An Extreme Love of Coffee

by Harish Bhat

  ‘Good, good. Where is Ramaswamy’s shop? Where can we meet him?’

  ‘Give me my money, Sir. Then I will tell you.’

  They gave him a Rs 100 note and the young boy promptly said, ‘Around twenty shops away from here, Sir, on the left side of the road. The board says Ramaswamy Pawn Shop. It is quite easy to find. Ramaswamy Ayya has put his own name on the shop.’

  Rahul chided himself. They could have saved the money had they walked a little further. But he smiled and thanked the boy.

  Ramaswamy Pawn Shop was a small and dingy den. An old wooden door opened into a tiny room with a small reclining wooden desk placed on a raised platform. There was a cupboard with glass doors, mostly displaying silver trophies that must have been pawned here. At one end of the room stood a steel almirah. A bulky ceiling fan, very old and covered with dust, was rotating slowly right on top. Behind the wooden desk, writing something in a thick, bound notebook, sat an old man wearing thick spectacles. His face was wrinkled but his eyes appeared very sharp.

  After a few minutes, he looked up at them and asked, ‘What do you want? I have never seen you before.’

  Neha picked up the conversation. ‘Are you Mr Ramaswamy?’

  ‘Didn’t you see the name of my shop? Yes, I am Ramaswamy. Who else can I be? And who are you two?’

  ‘We have been sent here by a Japanese monk, Sir. My name is Neha. This is my husband, Rahul. We have come all the way from Mumbai. I think we have some long-pending business with you.’

  Rahul smiled. He did not kick her either.

  Ramaswamy peered at them intently for a few minutes. He then looked them up and down, frowning. ‘What is the name of this monk, where is he from?’

  ‘Saito is his name. He is a monk from the coffee estates of Coorg.’

  When Ramaswamy heard the answer, his face lost its frown and broke out into a broad smile. ‘I have been waiting so many years now for you to come here. Welcome to my little pawn store. Sit down, sit down. Let me get your parcel. It has been gathering dust in my almirah for so long.’

  Ramaswamy stood up, surprisingly sprightly for his age, and walked to the steel almirah. He unlocked it with a big metal key and brought out a brown parcel from one of the lower shelves. It was wrapped in paper and tied with thick, strong string. He set this in front of Rahul and Neha and said, ‘That monk, Saito, he spent five days with me around thirty years ago. He told me many stories about faraway lands and various types of coffees. Drank lots of coffee, mostly at Annapoorna Hotel nearby. Gave me a gold coin too, with some markings on it. Very knowledgeable person. I enjoyed his company and learnt a lot about coffee. Then, he left this parcel with me. He asked me to keep it safe and hand it over to someone who would come here, but only if they mentioned his name correctly. And, he added, that if I retired before these people came, I was to hand it over to my son for safekeeping.

  ‘But here you are and here I am, still hale and hearty. Ninety-five years old and still going strong. You know why? It is because I drink the best coffee in the world every day from Annapoorna. Good coffee is the secret behind a long life. And listen to me, I know nothing of what is inside this parcel, so be careful when you open it. I am just doing my duty for that monk. I have been carrying this weight all these years and I am happy that you have come to collect it. The monk was a good man. I wonder where he is now.’

  Rahul replied, ‘Sir, he passed away many years ago on his coffee plantation.’

  Then he added an improvization, ‘You will be happy to know, Sir, that he died peacefully and happily, surrounded by more than a hundred types of his favourite coffee beans. His servant tells us that all those coffee beans rolled over in tribute to him as soon as he breathed his last. Lived with coffee and died with coffee, Sir. Now, we are just following his instructions.’

  Ramaswamy looked at them again. ‘A peaceful death is a good farewell. May his soul rest in peace. I hope you find what you are looking for inside this packet. Would you like to stay and talk? I have a very interesting story to tell you about what happened to our pawnbroking business during the Second World War.’

  PART C

  THE FINAL CLUE

  19

  Neha was in a tearing hurry to open the parcel, to see where the monk would lead them next. She ripped open the brown paper, twisted the twine off the packet and found a tin inside, its lid held down firmly with tape.

