An Extreme Love of Coffee

by Harish Bhat

  ‘The monk came to our coffee shop quite often over the next few years. He said he came to this hill to meditate, and that our bellada kaapi was a wonderful way to conclude his meditation. Each time, my father and he would sit down and discuss coffee endlessly. Eight thousand different types of coffee can generate lots and lots of interesting conversation. Then, on one of his last visits, the monk made a strange request, which my father accepted immediately because he liked this man a lot and admired his vast knowledge.

  ‘He gave my father a cloth pouch containing coffee beans and a sealed envelope. He said this envelope contained a secret which led to a great treasure, and that we should never open it. He requested my father to keep these safe. He said someone would come searching for them in the distant future. He also told us that we would see these people searching near the idol of the Goddess Kaveri, the very same idol that my father had installed. He wrote something at the base of this idol using a sharp knife to chisel the words. He said this was a Japanese prayer that would bring continued prosperity to our small shop. And here you are, Sir, here you are. My father is now very old and does not come to the shop any more. But he asked me to look out for the monk’s promised people, every single day. This is a blessing for me, Sir, to see you here today.’

  *

  Venkatesha went to a shelf at the back of the coffee shop and pulled out an old tin. He opened it and took out a cloth pouch and an old brown envelope. He handed these over to Rahul.

  Rahul held up the envelope to the light. It had aged considerably and had a marked musty smell to it. He smelt the coffee beans, breathing in the familiar nutty, walnutty smell. The envelope had a couple of lines written on top of it:

  The first shrine of coffee you have now found. The bellada kaapi here can make the world go round. Now to the second shrine and treasure, starting today. Within this envelope, I will point you the way.

  Clearly, the monk loved his rhymes as much as he loved his coffee—and, not to forget, his rum.

  Rahul turned to Venkatesha. ‘Thank you, Venkatesha. That bellada kaapi was extraordinary. What beautiful coffees exist here, ones we never knew about. And thanks for telling us this story and giving us this envelope. We will take it to our bungalow at Cottabetta and read what is inside it at leisure.’

  Rahul was eager to open the envelope right away, but he did not want Venkatesha or anyone else in the coffee shop to see what was written inside.

  *

  Not far away, seated at the base of a tree on Brahmagiri Hill, Takahira Yamamoto was peering at them through his high-powered Toshiba 100x ultrazoom binoculars. He had a thin smile on his face, a satisfied smirk that said nothing but revealed everything. He had keenly observed the long conversation between the young man and Rahul, he saw them drinking coffee together, and then he sat up as he saw the brown envelope being handed over.

  Takahira, you’re on the right track with this young couple. This is about your treasure, Takahira. Your family’s treasure. It was stolen unfairly, brazenly, by that wretched coffee monk. Now, you will get it back.

  *

  Rahul and Neha left the coffee shop with the envelope tucked away in Rahul’s trouser pocket and the cloth pouch in Neha’s handbag. Before they went down the hill to their car, they stopped at the idol of Goddess Kaveri one last time. The goddess’ face was captivating and her full lips held a gentle smile. Neha thought she could suddenly see a twinkle in her eyes. The goddess of coffee was wishing them Godspeed.

  15

  Back in their bungalow at Cottabetta, Rahul kept aside the bag of coffee beans after smelling it deeply once more. There was no mistaking the nutty aroma. Then, he opened the monk’s envelope. There was a single sheet of paper inside, with the same handwriting. It was just two brief lines:

  In our own splendid Manchester lives the goddess of food.

  Her shrine is a temple of coffee.

  By now, Neha was beginning to like the monk and his penchant for puzzles. And she definitely liked the direction this clue seemed to be pointing to.

  ‘This is a good one, Rahul,’ she piped up, ‘and what’s really exciting is that this clue could take us all the way to England and Manchester! The land of the Beatles; we may even meet Elton John!’

  Rahul sat back. First, a graveyard in Japan and now a shrine in England. He hoped the monk’s treasure, when they found it that is, was worth all these journeys. On the other hand, just the opportunity to travel with Neha to all these places was well worth the while. She appeared keen, so he wasn’t complaining.

