Bagus.

In his apothecary, Bagus doesn't ask what's wrong: he picks up the plant, brings it to his nose and rubs it between his fingers to let out the scent. "Let's see what you've got to tell me," he says — not to whoever's come to see him, but to the leaf. He closes his eyes for a second, breathes, and gets it right. It's a trade of standing still for hours smelling bark and roots, and for that a hoodie is perfect: you keep it on all morning and forget you're wearing it while your nose does the work.

When it's time to grind, Bagus does it in a worn stone mortar that belonged to his grandmother Sekar, the matriarch, the same stone she used to grind her herbs. He'd rather use that old stone than any new grinder, and he won't sell it or lend it out. Grinding by hand is a patient trade, and a piece like this suits that rhythm: it keeps you warm without getting in the way through whole mornings spent working the root. "This is what I grind with," he says when someone points at it, "not what you pay with."