by Harish Bhat
The young man and the woman, meanwhile, were poring over the card attached to the pouch. They were back at Cottabetta, seated on the verandah. How in this big, wide world would they find the three shrines where the secrets to the monk’s treasure were possibly hidden?
‘I think we should start in Japan,’ Rahul concluded after some time. ‘That’s where the monk was from. That’s where that last shogun was from, whom this monk knew well. Maybe there is a shrine there, built for a goddess of coffee or someone like that? I have heard that the Japanese have gods for everything. It could even be a shrine that the shogun or the monk established. This is one of the four shrines mentioned in this old note. At least one man in Japan, our bald friend Takahira Yamamoto, appears quite interested in what we are doing. What do you think, Neha?’
Neha was now increasingly excited by the possibilities of where this adventure could take them. She was bitten by the travel bug, though the recent, and rather unconventional, visit to Tokyo had shaken her up a little bit. She would journey on aircrafts, trains or even boats if necessary. Pink coffee-induced magical journeys were not her preferred mode of global travel. But as she listened to Rahul, Japan did not quite sound right to her.
‘I don’t think so, Rahul. Even that bald Japanese guy, he came all the way to India. I think the shrines are out here in India and not in Japan. Here is where the monk lived for fifty long years. You heard what Pandian said. He loved this country. India was his second love after coffee. That’s what my instinct tells me.’
Rahul nodded. ‘Good thinking, Neha. It’s been a long day. Let’s talk about this tomorrow. For now, I know where my instincts are leading me. Somewhere very special, and I have something equally adventurous planned for the evening. Just you and me.’ He smiled.
*
When they returned to their room at Cottabetta Bungalow, Rahul requested Neha to sit on the verandah and watch the darkening skies for a bit, even as he prepared their room for the night. ‘It’s a surprise for you. Actually, for both of us.’
Fifteen minutes later, he turned up next to her. Neha could smell freshly roasted coffee all over his hands and body. Rahul and his extreme love of coffee. Had he brewed a cup of something special for her?
Indeed he had, but it was not the usual. He led her to the room and threw open the thick teak doors with a flourish. Inside, there was muted bedside lighting. Neha’s eyes went to the bed. Scattered on their four-poster bed were roasted coffee beans, lots and lots of them. They formed a dark brown carpet across the firm, thick mattress, evenly spread out. The oil that coated the roasted beans was glistening in the mellow light like some surreal surface.
‘I have read that coffee is a great aphrodisiac, Neha. It stimulates and elevates us every day. Many cultures across the world know that it also enhances stamina. So, will you have coffee with me tonight?’
Neha smiled coyly at him, a teasing smile that always made him go weak in the knees and everywhere else. Within a moment, they had turned off the lights. The coffee smelt and tasted and felt even more delicious than before. It was pure, washed arabica, love roasted to perfection.
13
Three shrines of coffee have I now foreseen, three goddesses that nurture our love for the bean. From river to ocean, each shows you the way. Find me these shrines, and then will I say: Here’s my treasure, let it fill up your day.
Rahul read the lines aloud to Neha for the tenth time that morning. What did they actually mean? Both of them looked at each other silently and acknowledged that they were stumped. Totally clueless.
Outside, dawn had broken and they could hear the high-pitched charr-charr notes of a single woodpecker breaking the stark silence of the coffee plantations around them. Inside, most of the coffee beans had fallen off the bed and were strewn all over the floor. It had been a memorable night and now they knew for sure that coffee was a great stimulant.
But where was the stimulant that would help them figure out this puzzle, one written by a mysterious monk who had died long ago, leaving a great treasure hidden? Where were these three shrines that the monk had spoken of? Where exactly should they begin?
Pooviah brought them their morning coffee in an elegant tray with a pot and two cups of white bone china. ‘Sir, I used those pink coffee beans you gave me to make coffee for Madam and for you today. The smell of this coffee is getting better with each passing day, Sir.’
The old woman’s coffee! In the midst of all the other excitements of the past two days, Rahul had nearly forgotten about this. ‘Yes, yes, Pooviah, please pour coffee for us.’