  In any case, Haroon had given him a month off to do whatever he wanted. After the enthusiastic acceptance of the Nippon Springlove advertisement by the client, and the windfall it was now promising to bring them, he deserved that much time and space, Haroon had said.

  ‘Well, Neha, this one is definitely pointing towards England. But first, let’s do some research on Manchester. I have never come across an English goddess of food, unless our good monk is referring to Nigella Lawson. Nigella does have a goddess sort of figure, but I don’t think Manchester has built a shrine for her yet. Or maybe they have, who knows? Anything can happen, these days. Let’s take a quick look.’

  Over a few cups of coffee, they googled virtually everything about Manchester, from shrines to goddesses and temples of coffee. Manchester, after all, is the highest-ranked city in England after London, with its rich history of industry and warehouses. It is also home to two of the finest football clubs in Europe. Who hasn’t heard of Manchester United and Manchester City?

  ‘Look at this, Rahul. Look at the number of craft coffee shops that have taken over Manchester. All of them are independent stores serving great coffee. No wonder the monk wants us to go there. Here’s one called Fig and Sparrow. What a wonderful name, very British. Talks about their flat white coffees. And here’s another nice one—Grindsmith. Tiny shop, if you judge by the photograph, but the reviews say it serves flawless coffee. Ancoats Coffee Company, which specializes in exotic single-origin brews. Just a small walk from their original coffee roastery. Wow, the whole of Manchester appears to be a temple of coffee.

  ‘But what about the goddess of food and her shrine, Rahul? There are no references to that anywhere.’

  The search for shrines and temples in Manchester threw up a lot of results and took them in some interesting directions.

  One was a Roman temple in the ancient fort of Mamucium, which was the birthplace of Manchester. The fort appeared to be a very romantic setting, the sort of place where you spontaneously kiss your girl without a moment’s hesitation and everything sorts itself out immediately, first in your mouth and then in your head. The temple here was a shrine of Mithras, a god who was so popular with Roman soldiers that there was actually a cult around him. Born from a rock, he hunted down bulls and attacked demons with great energy. But, clearly, he was not a goddess. The images they saw on the Internet showed him as a bearded figure, very masculine. And there was not the remotest link to coffee. Rahul wondered idly whether the ancient Romans drank coffee at all. Maybe not. He should find out.

  There were several beautiful Christian churches in Manchester. But of course they would not have goddesses. St Mary’s Catholic Church, built in 1794, was dedicated to a female saint, not a goddess. St George’s Church at Carrington was built for Mary, the countess of Stamford. A countess, not a goddess. And, again, there was no mention of coffee at either spot.

  Then there was a Hindu temple—Gita Bhavan temple—which was originally a church and now a cultural and religious centre.

  Also, there was a grand cathedral. Rahul was immediately reminded of the beautiful St Thomas Cathedral near his office in Mumbai. He saw it every day on his way to Starbucks.

  But across all of Manchester, they did not find a single mention of goddesses of coffee.

  ‘Very remote possibilities, all these,’ Rahul turned to Neha. ‘I feel like we’re missing something. I can’t figure out what, but there is a missing piece. Shall we read that clue once a
gain? And let’s have some coffee as well to sharpen our brains.’

  They sipped on their coffee, made using the old woman’s special pink beans, which Pooviah served. Then Neha brought out the paper, stood in front of Rahul and dramatically re-read the clue.

  In our own splendid Manchester lives the goddess of food.

  Her shrine is a temple of coffee.

  It struck her almost instantly. ‘Why has the monk used the words “our own”? He was not from Manchester, so he can’t call that his own city. He was from Japan.’

  RG, who was around, added quite loudly, ‘Japan and India, Neha. Yes, he was from Japan, but he lived a lot of his life in this part of India. He once told me, after a couple of tall tots, that he considered himself a south Indian, that even his teeth and tongue had become native to Coorg, and he went on to name some other body organs as well. What a drunken fool!’

