An Extreme Love of Coffee

by Harish Bhat

  ‘And then he mentioned your name, Rahul. Specifically yours. He said he had narrated the story of the mattress technology to you when he met you recently at a graveyard in Tokyo. I was not sure if I heard him well, so I asked him if he really meant a graveyard, the place where dead bodies are buried? And he said, yes, a graveyard, the exact place where all the dead souls live. So, when did you go to a graveyard in Tokyo, Rahul, and why? I mean, graveyards are not your usual hangouts. A pub, or a spa, or a night club, all that I can understand. Cafés and coffee estates also given your recent obsession with coffee. But a graveyard stumps me.’

  Rahul tried to briefly interrupt. ‘Haroon, I can explain all this. It was a sort of dream, really.’ But Haroon was in no mood to listen just then and continued speaking.

  ‘And after saying all that, Yamamoto said something else which got me worried. He spoke in a low, grave tone. He said he knows that you will soon find a rare treasure that belongs to his family, to his brother and himself. And when you do find this treasure, you should bring it to the venue of the film shoot, a month from now, and hand it over to him. He told me this was a matter of life and death. His life and your death, that’s what he said. And then, suddenly, he sounded positive. He said that there would be a rich reward for you if you were honest and handed over the treasure. I can’t believe all this. Graveyards, Japanese murderers, secret treasure, rich rewards. What else is happening? Please tell me. Have you met this Yamamoto guy, Rahul? How does he know you? Are you in some sort of danger? Or is this some big practical joke all of you are playing on me? Tell me it is.’

  There was silence for a minute. Haroon thought he could hear and smell Rahul sipping his coffee. And then Rahul spoke. ‘It’s a long story, Haroon. Difficult to explain on the phone. But don’t worry, I am safe and everything’s fine. Yes, there’s some exciting stuff happening out here. I have to leave for Coimbatore quickly. Yes, yes, Coimbatore, the textile town in Tamil Nadu. Yes, I will take care. And I will see you at the Nippon Springlove mattress shoot in a month from now. Of course, I will tell you this entire story, every bit of it, including the graveyard in Tokyo, when we meet.’

  *

  While Rahul would not admit this to Haroon, there was a distinct possibility of danger from that bald, sword-bearing Japanese stalker. But any such fear was overtaken by the sheer excitement of where all this could lead Neha and him, to the monk’s treasure. Who knew what it was? They had just a month to find out before the holiday ended. And then they had to decide whether to hand it over to the Yamamoto brothers who were already claiming it as their own. What was the rich reward that was being offered? What would happen if they did not find the treasure or hid it?

  Questions, questions. They can come at any moment, but every answer has its time. For now, the next step led Rahul and Neha to Coimbatore, the Manchester of south India.

  16

  They took a train from Mysore to Coimbatore, after having driven from the coffee plantations to Mysore. The train station at Mysore, with its clock tower and colonial pillars, looked beautiful. Since they had two hours until their train arrived, they went to a museum of vintage locomotives next to the railway station. Neha could not stop looking at the old saloon on display, which had belonged to the royal family of Mysore, with its own kitchen and royal toilet, fitted like a palace on wheels.

  ‘I could do with a carriage like that,’ she told Rahul. ‘I’ve always dreamed about long journeys on a beautiful train that goes nowhere really. It just goes on and on. Soft beds and royal toilets would fit in perfectly.’

  Rahul heard her, but he was looking intently at an old sepia photograph displayed on the wall. It showed the Mysore railway station, with many people bustling all over the foreground. The photograph was grainy, but most things in it were quite visible when you went up close.

  He turned to Neha and pointed to the photograph.

  ‘Neha, do you see that?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Look at this photograph closely. Do you see those two people there in the background?’

  He pointed to two figures, one of whom looked like a Buddhist monk in wide robes, carrying a small leather bag. Next to him was an Indian man with a beard and a turban on his head, carrying a luggage trunk.

  ‘Look at that monk’s face, Neha. He looks oriental. Narrow eyes, chubby face. May even be Japanese. Do you think he could be our coffee monk, the man who has set us on this chase?’