The walnutty flavour came back to them once again. Superb! As they sipped the coffee, Neha leant back and read the puzzle once again. Suddenly, she could clearly see the author himself, the venerable monk. He appeared vividly in her mind. Orange-robed monk, fat, bald and peaceful, walking somewhere. Where was he walking to? And then, behind the monk, she saw flowing waters. A few words from the puzzle swam in front of her now-dilated pupils: From river to ocean, each shows you the way.
She sat up with a start. ‘Rahul, listen. Listen to me. We need to go to a river, one that will show us the way to the first shrine. That’s what the monk meant when he wrote “from river to ocean”. The river first, and then the ocean will show us the way. That’s why he put those words in his note, to give us a clue. I can see him in my mind, Rahul. He is walking by that river, right over there, right now.’
Rahul glanced at the lines once again. What Neha said made sense. They had nothing else to go on anyway. Then, he remembered something, a local guidebook kept in their room that he had briefly gone over yesterday. It spoke of a river nearby. He went into the room, brought out the small guidebook, turned a few pages, and began reading aloud:
The Kaveri is the patron goddess of all coffee growers in Coorg. Flowing through the beautiful coffee plantations and nurturing them like her own special children, the Kaveri is the great river of this region. Originating in the foothills of the Western Ghats, the river meanders through the region of Coorg and the vast Deccan plateau before it eventually flows into the Bay of Bengal. The Kaveri quenches this region’s thirst for water and makes it one of the most fertile lands known to mankind. From these lands of the Kaveri come some of the finest coffees the world has ever known.
Rahul turned to Neha. ‘Neha, I think you are absolutely right. We must go to the Kaveri. That’s where we will begin.’
He continued reading the guidebook.
The Kaveri is not merely a river, but a goddess who is worshipped by everyone in this coffee growing region of Coorg. The unique coffee of Coorg springs from the sweet waters of this sacred river. Coffee requires a lot of water for its flowering, and the Kaveri provides it in abundance. The varieties of coffee grown on the fertile banks of the Kaveri are known for their robust body, light acidity and soft liquor, making them some of the most sought-after beans in the world.
Rahul paused here, absorbing this beautiful description of the coffee. ‘Robust body, light acidity, soft liquor, wow! I must taste these coffees from the banks of the Kaveri.’ Then he saw something in the guidebook which made his pulse quicken. He read it out in hushed tones:
There are many shrines built for the Kaveri, to worship and celebrate this goddess, who is the presiding deity of the region. The best known shrine is located at the source of the river called Talakaveri. The river originates near this shrine, as a spring, and the water then flow underground to emerge as the magnificent Kaveri some distance away. The road to Talakaveri is surrounded by coffee plantations and suffused by the intoxicating aromas of coffee. Many monks and holy people visit this shrine throughout the year.
Rahul turned to Neha. ‘We must go to Talakaveri, Neha. I am sure that is where our Japanese monk has left directions for us. He must have visited this shrine and left something there. This is a shrine of the river that nurtures coffee, and so it is a shrine of coffee itself. That is what the monk must have meant. This is where our search must begin.’
Neha
nodded quickly. Yes, this appeared right instinctively. She took the guidebook away from Rahul’s hands and quickly read it once more. ‘Yes, let’s go, Rahul. Right now.’
RG, who was a witness to this guidebook-led conversation, smiled. This was the moment he had been waiting for all through his afterlife. He tapped Rahul lightly and said, ‘I am coming with you, Rahul. It has been a long, long time since I saw the Talakaveri shrine. I am coming too.’
Unknown to Rahul and Neha, at that very moment, one other person was deeply interested in what they planned to do. Takahira Yamamoto was slowly walking down the streets of a nearby village. He was getting impatient. When would these two young people begin their search? He had to find what he had come here for. His shining, sharp sword was ready. He would not let anything, anything at all, come in his way.
PART B
THE SEARCH
14
Rahul and Neha, accompanied by a happy RG, set out to Talakaveri in a jeep. It was a long drive and their first stop for refreshments was at Gonikoppal, the same village where they had acquired the pink coffee beans. They looked around for the old lady, but she was nowhere to be seen.
