moking handu BY MARJORIE DRAWING BY MICHAEL CURRY U ■ HAT 1 know of Opium is little, a fraction of its age-old history. 1 ■ ■ grabbed on late to its raggedy shirt tail. My very first experience with smoking chandu, the cleaned and liquefied opium, was in Calcutta’s Chinatown. It was also the first time I had occasion to use a rickshaw with a puller, the man who picks up the long pole handles and trots, moving only from the waist down. His muscular arms bend at straight angles, holding the bars waist high, the shoulders tense. 1am enclosed in a tiny carriage, a curtain hanging down in front, with a slit to peek out of. The traffic is perpetually jammed. We move along more easily than any other vehicle on the road, rickshaws and bicycles. When we reach the Chinatown area, young thin boys begin to notice me and ask, “Chandu smoking?” I arrive at the place. I have been told of, pay off the rickshaw walla, and follow a man up to the top of a typical narrow staircase, poorly lit for lack of windows. Inside the room, the Indian host and his Chinese wife make me welcome, lay newspaper on the floor, so as not to soil my dress. 1 take tny wood block and rest on my side. He asks how many cups, I answer two. This makes about eight pipes. My face is a few inches from the filthy old pipe master. In the easy light of his lamp, I am at my leisure to study his bony hands. He works like a magician, with his wand (needle) and cups on a tray, called “chips.” Each chip makes three to four pipes. Also he has his pipe-cleaning kit, scissors to trim the lamp’s wick, an instrument to clean the bowl out, and a tin to put the scrapings into. The residue called “inchy” is put into the pot when making new. 1 he coconut oil. All this stuff is bundled into a dirty rag neatly tied together. I drift off between pipes after smoking two. He taps the side of the pipe with his wand when it’s prepared to smoke again. There is an oil lamp between us. He trims the wick, refills the lamp making some religious sign by touching his forehead and the coconut oil. From the cups he takes the long thin needle, twisting the chandu around the tip, then cooks it over the flame until it begins to bubble. Slapping it on the pipe’s bowl he manipulates it to thy consistency of putty. He pokes the chandu into the hole in the center of the bowl, and holds it upside down over the flame to smoke. One puts the end of the pipe in the mouth, takes a scries of short puffs, then a long draw until it is gone. 1 hold my breath, then relax, more deeply than I ever recall. 1 feel a crushing embrace. The very encasement of my own body fondles itself. Tissues swell. 1 hope my heart pounding is not audible, that my orgiastic activities do not reveal themselves upon my features or in my movements. My long full skirt covers even my feet. 1 would never expose so much as a shoulder, for I am an indulged guest. Up until Westerners started to visit, women seldom frequented these dens. A woman traveling solo has a responsibility to the Western males that, by behaving poorly, could put one of them in the position of having to defend her. The very color or your hand or hair could, under hysterical circumstances, cause a riot. It is shaky at best, so I never provoke or jeopardize that which 1take part in. The chandu inevitably makes the novice smoker nauseated. This is another unforgivable act: One mustn’t vomit in the den. It is the height of ill manners. There is never a toilet anyway. It would be on a lower floor, a black hole in a tiny dark room, found only with a guide. They offered me the bed to relax upon, I was very dizzy and sleepy when I stood to go. I realized 1was just taking up space for others whowould smoke, so I soon got myself together and left. At the time I was staying at the Salvation Army dorm, and I was quickly lost, stopping along the road to retch in Calcutta’s gutters. The act was unselfconscious. 1had to cross a street with a traffic copper directing. He looked at me as I held my hand over my mouth to keep.from spewing until I reached the other side. It began to rain. I finally found a vacant rickshaw as the rains came down in full. The puller’s feet were bare, mud to his knees. The next time 1 smoked chandu was in Bombay. Then 1 became better acquainted with the ritual, the body’s reaction, the mind’s longing. OW in Bombay the den is crowded, especially after the Indians’ working day is done. The student, the clerk, the laborer are here. One man came routinely, probably for years. His office clothing he’d wear outside. He would come into the den, take off his trousers and shirt and underneath there’d be pajamas worn for smoking. Sometimes as many as six bodies, each in his own world, lay around the lamp waiting for a turn at the pipe. Hindi movie music blares from the old cabinet radio, many sing along. The room is stuffy, small, with high ceilings holding in the oppressive heat. It reeks of the sickly sweet smell of chandu. A shrine to a god is framed with fresh flowers each day. Incense is burned. A few old calendar pictures hang on the walls, from Japanese car ads. The woman model, probably Eurasian, has been religiously converted by painting a dot on her forehead to better fit their fantasies. We are on a busy street, about four stories up. I watch out the open window; without being seen from below. I peer at a crowd at a bus stop. The buses are double-decker London types, On the back entrance is a policeman, armed with a bamboo stick, to beat back the people when they overcrowd. The passengers cling, chase, fall into and out of the machine. The giant city’s din, the clamor below, hundreds swirling in brilliant colors, I am removed from for a few cents a day. What I see stabs me with a dull knife. My liver aches. I disown that which causes any discomfort. The pipe maker tells me he was in the army during the Second Great War. Under British command, they were fighting the Japanese, in Burma. He speaks a poor pidgin English, mostly recalling, “Left, right, left....” He’s been smoking for nearly fifty years, and he looks down on the man who comes begging for the dregs with trembling hands. Prostrating himself, the beggar pleads, without a shred of pride left, for the cup of vyater the used chips are thrown into. The maker indicates with disgust for him to take it. The old man thirstily brings it to his lips, gulping the stinking putrid liquid. In a panic, it runs down his stained beard. His clothes are hanging off his bony body in threads'. He retreats, walking backwards, mumbling his profound thanks. The men working in the den are all addicts, rampant with T.B. They sleep there and are paid a token five rupees a day and their chandu, which most of the older addicts drink. They make a bums’ stew at day’s end, roll out their blankets and that is their life. They use the money for tobacco and medicine. The boss provides the essentials, dope, a roof, and food. A fine life it is for an old addict. There is a great deal of quarreling going on among them, a pecking order. They are often fired and re-hired. Once one robbed the boss and ran away to his village, boasting of his wealth, spending freely, only to come back when the party was over, to take his beating and begin work again. Another pipe maker, being canned, moaned while gathering his pitiful bundle of rags together. It was comical, dust rolling out of his load. He was yammering without the aid of teeth, and that face! One side was collapsed, drooping from lying a half century on his left side, head propped upon the wooden pillow. Smoking his pipe, lost in the opulent dream world, the man could care less that his face was melting or fingernails had turned to claws. He is self-contained. The opium addict transforms the den into a palace, his palace, where he is king of dreams. Bombay 1979/80 Marjorie currently lives in Nepal, occasionally sharing glimpses of her life through missives to friends. Michael Curry is a Portland artist. Hours: Mon-Fri 11-6/Thurs 11-7/Sat 11-5 M OPT '-I E Sweet Dreams Futon. Six-inch thick Japanese beds, all cotton or with two- inch foam cores Send $2 for our catalogue of sweet dreams at sweet prices. Or come visit! 400 SW 2nd. Portland 97204 516 15th Ave. East, Seattle 98112
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTc4NTAz