An Extreme Love of Coffee

by Harish Bhat

  Rahul and Neha looked at each other. They had got so far in their search for the treasure, but now they were stuck again. They were right here, in the temple of the goddess of food, in the Manchester of south India, but without an answer to the second clue and no idea about what to do next. Had they reached a dead end?

  ‘Let’s have a nice cup of hot coffee, Neha,’ said Rahul. ‘Often, it’s the coffee which has all the answers. Also, I am feeling tired, as are you. It’s been a long day.’

  Just as they stepped out through the gopuram, they saw him once again. Takahira Yamamoto. This time, he was accompanied by another man who looked Japanese too but was somewhat taller and had a very thin face. Yamamoto looked at Rahul and Neha. Their eyes locked. They were just a couple of feet away from each other. Contact seemed unavoidable this time. Rahul offered a silent prayer and hoped that there would be no violence.

  Takahira Yamamoto drew out his sword and held it high in the air. He looked at Rahul and Neha, and spoke in staccato English.

  ‘The treasure,’ he said, ‘my family’s treasure. Don’t forget, it is mine. I see every move you make, Rahul and Neha. Everywhere you go. I watch you from far and I watch you from near. But I watch you. Do you remember Yanaka-reien in Tokyo, where I took you? A graveyard is a sad place of memories, a terrible place of death. You do not want to be carried to the graveyard, my young friends. You have many years of life before you. Don’t try to take away what belongs to my family.’

  Rahul stood silent, his left hand shielding Neha lest the crazy Japanese man bring down his sword. And while the man may be crazy, the sword looked real. Its polished steel was gleaming under the hot Coimbatore sun. By now, a few bystanders and pilgrims had gathered around them. It was not every day that a foreigner bearing a sword appeared in front of Annapoorneswari Temple. The priest they had spoken to earlier had left the pilgrims he was assisting and turned up too.

  Takahira Yamamoto was not in the least concerned with the motley crowd. In an emphatic movement, he lowered his sword and the people moved back immediately. He put the sword back into its leather scabbard, which was attached loosely to the belt of his trousers. He glared at Rahul and stared at him for a full minute. Then he walked away with the tall, thin man who had remained completely silent all this while. Both the men boarded an orange car that was waiting, the same Tata Nexon that Rahul had seen during their earlier encounter in Suntikoppa.

  After Takahira was gone, Neha turned to Rahul, ‘I need that coffee now, Rahul, to calm my nerves. Also, we need to talk. Seriously. Why are we crossing swords with this weird Japanese man? Just why, why are we searching for this treasure that we know absolutely nothing about? Tell me that.’

  Rahul felt the same. He was tired too. Maybe they should call off this search right there and return to Mumbai, safe, alive and far away from Japanese cemeteries. For him, it would be back to writing advertising scripts. For Neha, it would be back to blogging about food. In any case, their search had reached a dead end since there was no coffee shrine in the temple of Goddess Annapoorna. This was the end of their little adventure. It was good as long as it lasted, he thought.

  He turned to an elderly man standing near them, wearing a white dhoti and blue shirt.

  ‘Sir, where can we find the best coffee here? My wife and I are visiting from Mumbai and we need a cup of coffee.’

  Again, Neha did not kick Rahul when she heard the word ‘wife’. Instead, she stood there looking nervous and tired.

  The elderly man didn’t even blink before responding. The passion in his voice totally exceeded the response that such a simple question would normally evoke. Usually, a person would simply point to a place and offer directions to a neighbouring coffee shop. This man, however, said, ‘Young man, you are very lucky. Just ten minutes away, on the nearby road, you will find the best coffee on earth. Just ask for Sree Annapoorna Hotel. Everyone here knows it so you will not have a problem finding it. It is not just a hotel; it is our city’s most famous temple of coffee.’

  Rahul’s eyes nearly popped out. Sree Annapoorna Hotel, the temple of coffee, the same name as the goddess of food. This was staggering. This was beautiful. Actually, this was unbelievable.

  ‘Thank you, Sir. Yes, we are lucky. Actually, Sir, you have brought us luck. We will go there. Come on, Neha! Let’s walk down to this place quickly and taste the best coffee in the world.’

