a nice getaway that every tormented prisoner of Chaos City longs for. Thanks to my close college-mate, Sridhar, Kaushal and I got a berth for an exciting offsite training at the IPCL plant at a distant place, Nagothane. The three of us were quite a group

Accomodation at Pen:

While Sridhar had a direct bus from his outskirts residence leading to the plant location, Kaushal and I had to stay at a nearby town called "Pen" ( n pronounced with the stronger syllable), which is famous for its plaster sculptors who supply the whole world with plaster statues of Lord Ganesh. Thanks to my father's colleague, we got ourselves an accomodation in the innermost precincts of Pen, which was a stronghold of Maratha warriors of yore, whose presence could still be felt through the family temples and the large residences named "Waadas" prefixed with the family names (eg. Daataarwaada). The Waadas and the fragrance of the place were frozen in time ever since the last Maratha warrior raised his war cry, save the falling plaster and structural deterioration of the buildings, inspite of which the structures stood tall and sturdy.

The clouds and the left-overs of the sunshine that it spared through, ensured that the grays matched with that of the old town.

When we asked for the residence of Mr. Gokhale, our host, we were pointed to an old, ramshackle tumbledowned home. It was made of mud with a roof of burnt-red Mangalore tiles. The central portion of the structure had already given way, succumbimg to the forces of nature and neglect. We came to know later that this demolished part of the house partitioned the two occupant families of the house like a no-man's land between conflicting countries. The courtyard was a fine red paste of mud, the blend of which told us aloud that the place was well rain-fed. The dripping droplets from the trees above did its bit to keep the dampness of the place alive, despite the strong showers having left the place about an hour back.

Our host was very courteous well in his eighties, and had lots of stories to tell us about ayurveda and the silver screens of yest years where he served as a technical person. The posters of the old movies which he proudly showed with his name in the fineprint, with the innocence of a child showing his high grades, were all faded. But in the glimmer of his faint eyes, the colours of Madhubala's costumes showed with its full lustre, just like it did on the silver screen on one of the first eastman colour movies that he edited.

After his wife's demise, Mr. Gokhale stayed all alone by himself in this house but for a companion whom he called "the Laxmi" of the home. I discovered this "Laxmi" later, a small mole rat, when she was having her share of the khichdi that I cooked with chef Kaushal's directions, thankfully she did that after we were done with our share. She was harmless as Uncle Gokhale had told us, she came uninvited and left at her own will, but paid regular visits. The house was lit by three bulbs, one flickering tubelight and had bare minimum possessions like a primus original kerosene stove and a couple of vessels for cooking and heating bath water. We were about to crib for a fan before the onset of the night that blew a cold breeze with torrential rains over the place. We sought refuge under our blankets.

The Dark Damp Night.

At the end of the first long day Kaushal and I were done with our dinner and so was "Laxmi". We were also done washing the utensils and the clothes which took over two days and nights to dry in the damp weather. The one's which dried anyways became wet when we wore it and set off in the windy rains.

The last lamp in the house was finally switched off and Kaushal immediately dropped asleep. While I somehow made it to the bed in the pitch dark, I was lost in the darkness even after settling in the bed. I could feel just my eyelids flickering with not a pixel illuminated on my retina to prove that I still had the ability to see. Goodness!! had i turned blind!!?? or do such dark places actually exist on earth!!?? My eye lids continued to blink with an experience of total blindness less the sixth sense of a blind man.

The next morning, Mr. Gokhale gave us a small surprise and said that he is leaving for Mumbai to collect his pension and the house would remain in our charge. He asked us to religiously light a lamp or an agarbatti in the place near the kitchen where he had the photographs of few Gods and his departed grandmother who had taught him ayurveda. He gave us some medicines to take care of ourselves, and a mysterious powder which was supposed to have the effect of sanjivini.. the elixir of life kind of drug. I later on found that the same medicine had cured my tonsils without operation, long back when Mr. Gokhale's son had sent me during my troubled days.

The Damp night Returns.. She Came with her torch.

The night repeated with her mysterious darkness, tranquilizing Kaushal almost as fast as the lights went off. Once again I marvelled at the immense darkness of the place till I had the encounter which was waiting few moments ahead.

Just when my eyelids were almost done with their routine flicker and were about to close like the falling curtains of a concluded opera show, they swung wide open to a spectacle! This time they did not flicker...my eyelids were held wide open.... for the entire room was filled with a green haze that was bright enough to light every detail of the room, just like the zero watt bulb of the room in the brown-out low voltage.

For the first few minutes I could not trace the source of the light, until a tiny green lantern came flying across the room and hovered for a brief instant over my head with her full lustre in which i could now see my own nose. She proved to me that i did not turn blind after the lights went out and that my faculties of vision still remained active. I realized that the room and I were haunted, as much as I was enchanted, by this glow-worm who had just graduated to become a firefly. Her tail had the faint green steady light which was unlikely of the bright strobelight flashes of the fully grown firefly. She settled on the wall like the night lamp on duty, while her green glow into sweet slumber.

I was beginning to believe that it was a dream until the next night she returned to redeem me from the blinding darkness of the night, giving me company till I fell asleep, giving me rays of green hope even under the grey clad skies and the burnt mangalore tiled roof.

The night after, she never came, but by then my heart was full of her beauty and lustre and I was pretty much convinced that it was the darkness of the night .... nay not loss of sight which defined the black canvas on which my imagination drew green images.

Sincerely..

Nagesh Pai