  They peered closely. Yes, it could be him. Was he at this same train station several years ago, also setting out for Coimbatore and the Anaimalai Hills? And did either of these bags carry his beloved treasure?

  They looked closely at the bags again. The trunk was really large. It must have had space for lots of luggage. The small leather bag, which the monk carried, looked more interesting. It had a beautifully styled handle, and a Japanese or Chinese character of some kind monogrammed on it. It appeared that they were getting their first, fuzzy glimpse of the coffee monk. But this could well be any other Chinese or Tibetan monk as well. They had heard that there were many of them in these parts, and that there was a large Tibetan monastery close by.

  Just before they boarded their train to Coimbatore, they lingered at a small bookstore on the railway platform. Neha spotted a book and said excitedly, ‘Hey, Rahul! Here is a book about Indian goddesses. It may just help us solve this clue.’

  They bought the book and boarded the first-class compartment. As the train started moving, Neha sat back and imagined that they were the royal couple of Mysore in their own saloon with a kitchen and royal toilet. Their current compartment, while far removed from royal standards, was nicely upholstered with soft cushions. Neha dozed off, lulled by the soft motions of the train, her body leaning against Rahul’s shoulders. In a few minutes, a young boy came along selling coffee in small paper cups. Neha woke up to a nice cup of strong, milky, sugary coffee.

  Then, they began reading the book on Indian goddesses. Would it help them find the answer to the second cryptic clue:

  In our own splendid Manchester lives the goddess of food.

  Her shrine is a temple of coffee.

  The book had so many stories that they got completely absorbed in it for a couple of hours, fascinated by things they had never known before. Neha began reading a few stories aloud and Rahul listened silently with keen interest.

  ‘Goddesses in the Hindu religion protect the good and destroy the evil. They embody Shakti, or power, to do both these acts. Along with the male gods, they complete the divinity of the universe beautifully and powerfully. Durga is the warrior goddess who combats all the evil forces that threaten the good. She is worshipped during Durga Puja, the festival of Navaratri. Ferocious and powerful, she is often shown demolishing Mahishasur, the evil demon god, with the help of her sharp weapons which she holds in her multiple hands. She represents feminine power, and the tiger is her vehicle. She is also known by other names like Adi Parashakti, Amba and Bhavani. Lakshmi is the goddess of wealth, prosperity, fortune and fertility. She is worshipped during Diwali, the annual festival of lights where Indians prepare to welcome the goddess into their homes. Lakshmi is the wife of Vishnu, one of the three primary gods of the Hindu pantheon. She holds a lotus in her hand, a symbol of fortune. Her vehicle, quite curiously, is the owl, though sometimes it is also a white elephant.’

  Neha paused here. ‘Very interesting, Rahul. But I don’t think our clue refers to either Durga or Lakshmi. We need the goddess of food. To tell you the truth though, I love Durga. She shows us the power that women possess within themselves all the time. I wish I were like Durga.’

  Rahul nodded. ‘Yes, Neha. You know, we will need our own Durga if that Japanese guy turns up again with his sword. It worries me that either his brother or he has already telephoned Haroon threatening and asking for the treasure to be handed over. Well, we haven’t found it yet, and how are we even sure that we will find it? But read your book, read on. Let’s check out the other goddesses.’

&nb
sp; ‘Saraswati is the goddess of wisdom, knowledge, music and the arts. She is worshipped during the festival of Basant Panchami, also known as Saraswati Puja. Young children are taught to write the alphabet on this day, a sort of christening of their long voyage into the world of knowledge. Saraswati is depicted with the veena in her hands. She has the powers of healing and purifying, and she rides the swan. Parvati is the goddess of fertility, love and devotion. She is the gentle form of Durga and she nurtures humanity. She is often regarded as the Mother Goddess in the Hindu religion. Along with Lakshmi and Saraswati, she forms the trinity of goddesses who are worshipped by Hindus. Parvati is the wife of Shiva, the central deity of many famous temples in India. She provides the god his recreative energy.’

  ‘It’s neither Saraswati nor Parvati,’ said Neha with some regret in her voice. As she scanned the next page, she held her breath and said almost triumphantly, ‘Rahul, I think we’ve got her now. Here’s the goddess we are looking for. Here she is.’