  As they walked, Rahul felt the zing popping back into his mind and waves of energy bouncing back into his body.

  ‘Listen, Neha. I know you think we should give up. Yes, that Japanese guy is crazy and weird. Totally. I buy that. But did you see what just happened? Did you hear what the old man said? Just when we thought we were stuck, he helped us with the second clue. This is a sign, Neha, a divine signal that we are destined to find this treasure. Maybe, it is a sign from the old monk. It very well could be a signal from the goddess herself.’

  The words tumbled out of Rahul’s mouth. Neha looked at him. When he spoke like that, Rahul was not just charming to her, he was irresistible. Like a man on a mission. That was how she had seen him when they first spoke at the party in Mumbai, two years ago. ‘I have to write the best advertising films on earth, Neha, I simply have to, because that’s what I’ve been born for. Let me tell you how I write my scripts, late at night on my balcony with a glass of red wine . . .’ She remembered that conversation very well because it had very nearly seduced her. She looked at him once again and smiled.

  ‘Yes, I hear you, Rahul. But we need to talk. Let’s chat over coffee.’

  17

  The temple of coffee that Rahul and Neha were seeking was located at one end of a busy road that cut through the heart of Coimbatore, housing merchants who dealt in textiles, jewellery and earthenware. You could see merchants waiting expectantly for business, all of them dressed in traditional white dhotis and starched white shirts, sporting big ash-grey tilaks on their foreheads. Interestingly, on this road there were a number of pawnbrokers who offered loans against jewellery or other valuable items as collateral.

  In the olden days, a large burial ground was situated adjacent to this road with stories of ghosts and ghouls enjoying a free rein here. But parts of that burial ground had later been converted into a playground, as a result of which all this talk had died down completely. Had Neha known of this history, she may have been at risk of a nervous breakdown. At that point, she wanted to be as far away as possible from ghosts, graveyards and burial grounds.

  They asked a passing local for the way to the hotel and he readily pointed it out to them. They turned around a corner and saw the large sign ahead of them on an imposing building: Sree Annapoorna Hotel. They walked in and immediately sensed the delicious aroma of coffee. It was a moist fragrance, brimming with the warm, heady flavours of coffee and milk. Rahul saw Neha stop, take in a deep breath and close her eyes in happiness. He thought to himself, when there are such wonderful flavours in the air, all of us should pause and take a deep breath. These aromas are too valuable to waste.

  They asked a bearer for two cups of coffee. ‘Can I get you our special filter coffee?’ the bearer asked. Rahul and Neha nodded.

  The coffee came quickly, served in small brass tumblers with a layer of froth on top. Rahul took a small sip and felt complete bliss. He had never tasted something as delicious as this. He saw Neha too sit up in delight after taking a few sips.

  ‘Rahul, what wonderful coffee is this? We have never had something like this before. These flavours are playing so beautifully with my tongue and this is such a brilliant melange of coffee notes. Oh my God! I can write a thousand blogs about this coffee, Rahul.’

  Her fatigue seemed to have disappeared by now. All she wanted to speak about was the coffee. She began waving both her arms animatedly as she spoke. ‘Fabulous coffee, Rahul. Just heavenly.’

  A senior bearer, or maybe he was the manager of the hotel since he appeared to be authoritative, saw her delight and came up to their table. ‘Madam, I can see you
like our filter coffee. Let me tell you about it. This coffee is made of the finest blend of beans, roasted to perfection. We have a secret recipe that makes this filter coffee the best. Oh yes, it is the best, and only very fresh milk is used. See its golden colour.’

  She looked at her cup for a moment, admiring the colour, and then continued listening to the man. ‘People come here every day for coffee, Madam. This is not just coffee. It is our way of life. Coffee like this is a luxury that everyone can enjoy. Welcome to Annapoorna Coffee, Madam,’ he said.

  Rahul and Neha sat there quietly, savouring their moment of glorious Coimbatore coffee. They silently agreed with the elderly man who had guided them there, telling them that this was the best coffee on earth. It had certainly heightened their senses. All their exhaustion was now behind them.