As their jeep approached Talakaveri, they saw lush green hills unfolding before them, rolling over into each other like carpets. These were the Brahmagiri hills, their driver informed them. ‘That is where the sacred men go to meditate,’ he said, ‘I have been there just once, with my friends. It is a difficult climb to the top, Ayya.’
When they finally reached Talakaveri, the town which housed the shrine of Goddess Kaveri, they paused. Here she was, the river goddess whose blessings nurtured the splendid coffees of Coorg. Her shrine, just ahead of them, was by the hillside, and it was thronged by people.
Then, a question (which has presumably accosted several adventurers over the ages) occurred to Rahul. They had reached what was ostensibly the first shrine. So far, so good. But now what? What were they supposed to do next?
RG answered that question even before he was asked. He poked Rahul on his shoulder, pointed to the hill that was right in front of them and said in a loud voice that even Neha could hear, ‘That monk often spoke about how he meditated on top of a hill and found some wonderful coffee there. He said it was the hill of the gods. I think our next steps are clear.’
They began climbing the steps hewn into the hillside. There was lush green vegetation all around, a bright blue sky above and the smell of the earth below them. There were a couple of shops selling coffee and honey along the path.
On an impulse, Rahul held Neha’s hand and raced up a few steps. Stopping for breath at a clearing, they looked up at the skies and saw a few birds flying in perfect formation, heading somewhere with great purpose. Neha turned to Rahul and said wistfully, ‘Look at those birds, they know their way for sure. I wonder where we are going, Rahul, and how we will get there.’
Not knowing how to respond, Rahul squeezed her hand tighter. He was excellent when it came to writing emotive advertising scripts, but expressing himself in his personal life did not come as easily. They were still a few steps away from the top of the hill when they saw a small, beautiful idol on a platform. It was an idol of a voluptuous woman with a pot of water in her hands. ‘That’s Goddess Kaveri.’ Rahul recognized her from his guidebook. ‘See, she is carrying the brass pot which has the river within it!’ The idol seemed to draw them towards itself, so they went closer and looked around. And then Neha burst out in excitement.
‘Rahul, see this! See this now! This is absolutely the first shrine.’
‘What’s the excitement, Neha? I know this is the shrine, because this is the goddess. That’s what I just said.’
‘Look at the base of this platform, Rahul. It has markings in Chinese or Japanese, I can’t figure out which. Clearly, our monk was here!’
Rahul looked and, sure enough, there was a line of Japanese script etched into the base of the platform. He was clueless as to what it meant, but it sure was a sign. Yes, the monk had come here to meditate and had left this sign behind.
‘Brilliant, Neha. It’s clear. This is a shrine where our monk had been. This is where we begin our quest. The monk’s puzzle says that each shrine will tell us the way to the next one.’
They walked around the idol a few times. Neha felt the limbs of the idol, looking closely for any more markings, but there were none. Rahul knocked at various points of the idol, wondering if there was a hollow space where the monk may have left something. He too found nothing. They peered into the brass pot which the goddess held, a space where it would have been easy to leave something hidden. But that was empty too.
They tapped the earth beneath the idol, brushing away a few stones to see if they could spot anything below the grass, but this too came to naught. Should they now search for something buried in the earth? They would need help for that. Maybe their driver, Kaverappa, could get some locals.
At precisely that moment, a young man came up to them and spoke in halting English.
‘Sir, Madam? Are you looking for something, from a Buddhist monk perhaps? I think I can help you if you are the people I have been waiting for. I have a small coffee shop just opposite the road. Come, walk with me.’
The man led them to his shop. Rahul spoke, ‘Yes, we are looking for something that a monk left behind. Why do you think you can help us?’
The young man responded immediately. ‘Sir, I will tell you very soon. My name is Venkatesha. I have a secret to share, and I think this secret is from Japan. But first, you are my guests. Let me make you some of my special bellada kaapi.’