  Rahul, meanwhile, had drained his cup of coffee. His brain was suddenly feeling very light and bright, a feeling that many of us occasionally experience, and this woke him up. ‘RG, you are so right. You have hit the nail on the head, actually on my dull little head. What fools we have been. “Our own splendid Manchester”, that’s the line. Is there a Manchester in this part of India, somewhere close by, which the monk could have called his own, because he thought of himself as a native of these parts? Some place he visited often, maybe? I am sure that is why he used those words!’

  *

  It took them just a few minutes of googling to discover the Manchester of south India. Sure enough, it was not too far away from the coffee plantations.

  ‘Coimbatore, in the southernmost state of the country, is called the Manchester of south India given its extensive textile industries that are fed by the surrounding cotton fields. It houses more than twenty-five thousand small, medium and large industries, with the primary ones being textiles and engineering,’ Rahul read out quickly from a website.

  Another entry, by an enthusiastic blogger, was even more graphic in its description of the local Manchester:

  The city has an exceptionally wonderful climate, totally unlike other towns of south India, which are generally hot and muggy. It is famous for its motor pump sets and textile mills. It is a very modern city that boasts a very ancient language. The warm people you meet here speak the historic Tamil language, which is classified as one of the great classical languages of the world. A lovely place to visit. Close by, you will find the Anaimalai wildlife sanctuary, Ooty lake, Monkey Falls and the Valparai coffee plantations.

  ‘This must be it!’ Rahul exclaimed. ‘We must thank RG for his insights about the old monk, Neha. RG, where are you?’

  RG was clutching his big, white mug of steaming black coffee. He had a wide smile planted on his round, white face. He was seated on a chair behind them and was examining his pocket watch with deep interest.

  ‘Always at your service, Rahul. And yes, I do know of the monk’s visit to the Valparai coffee plantations, the one that Neha and you were just talking about. He told me about it one night. He said it was one of the most rewarding visits of his life because he had found something marvellous during this short voyage.’

  ‘What did he say? Did he talk about Coimbatore too, the Manchester of south India?’

  As if on cue, RG launched into his story. ‘The Valparai coffee estates are quite close to Coimbatore. Actually, you have to climb up the Anaimalai Hills from Coimbatore to reach Valparai. I have been there, when I was alive. All around is magnificent wildlife—Chinnar wildlife sanctuary, the grass hills, and the Monkey Falls. The thick forests around Valparai are teeming with animals. The lion-tailed macaque, tigers, leopards, cheetal deer, Nilgiri langurs—the coffee here is nurtured by all these wonderful animals, particularly the wild bison. You will see lots of them there, all snorting with their dangerous-looking noses and running around with sharp horns. Our monk was delighted with what he saw, and so he called Valparai the home of wildlife coffee.

  ‘The monk stayed at Valparai for around fifteen days. He visited the places that were frequented by the famous British planter Carver Marsh, who had first planted coffee here more than a century ago. He meditated in the forests. I am told he drank copious amounts of rum with the local planters and regaled them with tales of Japan. Tall tales, I am sure. And he studied the coffees carefully. When he came back, he spoke to some of us about how the terrain was so rich in organic matter that it produced a unique washed wildlife coffee that is soft and balanced.

  ‘But then he also spoke of his visits to Coimbatore city, on his way back from Valparai to Edobetta estate. He said one thing about Coimbatore that I will never forget. He said that he had found a shrine of coffee there, and that in that shrine was the best south Indian filter coffee he had ever tasted. Apparently, nothing else came close. I remember him calling this coffee divine nectar infused with God’s own caffeine and the most wonderful aromas of Mother Earth.

  ‘The monk was already quite old by this time. He wanted to go back to Coimbatore someday, to taste that marvellous coffee again, but he never could do that. Maybe you can follow in his footsteps now. And find his treasure too.’

  ‘Yes, we will, RG,’ Neha piped up, her excitement evident in her voice. ‘And why don’t you come too? You may be a ghost and all that jazz, but you are totally part of this adventure now. Let’s go, let’s find that shrine.’

