← THE BUYERS AND SELLERS: THE COCOON MARKETS
Destination: Sidlaghatta | Essay and Photos by Pam Kaplan
It is often said that many great adventures begin in your own backyard. On this Friday morning I’m energized with the prospect of a road trip.
Perhaps it is the desire to combat jet lag from the previous week’s 22-hour journey in the back of a not so state-of-the-art 777 plane or weariness from the constant din of car horns, pre-Diwali firecrackers and blowing street dust from crumbling sidewalks and new building construction which is nearly everywhere and mostly in my living room. I’m longing to exchange the all too familiar rhythms of Bangalore in favor of a bright blue sky, fresh air and a new experience.
My destination is Sidlaghatta, located in southern state of Karnataka, India. It is also known as the "Silky City" according to the branding on their website which is precisely what has piqued my interest. Silk is everywhere in India. From the richly colorful everyday saris and clothing worn by the majority of the local female population, to elegant evening wear, wedding dresses, scarves, curtains, bedspreads, pillows, upholstered furniture, and even surgical sutures. Silk is seemingly ubiquitous. And, it is meant to be seen and bought.
But on this day and this trip, I want to see where silk comes from. My driver Ali watches patiently as I load up the backseat of the car with provisions for the day – photography equipment, several bottles of water, anti-bacterial wipes, mosquito repellant, ibuprofen and peppermint chewing gum. Ali refrains from rolling his eyes in my presence as he is now accustomed to my survival rituals of the road trip.
Starting from the center of old Bangalore, we bounce, twist and weave our way through traffic, without the usual craziness of our morning commute. It is a holiday and most office and government workers have the day off. Soon, the usual chaos of Bangalore is behind us. Immediately ahead is a brilliant blue sky, lush green farm fields studded with plantations of corn, banana trees and rice paddies that have all been refreshed from the extended rainy season. Thankful for a long stretch of smooth highway and an escape from my own office, I allow my mind to wander toward thoughts of my destination: the Sidlaghatta silk cocoon auction.
This is not my first visit to India. I have done my part for the local Indian economy, as substantiated through the clothing souvenirs hanging neatly in my American closet in colors of magenta, emerald green, peacock blue, and sunrise yellow. Colorful hues that the locals insist should be mixed and matched.
As we exit from the highway and on to a series of rocky and twisting dirt roads, our Toyota quickly is drawn into the assemblage of other vehicles and becomes part of an unofficial pack. The loud din of engines and horns resumes. Ali deftly navigates around people walking in perfect balance with large parcels on their heads wrapped in faded plaid cloths and brown burlap sacks. Others are riding in auto rickshaws, small trucks, and farm carts pulled by oxen with smooth shiny fur, small horns and collars with large red plastic jewels. I hold my camera in my lap, waiting the perfect moment to unfold, and at the same time, I’m too distracted to shoot as I take it all in. Though I’m not really sure, I excitedly start thinking – “they must be going where we’re going”. I spot trucks and motorcycles that look to be on a mission, carrying bags of all types, packed tightly and bulging with lumpy, precious cargo. All of a sudden, our journey comes to a halt as vehicles start turning off in two different directions. The rocky dirt road ahead looks treacherous with large, muddy puddles from the lingering monsoon rains and is literally oozing with the thick orange-brown clay common to the soil of Karnataka. Just to be on the safe side, Ali rolls down his window and asks for directions as he has done many times before.
We turn the corner and at once we reach the commercial main street of Sidlaghatta. I roll down my window and take in the smoky sweet scent that is permeating the air from burning wood and cow dung. It is a smell that is familiar and even somewhat comforting.
The town is bustling with the morning activities of merchants moving carts with bright red pomegranates and leafy green vegetables, tables with cages containing ornery chickens, baskets with piles of roasted brown peanuts and ancient grinding machines to extract pure sugar cane into juice the color of fresh celery.
I’m ready to take it on and free myself from the car as Ali moves on to find a good parking spot. People who seemingly mean well, but can’t help to stare quickly surround me. I keep moving slowly ahead and get the usual questions and establish that I’m from Washington, D.C.; I don’t know Obama but voted for him; I’ve had my breakfast; and yes, I like India very much. As per my usual experience, one photo begets another photo and soon I have a small crowd assembled, all wanting a group picture and to see the result in my camera’s viewfinder. I’m re-joined by Ali and together we make our way up the street, carefully dodging trucks, cows and vehicles of all sizes.