  It was one of those old square tins that were used to pack sweets or biscuits. Neha could read the faint words ‘Parry’s Lacto Bon Bons’ on it. She remembered the brown, plastic-wrapped sweets from her childhood. Lacto Bon Bons. The tin itself featured characters from fairy tales like the ugly duckling, the tin soldier, the little mermaid, a blue nightingale and an emperor marching without his clothes, all painted in an attractive melange of blue, orange and white. The tin in front of her now was an old chocolate tin designed to appeal to young children but made of sturdy metal that had remained intact all these years. What exciting message would this tin contain? She pulled the tape away, opened the lid and turned to Rahul.

  She then pulled out a cloth pouch of coffee similar to the ones that had accompanied the first two clues. The same, familiar walnutty smell of the old woman’s magical coffee beans assailed their nostrils. Rahul smelt it deeply and thought to himself, this is the defining smell of our adventure. For a moment, his mind drifted a little. Why this adventure alone, every milestone in life has a smell associated with it. He should do something unique and memorable with smells when writing scripts in the future. He tucked away this thought for now and returned the pouch to Neha.

  Then they found an envelope folded at the bottom of the tin. It had the monk’s familiar scrawly handwriting.

  The second shrine of coffee you have now left behind. The filter coffee here is the best man can find. Now to the third shrine you head, and then you are near. Open my little puzzle and go without fear.

  It was clear that this merry monk liked nice and simple rhymes. They opened the envelope. There was a paper inside with two simple lines written on it. This was the third clue.

  Goddess from the sea, you welcome our coffee.

  Rain and mellow, we are gold and yellow.

  Rahul looked at Neha and smiled. This was as cryptic as ever. They had no clue about what it meant, but wouldn’t it be great fun to solve this and inch closer to the secret treasure that the monk had left behind?

  Neha said, ‘Rahul, turn the page over. Let’s see whether there is anything written on the other side. You know, like the “go ask pawnbroker Ramaswamy” note that we saw quite late last time around.’

  They turned the page and there it was, one more line in the same handwriting:

  Every coffee bean tells a story, including my own, says the goddess.

  Goddess from the sea? A goddess who owns coffee beans? What was the monk trying to tell them? Who was this third goddess?

  They had found the first two goddesses after a considerable search, thanks to some timely help from RG and a little bit of luck. Unfortunately, RG was not around now. And luck, by its very nature, cannot be relied on all the time.

  First, they had discovered the shrine of Goddess Kaveri, at whose birthplace they had found the remarkable bellada kaapi, the lovely coffee made with jaggery. That had led them to Goddess Annapoorna, the goddess of food, whose name had inspired the finest filter coffee they had ever tasted. Where, now, would this take them?

  Neha had an idea.

  ‘Rahul, let’s go back to that book we picked up at the Mysore station, the one about Indian goddesses. That should give us all the possible details on this subject. I even saw a large glossary at the end, with names of more than four hundred goddesses. We need the name of the goddess from the sea. That should be easy enough—we Hindus have gods and goddesses for just about everything.’

  And so, in their hotel room that night, overlooking the Coimbatore race course, Rahul and Neha pored over the book. They read every chapter on every goddess: Ganga, Yamuna, Saras
wati, Mumbadevi, Kamakhya, Bhagya, Parvati, Durga, Kali, and many more. They learnt the legends associated with these goddesses, about the temples built to honour them, what each goddess stood for, the animals or birds that were their vahanas (vehicles) and the prayers offered at their shrines. They found everything possible, except a goddess from the sea. The book was conspicuously silent on that specific subject.

  *

  ‘Call me. Need to brief you quickly about the Nippon film shoot,’ said the text message from Haroon.

  When Rahul called, Haroon was in an expansive mood.

  ‘We are three weeks away from the shoot, Rahul. Everything’s set. Your holiday should be done by then. This is going to be one of the most iconic ad films of the year; I can feel it, that’s why I’m so excited. No Indian brand has ever done a film with an authentic shogun. Your script was so fantastic, Rahul, what a masterstroke! That’s what excited Mr Nippon and his Japanese principals in the first place, you know. The film makes its point so beautifully and precisely. Who knows, we may even win an award at Cannes.’