  After some time, Rahul looked up from his tumbler and said, ‘Do you remember what RG told us, Neha? That the monk had come to a place in Coimbatore where he had found the best coffee on earth? I think he actually said that it was divine nectar infused with caffeine. I am sure this is the place, Neha. It is named after the goddess of food, Annapoorna, and it is certainly a shrine of coffee. With such heavenly coffee, can there be a higher shrine at all? I think this place is certainly the answer to the second clue. Let’s figure it out now. How about two more cups of this wonderful coffee to stimulate our minds?’

  They had some more coffee and then there was one more surprise waiting for them. The elderly man in the white dhoti and blue shirt who had initially guided them to this hotel appeared in front of them.

  ‘You had dropped this envelope and paper in front of the temple. It probably fell out of your pocket when you were speaking to that Japanese man,’ he told Rahul, handing him an envelope and a folded sheet of paper. ‘I knew where you were headed, so I came here quickly.’

  Rahul recognized it immediately. It was the monk’s paper with the second clue written on it.

  In our own splendid Manchester lives the goddess of food.

  Her shrine is a temple of coffee.

  ‘Thank you, Sir. Yes, this is mine. It was careless of me to have dropped it. Thank you so much for bringing it back to me.’

  As he took the paper, he saw something else written on the back of the paper, in a similar ink. Just four words, but in the same writing style:

  Ask pawnbroker Ramaswamy.

  Rahul had missed the reverse side of the note earlier, but these words were clearly legible now. Here was the monk, telling them what to do next. Before he could tell Neha about what they had missed, the man took a look at their empty cups and began speaking. ‘How did you like the filter coffee here?’

  Rahul was genuinely thankful to him and so he replied, ‘This is surely the best coffee in the world. Why don’t you join us for a cup? My wife and I will be delighted.’

  Again, there was no kick from under the table. The man took them up on the offer immediately. He seemed happy for the company. Over the next hour, he spoke to them about the simple joys of filter coffee, a beautiful rambling conversation they would not forget for a long time.

  *

  The elderly man sipped his coffee from the tumbler and spoke with deep conviction about a very wide range of matters related to coffee, additionally emphasizing every sentence to underline his knowledge and authority.

  ‘Is coffee just another product? No, Sir. Is coffee just a thirst quencher? No, Sir. Is coffee merely an experience in a restaurant? Again, no, Sir. I tell you, Sir, coffee is religion, nothing less. It is sacred, it has beautiful rituals, it cleanses our minds and it makes our hearts dance.

  ‘Beautiful rituals of selecting the beans, making the blend, roasting the coffee, powdering it fresh for the day’s filter coffee, rituals of visiting the neighbouring coffee works, small shops that grind this powder for us, with love and care. These shops know their coffee very well, as they roast and grind it to such perfect colour and shape. And then, finally, the aroma diffuses in your kitchen at the break of dawn, as the coffee drips into the filter. I tell you, coffee is as glorious as the rising sun.

  ‘What we are drinking now is the finest filter coffee. But all filter coffee is not the same, Sir. Don’t ever make that common mistake. This is Coimbatore-style filter coffee, although every city around here that is worth its weight in coffee beans has its own style of making coffee. Oh yes, you will find Madras filter kaapi, Mysore filter coffee and even Kumbakonam degree coffee.

  Rahul and Neha were struck by the reference to degree coffee. ‘What is degree coffee?’ asked Neha.

  ‘What is degree coffee, you want to know? Madam, I will tell you. It is very high-quality coffee. Fresh milk of the highest degree of purity is used in the very first decoction of the brew that gives the best flavour. I tell you, this is like coffee that has earned its PhD degree.’

  Then Rahul asked the man a question about chicory and coffee. Something he had always wanted to know. The old man responded with renewed passion.

  ‘Ah, Sir, you want to know about chicory. Let me tell you, it’s just a root. Some people here love their filter coffee blended with chicory. Not me, sir. Chicory will never, ever enter my house. I have told my wife and my children that adding chicory is like adulterating your coffee. No adulteration for me. I like my coffee pure, nothing but the best beans, milk and sugar. That’s the way God wants us to have our coffee.

