Bishnoi Opium Ceremony

The Bishnoi farmer is a gaunt old man, thin and knotted as the turban on his head. There is a dusting of salt and pepper stubble on his cheek, and he is clad in white from top to toe. Beside him, eyeing us shyly, stands a woman with a broad, weather-beaten face. Neither has any English, so Ashraf my guide helps to translate.

'Please sit,' says Ashraf, gesturing at the edge of the charpoy.
'The lady is his daughter,' he adds, lest I draw the wrong conclusion. 'She comes every day from her husband's village to help her father cook and clean.'
The old man grins a gap-toothed grin.

He settles down onto a durrie rug as his daughter bustles away to make some tea. Arrayed before him are the instruments of his hospitality: a strange wooden contraption, a couple of wooden vessels shaped like boats, a pestle and a small metal pot. The contraption sports a little shrine with a carved lingam on top, and what looks like a pair of dirty socks in its cross-arms.

It is traditional to be welcomed with a draught of opium in a Bishnoi household.
'You want some opium-water?' asks Ashraf.
'Yes, of course – just a bit though, not too much.'
Ashraf and my host exchange a few words, and the old man laughs at my reticence.

He takes a pinch of black substance from a grimy plastic bag, wets it, and grinds it with the pestle in one of the wooden vessels. Then he fills the other wooden vessel with water, which he pours into the first to dissolve the paste. Finally, he strains the mixture through one of the dangling socks and begins to chant.
'He is offering the opium to Shiva,' says Ashraf.
I nod with incomprehension. Do the Bishnois share deities with the Hindu pantheon? India's fertile syncretism never ceases to amaze me.

The old man turns to offer me the concoction, and I cup my hands.
'Just a little...' I murmur, as he dribbles a few drops onto my palm.
I raise the liquid to my lips. Is it bitter? Is it sweet?
I can't quite tell.
Ashraf manfully drinks a mouthful, while the driver downs the rest.
'Good for driving,' he says, sheepishly, miming bright-eyed concentration behind the wheel.

The old man's daughter reappears, bringing me a cup of freshly brewed masala chai while, in the shade of a byre, a tethered calf slumbers serenely.