  Haroon was daydreaming now. Rahul knew this film was good and he was also sure it would do a lot to boost the sales of Nippon Springlove mattresses. But he didn’t believe for a moment that it was the kind of film that would be recognized at the Cannes festival. However, he kept quiet because Haroon continued speaking.

  ‘And there’s some more good news too. The two Japanese girls who are playing the concubines in this film will be here a week before the date. They want to see India and get used to our climatic conditions generally, you know what I mean. I’ve seen their photographs and, let me tell you, I spoke to one of them yesterday. A very friendly girl who is totally keen to explore India. We may just want to take them out to dinner and a couple of nice evenings out. We don’t meet Japanese babes that often in Mumbai, if you know what I mean. We could do Wasabi at Taj, treat them to a nice Japanese meal, Rahul. Or if they show an interest in eating Indian seafood, maybe the Konkan Café or Trishna.’

  Rahul didn’t fancy spending long evenings with Haroon and two Japanese girls he had never met. Haroon was a good boss, but when he got drunk, well, it was best to avoid him. Previous evenings of this kind had never gone well. But before he could respond, Haroon continued his monologue.

  ‘By the way, Rahul, that Japanese principal guy, Yamamoto, he’s called me a couple of times. He says that his brother saw you in some small town, heading to a pawnbroker’s store. He says they are tracking you very carefully; he desperately wants to get hold of some treasure that belongs to his family. I am amazed; I am totally lost, Rahul. I mean, what were you doing at a pawnbroker’s place? The last time it was a cemetery, now it is a pawnbroker. Are you on holiday or some sort of crazy suicide mission? I thought you were on a coffee trail in the plantations. How do graveyards and pawnbrokers figure there?’

  Rahul didn’t see the point of this conversation. ‘I will tell you all about this when I am back, Haroon. Yes, I am in the middle of some exciting stuff here, but it is too much trouble to explain over the phone.’

  ‘That’s fine. I don’t need all the lurid details now. I’m just worried about what will happen if you come here without that treasure that Yamamoto wants. I have a neat solution for that too, Rahul, if you need it. Even if you don’t actually find any treasure, and I doubt you will find anything at all, just buy something valuable that looks like real Japanese treasure. We can say that’s what you found and give it to that guy who’s making these strange phone calls to me. I am sure we can find something fairly authentic at a couple of antique stores here in Mumbai. I’ll pay for it officially too, these are our clients and they are paying us well. So, don’t worry about the cost as long as it is reasonable.’

  And then he turned his focus back on to the Nippon film. ‘Three weeks, Rahul. That’s the countdown to the best film we have ever made. Nippon Springlove. Your film, and mine too. Don’t get into any more trouble, my friend. Be safe. And actually, you know what, focus on coffee. Just focus on coffee. You love coffee, that’s the real purpose of your holiday, not some ridiculous Japanese treasure that has nothing to do with us. That’s how you will find the right things to do and also stay safe. Sayonara.’ The Japanese sign-off was a nice Haroon-ish touch.

  After Haroon put the phone down, Rahul sat back and looked at Neha, who was still asleep, curled up softly on the bed in their room. Haroon’s words kept coming back to his mind. ‘Just focus on coffee . . . That’s how you will find the right things to do.’ Whatever Haroon may have meant by these words, they had struck a chord.

  Yes, Rahul told himself, Neha and he had, so far, found the right things to do by focusing on coffee. It was the story of the river goddess who nurtured coffee in Coorg that had led them to solving the first clue. It was coffee that had helped them crack the second clue. On the first reading, the monk’s clues may revolve around goddesses and rivers and food, but it was suddenly clear to him that their essence lay in coffee. That was the beverage the monk loved and lived with, the one that Rahul loved too. Haroon was right, they should focus on coffee once again to solve this new clue, and not just on some Hindu goddess of the sea, who may not exist at all. Thanks, Haroon! That was extraordinary insight, coming from you. Here’s hoping you have a great time with those Japanese babes!