  ‘Coffee elevates music. Listen to pure classical music over a hot cup of coffee. I tell you, Sir, the experience is magical. I have done it several times, so I can tell you from experience, the music has revealed itself to me through coffee in very special ways.

  ‘Why does this hotel serve the world’s best coffee? It’s because of their unique blend and secret roasting recipe. The founder made this recipe over fifty years ago. It has not changed since then. It has been passed on from father to son. The owner will never reveal it to anyone. People from all over the world—Americans, Germans, Japanese and so on—they come here and they all agree. You have to taste this coffee at least once to make your life worthwhile. Like a pilgrimage, Sir. A coffee pilgrimage.’

  At the end of an hour, the elderly man thanked Rahul and Neha for the coffee and left as silently as he had arrived. Rahul and Neha were amazed at everything they had heard. They felt refreshed.

  Rahul then showed Neha the four words written on the back of the paper:

  Ask pawnbroker Ramaswamy

  Neha found herself strangely excited once again. She was piped up, fortified by the world’s best filter coffee now sloshing in her guts.

  ‘Rahul, forget what I said earlier about not going ahead. This adventure is taking us into some really interesting areas. What a wonderful sermon about coffee this was. That man should be writing a million blogs. All the coffee lovers will make him rich. Now, suddenly, we have our next clue. This is our own adventure, yours and mine, Rahul. To tell you the truth, I am a little worried about the Japanese weirdo, but I can live with that noise and drama for some more time because this is really getting exciting.’

  This was exactly what Rahul wanted to hear. He leant over, kissed her and then held her hand.

  ‘Yes, Neha. We will deal with the bald Japanese man when we have to. Let him stalk us for all I care. He hasn’t done anything yet, apart from waving his ridiculous-looking sword. This is the most glorious coffee adventure ever and we happen to be right in the middle of it. The way our coffee monk has laid out his clues, I am sure there is a lot more about coffee that we have to discover. We’ll definitely remember this all our lives.’

  ‘Yes, Rahul. I agree. And then there’s the final secret too. Come on, let’s find pawnbroker Ramaswamy. He must be somewhere close to this place because he is part of the same clue.’

  18

  As Rahul and Neha left Sree Annapoorna Hotel with its fabled filter coffee behind them, they saw a long line of pawnbrokers’ stores on the main road adjacent to the hotel. These stores were visible from the windows of the hotel and they silently thanked the monk for
placing his clues so well. He was a smart monk for sure.

  A range of interesting names and descriptions met their eyes. Golden Pawnbrokers, Gold and Silver Loans; Shobana Pawn Shop, Loan against Gold; Balaji Pawnbrokers, Second-hand Gold Coin Buyers; Dream Loan Pawn Company, Loans for all Your Dreams; Pandyan Gold, Bring Your Gold to us Today.

  Pawnbrokers were an important part of the community here. People who wanted loans would come here, offer their jewellery as collateral and be granted a loan immediately at a specified interest rate. They would get back their jewellery when they had paid the loan in full, along with the accumulated interest. If they did not repay the loan in time, the pawn broker could sell off the jewellery to other people. Of course, jewellery was not the only currency these shops accepted—electronics, firearms and even musical instruments served as currency.

  Most of the shops looked old and dusty. Rahul chose to walk into Dream Loan Pawn Company first. A young man, presumably an assistant, was glued to his mobile phone. He looked at them grumpily, not too happy at the interruption.

  ‘Owner has gone out for lunch, Sir. Please come back later. After 4 p.m.’

  ‘We are not here to meet your owner, boy. We want to ask you a simple question. We are searching for someone.’

  ‘All right, ask your question. Not sure that I will know the answer. But I’ve been here for long enough to know most people. Also, I won’t help you for free since my master hardly pays me well. How can a person live on a pittance in this costly city?’

  ‘We will pay you well if you answer me. Do you know of a person called pawnbroker Ramaswamy?’

  ‘Who does not know him, Sir? He is the oldest pawnbroker in this area. Must be more than two hundred years old, or even more than that. Everyone knows him, but all of us avoid him. Who wants to listen to his long and boring stories?’