As we enter the gate into the auction, I am overwhelmed at the number of motorcycles parked in every inch of available space and men waiting, milling about and laughing both with each other and unidentified voices at the other end of their cell phones. The auction doesn’t take place in just one area; there are several buildings within a large connected campus. My arrival has caught the attention of the head of security and for a moment, I am worried that I will not be allowed to enter. In an exchange of words with Ali in the local language of Kannada (which I cannot understand), the security guard then smiles and ushers me through the front entrance and tells me to “enjoy the auction” in perfect English.
I’m dumbfounded and apparently standing in the way as porters bearing large bags of cocoons are pushing past me me with exasperated expressions. The air smells warm and grassy like freshly cut produce and occasionally pungent with the body odor of working men. The rooms are filled with long green tables and metal bins overflowing with silk cocoons. Large fluffy white cocoons with a silvery silken sheen, medium ivory colored cocoons, yellowish cocoons and even hardened, yellow-brown rugged cocoons.
There are also hands everywhere, with people nervously sorting, plumping, preening and fluffing up their precious products to look their best for the auctioneer.
The Sidlaghatta Cocoon Market is one of the largest in the state of Karnataka and in South Asia. People come from as far away as 300 km every day at 10 a.m. to sell and buy one precious commodity: the silk cocoon.
The Indian Government plays a key role in regulating the market including oversight on daily pricing thresholds and providing organized selling and buying opportunities for small to medium farmers. Cocoon exchange volumes in Sidlaghatta can vary from 30 to 70 tons each day. Like any market – the law of supply and demand on a given day establishes the going rate.
The market begins sharply at 10 a.m. and the rooms start to echo with the nervous buzz in anticipation of today’s prices, augmented by the sound of a full sell-off in progress as the auctioneer systematically moves from table to table. A young boy in a pink shirt appears at my side. “What’s your name?” he asks me. As we exchange formalities, I learn that my new friend’s name is Manjunath. He is 14 years old and has been learning about the USA in school. He asks me why I am in India, what kind of camera do I have and if I’m with a television station. Disappointed with my answers, he shrugs off my visit and walks away.
Manjunath doesn’t go far however and apparently decides that my visit to the market is still more interesting than standing with his family. “They’re alive you know” he says with a matter-of-fact voice. Satisfied with my surprised expression, he reaches for my hand and gently drops a cocoon into my palm. He instructs me to shake it. I am startled by the warmth emanating from my little bundle as I gently move it from side to side. I feel the subtle movement of the silkworm in its pupa state and realize that the entire room is sweltering with kinetic energy produced by humans and the millions of cocoons.
As the auctioneer approaches our area, the farmers quickly push me aside. In the universal language of facial expression, I'm reminded that this is their livelihood and not a tourist attraction. And, I need a higher vantage point. I enlist the help of Ali and Manjunath to find an unused carton that I can stand on. Safely tucked out of the way and mostly steady on my makeshift perch, I am able to see above the crowd.
The faces before me are intense with emotion. Those who have come to sell cocoons look particularly sad as the market rates are established for the day. Their eyes seem to bear the weariness of disappointment or maybe it is sheer exhaustion.
Those that have come to buy seem slightly more upbeat. They are neatly dressed in colorful shirts, some with scarves and nearly all with cell phones. Many have their children in tow, who are happily playing under the table and shyly watching me work the room with my camera. In one corner, I see a line of people building in an area around a giant cage. Men are busy hoisting cartons of cocoons unto the market scale and awaiting their turn. The giant red LED panel of the machine glows bright with numbers for all to see as narrow paper slips print out the final tallies of nearly a month’s worth of effort.
The life cycle of the Bombx mori silkworm from egg to moth is about 45 days, however the actual marketing window for the resulting cocoon is about nine days. If the cocoons are not sold during this window, the pupa will go through their final transformation, breaking through the cocoon wall and into their moth state. Once the silk threads are broken, they cannot be used in the traditional reeling and weaving processes.
Large cloths and bags in various patterns and colors are spread on the ground as strong looking men dump the contents of the large plastic cartons into neat piles. The cloths faded by the wear and tear of frequent use become makeshift cocoon bundles. People are moving quickly and efficiently. New men arrive, ready to transport the precious cargo to the silk reelers. I watch them bend down as the giant bundles are hoisted up above their shoulders and on to their heads. They swiftly exit the market and climb aboard bicycles. They seem to quickly achieve balance with no issue and start to ring their bicycles' bells as they begin the journey to deliver the cocoons to their next destination.
