An Extreme Love of Coffee

by Harish Bhat

  ‘Sir and Madam, welcome to Cottabetta. A very warm and special welcome! I am Pooviah at your service. Look behind you and you will see the wonderful coffee hills.’

  Rahul and Neha turned around. From their perch on top of Cottabetta Hill they could see coffee plantations everywhere, stretching on endlessly in all directions. The majestic mountains opened up around them and an unending carpet of heavenly green extended till wherever the eye could see. A little bird suddenly flew by. Neha, a keen birdwatcher, whispered excitedly, ‘That’s a red-whiskered bulbul, Rahul. The first one I’ve seen in ages. Wow! How beautiful is that.’ Rahul looked at the bird as it flew away and wondered how Neha could have seen the red whiskers so quickly, that too in the fading light. Women often see things that men never will, he thought.

  The old man, Pooviah, spoke again. ‘From your room you can see the Cottabetta coffee estate. It is a most wonderful view, Sir. But please do shut your door firmly at night because sometimes we have visitors. Elephants and one ghost too, Sir.’

  ‘Elephants and one ghost!’ Rahul and Neha were understandably alarmed.

  ‘Yes, Sir. But gentle elephants and a very kind ghost. They may wake you up and disturb your sleep, but they have never harmed anyone,’ Pooviah explained kindly.

  ‘I can understand elephants, Pooviah, they were mentioned on the website too. But a ghost? I didn’t see details of ghosts on your brochure. Tell me, is this a haunted house, or is this part of some scare-and-adventure routine?’

  ‘No, no, Sir. This ghost does not haunt us at all. Never. He doesn’t even appear in front of everyone. He only speaks to people who love coffee as much as he did, never to anyone else. We call him the coffee ghost. He was a very old English coffee planter, Sir, who loved these plantations with all his heart. Scott Ramsey was his name, Sir. My father knew him. I can show you his grave tomorrow, if you wish.’

  Rahul and Neha looked at each other apprehensively. Should they stay? Ghosts were obviously not real, except ghosts of one’s own past, which kept appearing from time to time. And Pooviah was very old, old enough to imagine and believe such things.

  ‘Have you ever actually seen this ghost?’ Rahul asked Pooviah and the younger man.

  The young man spoke up. ‘No, Sir. None of us have seen him. But some others have told us that they have.’ This reassured Rahul. He took Neha’s hand and walked to their room in the cottage.

  It was a splendid room, dominated by a magnificent four-poster bed and a broad rosewood couch. Before they turned in for the night, Rahul handed over the old woman’s bag of pink coffee beans to Pooviah and asked him to roast them. ‘A dark roast would be nice. I would like to drink some of this coffee tomorrow morning,’ he said. Pooviah nodded, opened the bag and smelt the beans, and then quickly wrapped up the bag once again. Rahul somehow missed the startled expression on the man’s wrinkled face.

  *

  Somewhere in the middle of the night, in one corner of Rahul and Neha’s bedroom, sat the coffee ghost. He sat on a chair, very silently, totally unseen. He had a big white head that was well formed, almost perfectly round, with a mop of grey hair. His eyes, nostrils and ears were totally and clearly visible. He wore spectacles—an old-fashioned broad, thick plastic pair that was perched squat on the bridge of his big nose. He wore a pocket watch too, the dangling silver chain of which was secured to the loop of his belt.

  But the most important feature of the apparition was the large, white mug that he clutched in his right hand. A mug of steaming hot black coffee. Every few minutes, he raised the mug to his mouth and sipped with quiet satisfaction. If you went close, you could actually smell the delicious, strong aromas of medium-roasted robusta coffee from Coorg. If you went even closer, you could detect mild notes of orange and pepper, fruits native to the region.

  Looking closely at the coffee ghost (only if he made himself visible to you because ghosts have the power to choose who can see them, and they are totally invisible to the rest of the world), you could even detect a thin smile on his face as he drank his coffee. He could tell that Rahul was a great lover of coffee. Years of haunting experience had honed his instinct in that regard. If he were being totally honest, he would have to admit that the transfer of the bag of coffee beans between Rahul and Pooviah, which he had witnessed, had also fed his instinct on this particular occasion.

  The coffee ghost was thinking that here, finally, was a companion worth speaking to, getting to know and sharing coffee talk with. Ghosts are terribly lonely and so, when they think they have good company, it means the world to them. The ghost smiled and watched them sleep.