  Neha continued reading, now with excitement, ‘Annapoorna is the goddess of food and nourishment. She is a very popular deity and is shown as a youthful goddess with a reddish complexion, round face and four hands. In one hand, she holds a vessel full of delicious food. In another, she has a golden ladle with which she can give out food to her devotees. She is believed to be an avatar, or form, of Parvati. Her name, Annapoorna, is composed of the Sanskrit words “annam”, which means food; and “poorna”, which means filled with. She is said to have one thousand names.’

  Rahul took the book away from Neha’s hands and read the section quickly. ‘Yes, Neha, that’s so cool and feels so correct. She is the goddess of food, all right. So, we have to look for a shrine, a temple of Goddess Annapoorna in the town of Coimbatore. That should not be very challenging. I suggest we walk into the first temple we see and ask the local priest there. He should know.’

  For the rest of the journey, they spoke about many other things. It was mostly Neha speaking because she felt strangely relaxed and reassured today, sitting close to Rahul in a train. Something about him was growing nicely in her mind, like a tiny little coffee bush.

  ‘I love blogging about food and drinks, Rahul. If you’ve read all my blogs, you know that’s who I am. I think that’s why I have come to like coffee so much. Coffee is a wonderful thing for a blogger like me; it makes for so many interesting stories. And of course, it helps that you too love coffee. I want to experience coffee and write about it like no one has before. Who knows, maybe I can get the world to discover totally new things about Indian coffee!

  ‘Now, listen to me. Here’s a beautiful story about a very special coffee that I discovered in a book when we were staying at that bungalow in the coffee plantations. It’s a story about the tribe of Araku Valley in south India and the brilliant coffee that they grow. This valley is home to one hundred and fifty different tribal communities and is located in the Eastern Ghats, very close to Vishakapatnam and Odisha. This tribe grows one of the finest organic coffees on the face of the earth. Did you know that, Rahul, you avid lover of coffee? I bet you did not.’

  She poked him playfully and continued.

  ‘The coffee grown in Araku Valley has a fruity and caramel flavour, which is unique when it comes to coffee, Rahul. It is incredibly smooth and leaves a lovely, silky aftertaste in your mouth. That’s what I have read. Fruity and caramel coffee with a silky flavour. Wow! That’s simply magic. And here’s the thing about this special tribal coffee. The people who grow it are Adivasis who take care of their coffee like their own children. They nurture it throughout the year. Each tribal farmer has his own little coffee farm. All this love is paid off in creating a real masterpiece, Rahul. Just last year, Araku coffee won the gold medal at the Prix Epicures in Paris, beating the best varieties of coffee from places like Sumatra and Colombia. Isn’t that marvellous? Why don’t we go someplace that serves us Araku Valley coffee? We could have a long, lingering cup together.’

  Rahul was enjoying hearing Neha speak. Her words tumbled into each other nicely. He kept looking at her wide eyes, which spoke their own language. He knew that both of them had liked each other ever since they had first met at a party in Mumbai a couple of years ago. He loved reading her blog, which was becoming increasingly popular on social media. But here he was now, seeing her passion for coffee and for storytelling, flowing so free like a pure and sparkling river.

  He moved closer, put his arms around her and held her in a soft embrace. He thought to himself, yes, we could have a long, lingering cup together, Neha. Maybe every morning, freshly brewed, in our own home.

  *

  They walked down the wide roads of Coimbatore like a young couple in love. Rahul Kamath in his khaki shorts and green shirt, with a cap on his head, and Neha Sharma in her denim-blue jeans, with a close cropped yellow top. It was very hot and they were licking their ice cream waffle cones as they ambled along on Race Course Road. No one looking at them could ever imagine that they were here in the search of a monk’s treasure, or were being stalked by a strange, bald Japanese man.

  Strangely, they missed RG’s presence. He was not with them because he could only travel within the coffee plantations in Coorg, or close by. Ghosts have strict boundaries in the afterlife, which is why ghosts who haunt one place are generally not found in other places. RG had bid them goodbye as they left Cottabetta Bungalow and wished them well in their search.

