too tightly. This they do about ten times, until the head is exhausted and bleaches out. Later you will see what becomes of the residue.”
Intrigued, I followed my father on his rounds. We passed through miles of fields. Large flocks of birds wheeled like hovering clouds overhead. “They are after the wheat or maize, which is alternated with the poppies,” my father explained. He pointed out a distant platform raised upon poles to a height of twenty feet over the fields. When we came closer, I could see a small boy stationed there. After several birds began diving at the grain, the boy lifted a simple sling and selected a stone from a basket. With a graceful arch of his back, an unerring stone met its mark.
“Oh, no,” I cried in sympathy at the plummeting bird.
“It must be done as a, warning to the rest of the flock. Look.” I followed Papa's gaze as the dark cloud looped up and back, away from the boy on the platform.
“Who cares for these fields?” I asked as we walked out to inspect an area.
“Ryots , or cultivators, lease them from the crown. The ryot plows his field, removes the weeds and grass before dividing it into beds with those higher dykes between them.” He showed me a tank about ten feet deep, dug at one end of the field and pulled out a leather bucket attached to a rope. “Water is taken from here and used to irrigate the fields, which is necessary because most of the poppy cultivation is done after the monsoon. The seed is sown in November, the juice collected in February and March. Come, I will show you how that actually is accomplished.”
At the far end of the field, dozens of women were scarifying the seed pods that had already been scraped that morning. A lady in a billowing pink sari greeted my father respectfully, her hands cupped in a triangle, her head bowed. My father showed me the instrument she carried. It had four two-pointed blades bound together with cotton thread. “This is called a nutshur. Only one set of points is used at one time as the capsule is cut vertically from base to summit.”
He returned the tool to its worker and pointed to a collector who was working on another row. With swift, decisive movements the man used an iron scoop to collect the brown sap that had oozed out during the night, and as it became filled, he emptied it into an earthen pot strapped on his side. From time to time he wet the scoop and his fingers with linseed oil carried in a small jar tucked into his dhoti. “On dry days like today, he needs the oil to prevent the adhesion of the sticky juice. On moist days, his work is easier, but a portion of the sap is washed away, or worse, it becomes watery. That results in a lower grade, called passewa , for which we get less money.”
“Can't you dry it to get the water out?” I wondered.
Papa beamed. “How your questions please me! You must have flowers in your blood. Come see what happens next.”
The rickshaw-wallah spit out his betel juice and readied to take us. My father offered me water from a jug and gave me a slice of melon as we headed back toward the town by another route. On the outskirts of Patna we came across an enormous mass of brick buildings with red tiled roofs. A wonderful fresh-mown smell permeated the exterior, where men wielding wooden paddles stirred shallow trays of the tarry exudate.
“Here the gum dries in the sun for one to three weeks to remove the water content.”
“So the drier the sap, the shorter the time it must cook in the sun,” I said matter-of-factly.
“I shall have to put you to work,” he said, grinning. He pointed to men bending over a table in the shade of a shed. They seemed to be kneading sticky rolls of black bread. “When dried, the opium is formed into three loaves.”
Opium. This was the first time I had heard that word connected with the day's activities. Where had I heard it before? Mother . . . the trial. I recalled my mother's silver-and-ivory hookah that had been thrown on the
Intrigued, I followed my father on his rounds. We passed through miles of fields. Large flocks of birds wheeled like hovering clouds overhead. “They are after the wheat or maize, which is alternated with the poppies,” my father explained. He pointed out a distant platform raised upon poles to a height of twenty feet over the fields. When we came closer, I could see a small boy stationed there. After several birds began diving at the grain, the boy lifted a simple sling and selected a stone from a basket. With a graceful arch of his back, an unerring stone met its mark.
“Oh, no,” I cried in sympathy at the plummeting bird.
“It must be done as a, warning to the rest of the flock. Look.” I followed Papa's gaze as the dark cloud looped up and back, away from the boy on the platform.
“Who cares for these fields?” I asked as we walked out to inspect an area.
“Ryots , or cultivators, lease them from the crown. The ryot plows his field, removes the weeds and grass before dividing it into beds with those higher dykes between them.” He showed me a tank about ten feet deep, dug at one end of the field and pulled out a leather bucket attached to a rope. “Water is taken from here and used to irrigate the fields, which is necessary because most of the poppy cultivation is done after the monsoon. The seed is sown in November, the juice collected in February and March. Come, I will show you how that actually is accomplished.”
At the far end of the field, dozens of women were scarifying the seed pods that had already been scraped that morning. A lady in a billowing pink sari greeted my father respectfully, her hands cupped in a triangle, her head bowed. My father showed me the instrument she carried. It had four two-pointed blades bound together with cotton thread. “This is called a nutshur. Only one set of points is used at one time as the capsule is cut vertically from base to summit.”
He returned the tool to its worker and pointed to a collector who was working on another row. With swift, decisive movements the man used an iron scoop to collect the brown sap that had oozed out during the night, and as it became filled, he emptied it into an earthen pot strapped on his side. From time to time he wet the scoop and his fingers with linseed oil carried in a small jar tucked into his dhoti. “On dry days like today, he needs the oil to prevent the adhesion of the sticky juice. On moist days, his work is easier, but a portion of the sap is washed away, or worse, it becomes watery. That results in a lower grade, called passewa , for which we get less money.”
“Can't you dry it to get the water out?” I wondered.
Papa beamed. “How your questions please me! You must have flowers in your blood. Come see what happens next.”
The rickshaw-wallah spit out his betel juice and readied to take us. My father offered me water from a jug and gave me a slice of melon as we headed back toward the town by another route. On the outskirts of Patna we came across an enormous mass of brick buildings with red tiled roofs. A wonderful fresh-mown smell permeated the exterior, where men wielding wooden paddles stirred shallow trays of the tarry exudate.
“Here the gum dries in the sun for one to three weeks to remove the water content.”
“So the drier the sap, the shorter the time it must cook in the sun,” I said matter-of-factly.
“I shall have to put you to work,” he said, grinning. He pointed to men bending over a table in the shade of a shed. They seemed to be kneading sticky rolls of black bread. “When dried, the opium is formed into three loaves.”
Opium. This was the first time I had heard that word connected with the day's activities. Where had I heard it before? Mother . . . the trial. I recalled my mother's silver-and-ivory hookah that had been thrown on the
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