  Rahul rolled over in his bed. He inched closer to Neha, threw a relaxed arm over her and retreated into deep slumber again. The coffee ghost sighed, thinking of the only woman in his own life—Alyssa, lady of charm, lady of enchantment, lady of love. She was long gone but remained forever in his mind. He took another sip of coffee, looked deep into his mug and then vanished into the night.

  6

  The next morning, before the sun rose over the hills nearby, Rahul and Neha slipped into their shorts and sneakers, and strolled into the coffee plantation just outside the Cottabetta Bungalow. It was cold and the leaves of the coffee bushes stood very still. The plantations ahead of them ran on endlessly, but because of the heavy canopies and tall shrubs that surrounded them, it felt as if they were deep within the heart of a forest. Neha brushed her fingers against the sparkling drops of dew that sat on some of these green leaves. The drops instantly collapsed and Neha proceeded to lick the dew. She liked doing that.

  ‘Try it, Rahul. This is a refreshing taste with a hint of delicate sweetness. It reminds me of very light tender coconut water. And it’s also sharp on your tongue, maybe because it is so raw and fresh. I wonder if we collect thousands of these drops carefully, can we package them into a natural drink of sorts, straight from the leaves and trees? We can call them Coffee Dew Drops, or something like that. Bound to be a market for that kind of a drink. What do you think?’

  Neha was a food blogger and Rahul knew from her tone that she had her thinking cap on. Sometimes, she could write as many as seven blogs in a single day. And if you were with her during such fluent periods, it was prudent to stay silent and let her quill flow. So, he just listened as she continued happily.

  ‘You know what? We could pair this dew drop drink with coffee. One could sip a little bit of coffee, then wash it down with Coffee Dew Drops. Then your next sip of coffee, and so on. Hey, Rahul, here’s a great new thought bubbling in my head. Why always pair a drink with food? Why not pair a drink with another drink? I mean, we could have cappuccino and dew drops, or even a smoky single malt paired with clear, sweet dew drops. What a nice idea! I am going to write about this fantasy in my next blog.’

  Rahul looked at her. It was indeed a new idea, though an unclear one, he thought. He didn’t see the purpose of pairing one drink with another. Food was paired with drink so that you could wash it down. How could two drinks do that kind of thing to each other? But he listened intently because Neha was talking with a lot of enthusiasm. Until, at that very moment, he saw the ghost.

  The ghost came out from behind a tree very quietly. He had a translucent body, a big white head with a mop of salt-and-pepper hair and thick spectacles. He held a large white mug in his hand with steam rising from it. He smiled at Rahul and raised his mug as a friendly gesture. Rahul’s jaw and eyes dropped. He stared and stood transfixed. His heart skipped a few beats, which is not unusual for people who unexpectedly run into ghosts. His first instinct was to run.

  ‘Hey, Neha! Let’s run! There’s a ghost out here.’

  Startled, Neha stopped her commentary. She looked around; she could see no ghost, but she ran, holding Rahul’s hand. Both of them dashed at a fast and desperate clip. Running and running, the two of them, for a moment, forgot the ghost and zigzagged between bushes and mud pathways. Rahul realized that it had been a while since the two of them had been holding hands so tight, and for so lon
g. After they reached a clearing, Rahul paused and smiled, looking at Neha. But he had been so engrossed in holding her hand while running that they had slowed down and the ghost had caught up with them. So, they ran again, faster this time.

  The coffee ghost followed, floating casually behind them. He then spoke in the voice of Scott Ramsey, planter and lover of coffee, long dead but now alive. It was a deep voice, layered with reassurance.

  ‘Rahul, don’t be afraid of me. It seems you love coffee very much. I know of your daily visits to the Starbucks café at Horniman Circle, Rahul. I want to speak to you about coffee. That’s all I want to do, really. Coffee has been my entire life, you know? Sit down for a moment beneath any of these shady trees. Let me speak to you. I am a ghost all right, that is for sure, but I will do you no harm. None at all.’

  It was an endearing tone, one that made Rahul consider halting for a moment, but his legs wouldn’t stop running and his hands wouldn’t stop pulling Neha along. He was still fearful because he had never encountered a ghost before. And there was Neha, panting yet keeping up with him. Should I consider speaking to this strange apparition? More importantly, how does he know about me and Starbucks?

