Khimsar, Rajastan, India

The sun set large on the Minaj plain. Three kilometers to the north, where the village bustled with evening preparations, the penned lambs bleated, aware that nightfall brought the return of mother and mother's milk. The goat herds crossed the plain in silence, each hoof-drop triggering a small explosion of red dust, red like the sun and the sky and the plain itself. There were, I think, five or maybe six herds and everything, the goats and the herders and the very evening, ambled easily into the west, into the sun and off the edge of the horizon. The herds passed. I walked into amongst them and stood unnoticed. Hundreds passed, then more and then they were gone--but one, one old red goat, her head dropping and bobbing with each labored step. She would advance, then bobb again and again plant her foot, as if it was the last time ever she would move. The monsoons were heavy this year and a result is the growth of the thorned underbrush. The goats pick up a thorn and left unremoved it infects the animals. I was watching the result: the old goat was struggling to keep up, but was losing contact with the herd; she would get home late; and some morning soon she would not be heading out to graze. Something takes us all down eventually. We all pick up a thorn along the way, lose contact with the herd, return after sunset. In the distance a herder, his turban redder than the western horizon, turned back toward me--or was he checking on his charges? I pressed my palms together and bowed slightly. He returned my gesture and then he was gone over the edge of the earth. A few minutes later the limping goat followed in complete uncomplaining silence.
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By 10:30 in the morning the village elders in Dhdhundaly were already quite high—and they were anxious to get at it again. Here they drink opium, concentrated and filtered, like a stoned Mr. Coffee mixture. Of course this is India, so there must be some spiritual reason to do something—everything—and an offering to Shiva is made. The priest-elder pours the dark liquid into his cupped palm. It sat high and brimmed, like mercury would sit. He offered his hand to the squatting man on his left. The squatting man sipped it at first, then slurped it gone. Then the next man was offered the full palm, and so on until it was the priest-elder’s turn. Someone took over the duty and offered a palm-full to the priest-elder. He sucked it down in one shot, like a thirsty sponge. He exhaled and shook his head. He made noises like a horse in early morning stable. Then again, he nodded, as if to say, “Hit me.” I noticed how red-rimmed and stoned his eyes were. He smiled at me and twisted the ends of his moustache. He instructed his assistant that his guests not be overlooked. Alas, in liquid form opium takes a month or more to set in, I am told. One must be a faithful practitioner to really enjoy its benefits. Benefits? Why just look at him. He is over 70 years old. See how young he stays. He seemed to be looking through me by this time, deep into his practitioner addiction. The liquid was bitter. They passed a tin jar containing golden nuggets of raw molasses. It absorbs the bitterness and is sweet on the tongue.