The kiln master wipes his thumb down the side of a finished stick and shows it to the light. There is no residue. He says this without saying it. The bincho rings faintly as he sets it down in the sorting tray.
In Rajasthan an older woman tends a mound no larger than a sleeping dog. Smoke climbs from four small vents cut into the earth cap. She listens more than she watches. The charcoal beneath her feet is already a week old and will not be opened for another three days. Everything happens at a speed that does not belong to us.
The instrument clicks. The paper advances one millimeter. The needle draws a small trembling hill and then a quieter one, and then nothing for a long while. Something was burned a very long time ago and we are still, patiently, reading the smoke.
— Field reel, fragment, undated. Filed under TANSO / IN / 04.