  Perhaps sensing that Rahul would not stop, the coffee ghost continued to follow them, now taking on a storytelling voice. What neither Rahul nor Neha had realized was that the ghost, if it wanted to, could have caught up with them long back, because floating is faster than running. But he had chosen to maintain the distance.

  ‘Let me tell you a nice story about coffee, Rahul. Don’t miss out on this. Listen to me because God knows that of all people, you will really like it,’ and then with a calculated thought, the ghost added, ‘It may even give you an idea for your next film.’

  What is happening? How does he know about my film project? How long has he been stalking me?

  ‘In these parts of Coorg lives an old woman called Bhagya. Hers is a beautiful name because not only is it easy on the ears but it also means good fortune. Bhagya is very, very old. She was here when I was alive, sixty years ago. Some people I know claim that she is more than 400 years of age, that she is the oldest living person in the world, but I ask, how is that possible? I don’t know. I see her every now and then, near Gonikoppal, near Pollibetta, and near many other towns in these parts. The locals here will tell you that she is very, very sharp. And guess what! She is always on the lookout for coffee beans with special magic in them.’

  Rahul slowed down a little. His ears perked up. He remembered the old woman from Gonikoppal who had sold him the pink coffee beans for Rs 200. He recalled the story of planter Kariappa’s sad wife who had been instantly transported into a state of great happiness by these beans.

  The coffee ghost continued. ‘Once, Bhagya gifted a bag of coffee beans to a young couple who worked on these plantations and had an infant at home. This couple was known to love coffee and roasted their own beans at home. She asked them to brew coffee from these beans and serve it to the infant for a minimum of one week. She told them that the beans were from an estate whose owner was a great man of science and spirituality from Japan, and a lover of education too. The coffee would bring the child good fortune and great success; this was a gift because she loved the child very much. They were hesitant but eventually persuaded to accept the beans after Bhagya assured them that the beans would ensure the child’s life was very successful. Do you know what happened then?’

  Rahul, the film-maker who always loved a good story, was unable to contain himself. He broke his silence and exclaimed, ‘No, I don’t know. Tell me, I am listening.’

  ‘Are you speaking to me, Rahul?’ asked Neha, still clutching his hand. ‘What do you want me to tell you? Is that bloody ghost gone, or was it a touch of sunshine that got into your head, as usual?’ That is when Rahul realized that Neha couldn’t see the ghost.

  ‘Listen to his story, Neha,’ said Rahul. And then, turning to the ghost, he said, ‘Speak louder, whoever you are. Let my friend Neha hear you too!’

  Upon hearing this, the coffee ghost spoke louder and in a very different tone and frequency. Now, Neha could hear him too.

  ‘The infant loved the coffee. They fed him tiny spoonfuls for ten days. Each time the coffee touched the baby’s tongue, he would gurgle and smile and slurp. Each time, he would shake his tiny fists with joy, clenching them tightly together and opening his eyes wide. Surely, something was up. And then the coffee beans were over and everyone forgot about the old woman. The child was named Rama Bhadra. At the age of five, Rama solved difficult mathematics problems. A week after his tenth birthday, he was selected for the National Science Scholarship. At fifteen, they measured his IQ and it was well over Mensa levels, a few notches above Einstein too, I am told. At the age of seventeen, RB (as he was called then) received admission offers from five Ivy League universities in America. He chose Princeton. Now, he is a distinguished professor of theoretical physics there. In fact, he is tipped to win the Nobel Prize soon. Imagine! The child of uneducated, simple coffee plantation workers is now amongst the most brilliant physicists in the world. Those coffee beans did something to his brain; they brought him good fortune, just as old Bhagya had predicted. Oh yes, there was magic in them.’

  The coffee ghost paused here for effect. Ghosts, over their long years, hone their expertise in narrating haunting stories. And then he said, ‘Rahul and Neha, I can tell you many more lovely coffee stories, about Bhagya and many others. Coffee beans have all the magic in the world, you know. I am a harmless ghost. I am lonely. I want to speak to you. You can call me RG. RG for Ramsey’s Ghost. Speak to me, walk with me and I will add a lot to your extreme love of coffee.’

  *

  So began an intense friendship between Rahul, Neha and RG.