  ‘We will meet again for sure,’ he had said as Rahul and Neha left the coffee plantations. Holding his coffee mug, he went on, ‘I have enjoyed my coffee time with you. Ghosts like me are so lonely all the time, you know. I am so happy that you are searching for the monk’s long-hidden secret treasure. It deserves to be found by people who really love coffee with all their heart. I think you are destined to find it, that’s why you were sent here in the first place, and that’s why the monk has guided you so far. I will rest forever once the treasure is found, Rahul and Neha. Enjoy Coimbatore; it’s a nice and easy place. I will see you when you are back. I think you will be back soon.’

  Meanwhile, as soon as Rahul and Neha saw a temple by the street, they walked in. It was a small shrine built for Lord Vinayaka, the elephant-headed god. The walls were painted red and white in alternate strips. Inside, a single priest, bare-chested and dressed in his traditional white dhoti, was preparing the idol for some rituals.

  Rahul asked him, ‘Sir, do you know where we can find a temple of Goddess Annapoorna?’

  The priest looked at them for a while before answering, ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Sir, we have been asked to go there. My wife and I, we were told by our family astrologer to pray there. This is for a blessing we have been seeking for a long time. Today, under the right confluence of stars, we want to find this temple. We have come all the way from Mumbai.’ He held Neha’s hand to indicate that it was a joint blessing they were seeking.

  This time, she did not kick Rahul. Instead, she silently admired the way Rahul was spinning his story.

  The priest turned out to be cooperative. ‘In that case, it is important you go there right away, before the stars disperse. You two have come to the right place. The famous temple of Goddess Annapoorna is not too far from here. Hire a rickshaw to go to R.S. Puram and ask for Annapoorneswari Temple. It is a big and famous shrine dedicated to the goddess. It is more than five hundred years old.’

  Rahul and Neha arrived at the ancient temple to find it teeming with people. The entrance tower, called the gopuram, was ornate in its design and an impressive piece of architecture. Rahul could see small sculptures of various goddesses embedded at various points in the gopuram. Exquisite carvings adorned it. He stood staring at the temple for some time, taken by its timeless beauty.

  Within the temple, they saw the silver idol of Shiva begging Annapoorneswari for food with a skull pot in his hand. This was a depiction of a famous Hindu legend in which Shiva asks for food from the goddess to relieve him of a curse. Only food from the goddess’s h
ands could purify him again.

  They walked around a little bit, seeing the pilgrims pray and looking at trees which were interestingly named after the planets. However, nowhere could they see a shrine of coffee or anything that even reminded them of it:

  In our own splendid Manchester lives the goddess of food.

  Her shrine is a temple of coffee.

  A priest who was watching them came up and spoke. He wore a pigtail and a large holy mark on his forehead.

  ‘Would you like to offer special prayers? People come here to pray for food, health and also marriage negotiations.’

  Neha looked up at Rahul. Marriage negotiations. What an interesting and archaic thought! She said nothing. Instead, she asked the priest, ‘Is there a shrine of coffee in this temple? Can you show us the way?’

  The priest looked at her with an incredulous expression.

  ‘Coffee? Madam, you are inside a sacred temple. We don’t have shrines of coffee here; we have shrines of our gods and goddesses. I think you have come to the wrong place if you are looking for coffee. But maybe I can offer a special prayer for your health?’

  Neha, however, wasn’t one to give up so easily. ‘Are you sure? Is there a coffee plant anywhere here, like these trees that are named after planets? Annapoorneswari is the goddess of food, and coffee is food too, isn’t it?’

  The priest, too, was stubborn. In fact, he appeared to be relishing the opportunity to make his points about the temple, which had been his home for over twenty years now. He spoke in fluent English, his pigtail moving from side to side as he answered.

  ‘Madam, don’t take me lightly. This is a holy place. Food for our goddess is that which nourishes people. She offers nourishment and health. She provides rice, grains, pulses and vegetables. Coffee is not considered food in our temple. Far from it. I have never heard of a shrine of coffee, Madam. You will not find one here, or in any other temple. Now, I have to go. There are many pilgrims here who need me.’