I take great pleasure in watching the sadhu load his chillum. Smoke from the fire drifts back into the cave before curling out around its blackened mouth. The sadhu’s motions are precise and full of grace that comes from certain types of voluntary deprivation. His fingers knead the hash into tobacco, packing the cylinder, the end of which he wraps in cheesecloth soaked in water. Lifting coal from fire, he holds it in his palm, with a puff pares ash from ember, hands formed upward in a living temple, he places it precariously atop invokes the blessing of the great god Shiva and draws so deeply it is fierce— expels, choking a genie of thick white smoke.