  ‘I know you met old Bhagya on the way here,’ RG said to Rahul and Neha later that day. ‘And I know she sold you a bag of special coffee beans. She does that only for people whom she likes. I saw this bag of beans last night on Pooviah’s kitchen table. I looked inside and recognized the coffee beans immediately. Do you know where they are from?’

  ‘Perhaps from that drunken planter Kariappa’s estate,’ said Rahul. ‘Maybe Bhagya stole them when Kariappa was sloshed. She looked like an old, wrinkled, experienced thief, if you ask me. An expert thief of coffee beans.’

  ‘No, Rahul. Bhagya is not a petty thief. She is a giver of fortune. These pink and purple coffee beans she has bestowed upon you come from a small plantation called Edobetta which was originally set up by a Buddhist monk from Japan. Actually, it was the only Japanese-owned plantation in Coorg—not any more though because the monk is dead and gone. He named it Edobetta because ‘Edo’ is the ancient and sacred Japanese name for Tokyo, his city. Strange name, if you ask me. I remember meeting him when I was alive and kickin’ and he was a good man, oh yes, and a good friend too. Shaved head, orange robes, perpetually chanting, the full monk monty. He loved his drink too, strong and neat. Actually, to tell you the truth, I am not sure if he was a genuine monk either, though he took care to look like one in every way. I never really knew why he settled down here when Japan is such a beautiful place. But he grew a special kind of pink coffee beans using plant material that he had carried all the way from Tokyo. It is so very different from our own robustas and arabicas. I remember his name quite clearly: Saito.’

  Saito. The name rings a bell, Rahul thought. And then he knew why. The name reminded him of Yamamato, the Japanese inventor whose patented springs were generously used by Nippon Springlove for their mattresses; the same company which now wanted a great advertisement from him to popularize its revolutionary beds amongst the Indian masses who seek firm new mattresses for their sore backs; the very same company whose owner had most generously offered to share as much as 10 per cent of his revenues with the advertising agency. He recalled Haroon’s words: ‘This deal will make us very rich, Rahul.’

  RG continued speaking. ‘So, when you drink this coffee today, Rahul and Neha, sit back on the cane chair
on the porch of the bungalow and enjoy what follows. Surprising and positive things will happen. When you love such great coffee, great things can happen.’

  7

  As the day progressed into evening, Pooviah brought them their coffee in a pot with two cups on the side. RG had vanished a couple of hours ago, presumably back to his haunt for a touch of ghostly rest. Rahul no longer feared the ghost though Neha still refrained from speaking to it. Pooviah laid the pot down on a cane table and spoke.

  ‘Sir, I made this coffee from that bag of beans you gave. It’s not like I opened them earlier, Sir, but the smell . . . it is rather odd yet beautiful. Not like our coffees; not at all. Enjoy, Sir and Madam. But just be careful.’ Pooviah stared at them for a moment and then left.

  The coffee was softly sweet and refreshing. And then, slowly, they sensed the nutty aroma—of walnuts, mild but deliciously bitter. Rahul knew from his readings about coffee that such a delicate sweetness could only come from a fully ripened coffee berry that had been carefully picked and pulped on the ground under bright, clean summer sunshine. Because then the richness of the raw soil would mingle with the golden heat of the sand and soak in the sun to create this rare, luxurious and nutty taste. The myriad tastes of coffee continued to amaze him, each one so different from the previous and each teasing the senses so delicately. He decided to use this opportunity to educate Neha, who sat nice and close by his side.

  ‘How do you like the old lady’s coffee, Neha? Isn’t it so beautiful? Can you taste the walnuts?’

  There was no response. So, he asked her again. He turned to find Neha sprawled across the cane sofa in deep slumber. She was awake a few minutes ago. When had she fallen asleep, that too so deeply? He shook her, but she was like a log, muscles locked and eyes shut.

  Then, without any warning, he felt sleep overcome him too. From far away, it penetrated his body through his eyes, swimming in like a gentle cloud. It narrowed his eyes when it came in and brought a general sense of growing calm that wasn’t there seconds ago. There was a tender but overpowering silence that it cast on him, which was impossible to counter with words, hands or legs, because they were going dead too. In this twilight zone before deep sleep, the mind has no thoughts because it goes pleasantly numb in anticipation of the rest ahead. We love sleep, don’t we?