  He looked at the line once again and kept staring at it for some time.

  Goddess from the sea, you welcome our coffee.

  Rain and mellow, we are gold and yellow.

  When Neha woke up, Rahul was ready with a plan. ‘Hey, Neha, I think I know what we should do. Let’s dump the goddess in the sea for now and look for coffee that has something to do with the rain, and probably has a mellow taste. I think that will lead us to a good place.’

  20

  They were back in the Cottabetta Bungalow the next day. Pooviah welcomed them with great warmth.

  ‘Sir, Madam, welcome, welcome. Your room is ready. And I have some of your special coffee too, hot and ready to be served.’

  As Rahul and Neha sipped on the coffee made using the old woman’s pink beans, and as they sipped on it silently on the spacious verandah, the walnutty aroma seeped into their heads in a slow, pleasant way. Rahul’s mind was wandering around the clue, thinking of a number of things that could connect coffee and rains. Neha wasn’t thinking about anything specific, though she sort of knew what Rahul was preoccupied with.

  As they looked out at the hills beyond the plantation, they saw dark rain clouds moving in their direction. Where had these clouds come from so quickly? It was a majestic sight though. As they kept watching, the clouds came closer, and soon enough it was raining. The heavens poured their heart out and the coffee plantations around them were soaked in sheets of water.

  Neha reached out to Rahul, tapping him lightly on his thigh. ‘You said we should search for coffee that has something to do with the rain, Rahul. Here is the rain itself answering your question. Come on, let’s search for coffee now. Better still, why don’t we forget about the search for a while? Let’s just play in the rains. You and me. It is so wonderful outside.’

  He had never seen Neha in such a playful mood before. She looked more beautiful than ever, a bright glow all over her face, particularly in her eyes. Pooviah gave them raincoats and boots, and out they went, into the Cottabetta plantation, with the rain enveloping them.

  The air was moist and the green leaves of the coffee plants had taken on a fresh hue with the rain washing the dust off them. The leaves seemed to be rejoicing, their thirst now quenched. Along with the plants, the tall teak trees, with the slender pepper vines climbing around them, seemed to be enjoying the rains too. An old fig tree at the entrance to the plantation appeared to be presiding over the rain-drenched symphony.

  Rahul and Neha found themselves ensconced in this magic. For a spell of several minutes, there was silence. Neither of them made a sound. They just watched and listened as nature spoke to them in a lovely, refreshing voice.

  Without utter
ing a single word, they found their hands locking into each other’s. Neha turned towards Rahul and said, ‘Rahul, this is the loveliest place in the world, thank you for bringing me here.’

  And then she added, ‘You know something, these coffee plantations are making me fall in love. With you.’

  Rahul couldn’t speak. He simply looked at Neha and held her in his arms. They stood in a close embrace, the soft drops of rain falling all around them in the midst of hundreds of coffee plants.

  When the rain stopped a few minutes later, they were locked in a long kiss. A bird was chirping in the distance, but neither of them heard it.

  Later that afternoon, when Rahul was fast asleep after a sumptuous lunch of pork curry and rice sannas, Neha wrote a few words in her diary:

  Who could know that the magic of coffee,

  Is not just to sip but to see?

  Who could know that these moist estates,

  Offer the closest, happiest, warmest dates?

  Who could know that coffee can prance,

  In a silent, gracious, rhythmic dance?

  Who could know that this soft rainfall,

  Is for my own heart a wake-up call ?

  Can coffee make us love ourselves,

  Struck by darts of bean-fed elves?

  Or does coffee make us long for life,

  In the midst of our constant daily strife?

  Coffee love, do you rise like steam,

  Warm aromas that make my dream?

  With delicious magic by your side,

  On what carpet am I astride?

  Oh, stop these questions,

  I don’t know now.

  What I will do is happily bow

  To coffee magic, coffee love.

  Neha was an occasional poet and always took time to carefully craft her lines. But this time, the words just tumbled out of her.