*
Bellada kaapi. Loosely translated it means coffee with jaggery. But this translation does not capture the uniqueness of this beverage which is so delicious and heavenly; it may very well have been the preferred drink of Goddess Kaveri herself.
Bellada kaapi. The drink that Venkatesha was now preparing for his guests using a secret recipe handed down generation after generation. Later, he would reveal to his guests another secret, one handed down to him by his father. But that was later.
For now, the aroma of fresh filter coffee filled the little coffee shop with its old rosewood benches that wore a polished look, thanks to the millions of weary backsides that had sat eagerly and lazily on them for years and years, awaiting their favourite cup of bellada kaapi.
Venkatesha brewed the decoction first in his brass filter. ‘I use only the finest robusta coffee beans from the nearby Cannoncadoo estate,’ he announced. ‘And do you know why? This coffee shop you are sitting in is at Talakaveri, the source of the Kaveri. And the most beautiful, sweet and quiet streams of this river flow through Cannoncadoo estate. It is one of the few coffee plantations here that is located directly on the banks of the river. That unique location produces a coffee of marvellous taste, so soft and smooth, perfect for bellada kaapi, which has been the signature drink at my family’s coffee shop for generations!’
Then, he brought the milk to a boil on his stove and added jaggery powder to it. The fresh jaggery blended into the milk, sweetening it slowly and adding a touch of golden brown. In the air around them, the light, sweet smell of jaggery milk mingled nicely with the strong, dark aroma of the robusta coffee decoction.
Venkatesha poured the coffee decoction into steel tumblers. He added the jaggery sweetened milk into each tumbler and mixed it well. He offered Rahul and Neha a cup each, and RG, invisible in the background, felt deprived.
Bellada kaapi. Beautiful, warm, jaggery coffee that ran down Rahul and Neha’s throats, creating sensations that they never knew could exist. Sweet, soft, strong, stimulating, delicious and extraordinary, this was probably the best coffee yet to be discovered by the rest of the world. It could well become a global rage, much like the famous PSL (pumpkin spice latte) or even the flat white. The warm drink had calmed them down. They instantly relaxed and their hands brushed lightly against each other, their eyes stealing fleeting glances quite deliberately, even as they waited for Venkatesha to reveal his oth
er secret, the one they were here for.
Then Venkatesha began his story.
‘Sir and Madam, this coffee shop makes the best bellada kaapi in the world. My grandfather, Srinivasa, founded this shop exactly seventy years ago. He invented the recipe for the coffee that you are drinking right now. The exact origin and type of jaggery used, the robusta coffee from Cannoncaddoo estate, roasted to my grandfather’s precise specifications, those are the secrets behind this fabulous flavour and taste. He died only seven years after this shop opened and my father, who is known in these parts as Bellada Kaapi Raghavendra, took over.
‘This coffee shop soon started drawing people from far and near. They spoke about the coffee to their friends and word spread quickly. Pilgrims who came to Talakaveri temple also became frequent pilgrims to Bellada Kaapi Raghavendra’s Coffee Shop. This shop virtually became a shrine of coffee. My father prospered. As a token of thanksgiving, he installed the idol of Goddess Kaveri in front of the shop, where you were searching just now. Every morning, he offered prayers before this sacred idol, to thank the river that gave birth to this wonderful coffee and jaggery that have made our shop so successful.’
Rahul sat up with a start, when he heard the words ‘shrine of coffee’. He wondered if the monk had borrowed those exact words from here.
‘Then, one day, a very different sort of man came to our coffee shop. He was dressed in the pale orange robes of a monk. He was elderly, maybe more than eighty years old, with wrinkles showing on his face and a totally bald head, like some monks prefer. I was a very small boy then, but I still remember him clearly. He told my father that he was from Japan but had settled down on a coffee plantation nearby. He drank cup after cup of bellada kaapi, as if his thirst for coffee could never be quenched. He had a long discussion with my father, for over two hours, about coffee and jaggery, various types of coffee beans and how many unique types of coffee brews there are in countries across the world. He had come across over eight thousand unique types of coffee preparations, he said. My father was very interested.