  *

  Before leaving for Coimbatore, Rahul called Haroon. It had been a while since they had spoken. Haroon’s booming voice was loud and clear all the way from distant Mumbai.

  ‘So good to hear from you, Rahul! I was about to call you myself. I have some news for you, lots of good developments actually, and also a strange question about your safety. But let’s talk about the good news first. Yes, yes, the Nippon Springlove mattress film is under production. Your script is great, no changes at all, nothing required as of now. And I must tell you, we have got Karthik Shah to do the film for us, the same guy who directed your famous Nidra Hair Oil film, with those two girls and all the gorgeous hair. Do you remember those long-haired chicks? I’m sure you do. Ha, ha, I know you my friend. And oh yes, Karthik will create a film which will make everyone lust and die for these blasted mattresses. He is fully tied up with his next Bollywood movie, which has the glamorous Alia Bhatt in the lead role, and you know how much I am dying to meet Alia. But for our film, he heard the script, and said, “Yes, yes, yes, I’ll do it.” Three times yes, to show how much he meant it. He was almost jumping on the springy mattress after I read out the script. The shoot has been fixed for exactly a month from now. I am presuming you’ll be back from your holiday by then. You are the bloody scriptwriter, so we’ll need your presence at the shoot of course.

  ‘Here’s another brilliant thing, Rahul. We have got actual Japanese actors to play the key characters in your film. The last shogun and two beautiful concubines. They are coming here to Mumbai in three weeks, all the way from Tokyo and Osaka. A perfect cast, all three of them. Very authentic, blue-blooded Japanese. They will lift the film several notches. And would you believe how we arranged for them? A real stroke of luck. Take a guess, my boy.’

  Rahul knew from experience that Haroon was a resourceful man, so he imagined there were many routes the man could have taken. He speculated loudly, ‘One of your advertising buddies from Japan, perhaps, Haroon? Or did you visit Tokyo? I am waiting for you to tell me how you spent time with some geishas yourself, to select one for the film. Now that would be a super story, Haroon. I could write a script with that.’

  ‘None of that, Rahul. That would be the normal way, for me. Let me tell you how. The owner of Springlove mattresses, the guy we are making this film for, came up to me a few days after he had fallen in love with your film script. Do you remember? Ram Prakash? He lives in Mysore and has now committed to us a share of his future revenues in return for this film. But let’s just call him Mr Nippon for now. That’s simpler.

  ‘Mr Nippon said he had spoken to his partners from Japan
, the people who are licensing him the patented mattress spring technology. They loved the film script so much that they immediately agreed to send him profiles of Japanese actors who could be the shogun and the concubines. Our director, Karthik Shah, instantly liked three of the profiles, so we selected them.

  ‘There’s something else too, Rahul. The Japanese licensor of the Springlove mattress technology will be here for the shoot. He is keen to see the whole process himself. That’s quite rare, shows the total commitment that these Japanese have. That’s why they won the war.’

  Which war, thought Rahul. But something else stirred in his mind. ‘Who’s this Japanese guy, what’s his name?’ he asked.

  Haroon took a moment to check his email and then replied, ‘He is the son of the great man who discovered this mattress spring technology. Here’s his name. Shinko Yamamoto. Yes, it is Yamamoto. He is the guy who sent us the details of the Japanese actors. And here’s the strange question now for you.’

  Rahul recognized the name immediately. Shinko Yamamoto, the brother of the bald Japanese man with the sword who appeared to be stalking them, one of the two brothers who had taken Neha and him to that strange graveyard in Tokyo.

  Haroon continued, ‘This Japanese guy, Yamamoto, he spoke to me on the phone. He said he was looking forward to this mattress becoming hugely popular in India. Then he said he would bring me a bottle of the finest Yamazaki eighteen-year-old whiskey when he comes to attend the film shoot in Mumbai. I accepted the offer instantly, of course. Yamazaki is lovely.