by Harish Bhat
She stepped out of the bungalow. The rain had stopped, the air was cool and crisp, and the old fig tree at the entrance was looking down at her.
21
They had discovered the sheer beauty of the rain in the coffee plantations. Now, they had to unlock the third clue, which pointed to a deeper link between coffee and rain. As the monk said, ‘Rain and mellow, we are gold and yellow.’
RG, who was delighted to see them back, floated across with his steaming white mug of coffee. ‘What are you looking for, Rahul?’
‘Coffee and rains, RG. Does rain make coffee mellow? Do you know about anything that links coffee and rainfall?’
RG sat down in the deep cane chair in one corner of the verandah and took a deep breath.
‘Oh yes! I can tell you quite a few stories about coffee and rain. Coffee requires a lot of water to grow well. Actually, lots of rain, heat and humidity are the best for the bean. And I have some very interesting stories too. Now, listen to this unique story about rain and coffee, with some elephant poop thrown in.’
‘During my younger days, Rahul, Neha, there was a British planter here called Trevor Smith. He was an expert on rainfall, used to measure the bloody thing every single day. Once, he walked out by himself, somewhere deep into the plantations, in the middle of heavy rains that lasted for a week, to understand how coffee plants behaved during such downpours. Was that necessary, I ask you? A few people saw him walk by nonchalantly, talking to the rains and the clouds. Yeah, he did that too, all the time. Wobbly in the head, that’s what Trevor was, but a good chap nonetheless.
‘Well, he got lost. Totally lost. For five days, I think, no one knew where he was. Not a word. His wife, Sarah, began crying on the third day. She cried nonstop. She wanted to go out and look for him, and I remember how we restrained her by locking the doors and windows. What was the point in one more person, and an honest lady at that, getting lost? Then, on the fifth day, Trevor came back drenched and with three tribal-looking people accompanying him, with long braided hair and rags for clothes. With them was an elephant that the tribals owned. The elephant was carrying three big bags of coffee beans, all picked during the heavy rains. Trevor wanted to see if these beans, many of which had fallen to the ground during the downpour, had any special taste. That’s what he was doing for five days, getting these tribals to pick up the goddamned fallen beans in bloody pouring rain.
‘Sarah was livid when she heard all this, but she was also happy that her husband was back home and eventually calmed down. Trevor paid the tribals handsomely and then went to work on these rain-fed beans. I am not sure what exactly he did, but eventually he made some of us taste this coffee. It had a strange, revolting flavour, very rough and full of smoke. No one wanted to smell it, let alone drink it. Trevor was sad and dejected that his rain and coffee experiment had failed. He dumped all those roasted, rain-fed coffee beans in an open yard. And then the interesting thing happened.
‘Three days later, two elephants walked into that yard, ate up all those beans, stomped around happily and then walked away. Later, the workers found a lot of elephant dung in the neighbourhood, with lots and lots of undigested coffee beans in it. No one can eat and digest so much coffee, ha ha, not even elephants. They washed away the dung, sorted out the coffee beans, and someone then had the bright idea of tasting that coffee from the poop. Quite disgusting, if you think of it.
‘But let me tell you that it turned out to be brilliant coffee, totally superb and with a unique taste. I loved it. That’s why I remember it so well. Rain-picked coffee from elephant poop. We called it Trevor’s rain elephant coffee. Nothing much came of it though because Trevor promptly died of pneumonia next year. Too much walking in the rain, I guess. But he had created such wonderful coffee. Now, as I am telling you this story, I can’t help but think that someone out here should look at making this sort of coffee all over again. People who love coffee will adore Trevor’s rain elephant coffee.’
Here, RG stopped with a wistful look in his eyes. Rahul, who was listening intently to this story, burst out, ‘RG, what a story! This is simply wonderful. I’ve read about elephant poop coffee in Thailand. It’s exotic coffee there, and expensive as hell. Wow, I never realized that rain added to the taste, or that we can make this rare stuff in India. This is super news. Someone should take this up and make Indian rain-elephant poop coffee big. Maybe Haroon, my boss—he’s business-savvy—he would know the right guy to do this. Hey, but wait a minute, maybe this is the answer to our clue as well. Tell me? Were these rain-fed beans gold and yellow in colour? Was the coffee mellow?’
‘No, Rahul. These beans were black and green. Jet black and dark green, I remember clearly. Far removed from gold and yellow. What do you expect of coffee beans that come out with elephant poop?’
After a moment, RG added, ‘But you know, now that you ask me, I have actually seen coffee beans that are gold and pale yellow. Somewhere, a long while ago. Let me think, this should come back to me pretty soon. What a nice chat this was, Rahul. It’s slowly bringing back all my wonderful, old coffee memories. What more can a lonely old ghost ask for?’
At this, Neha sat up and added her closing remarks to this conversation. ‘I am relieved, actually, that this rain-fed elephant poop coffee is not gold and yellow in colour. Thanks for confirming that, RG. That’s really not the kind of stuff I would like to rummage in, for treasure or for anything else.’
*
RG came back with his answer the next morning. When Rahul woke up, he saw the coffee ghost hovering before him, his big white head and black spectacles more prominent than ever. He had been waiting impatiently to say something. He spoke as soon as he saw Rahul waking up.
‘Rahul, you wanted to know where you could find coffee beans that are gold and yellow in colour. I have seen beans like that in a small coastal town not too far away—a place called Mangalore on the shores of the Arabian Sea. Many years ago, I went to Mangalore to chase down an office clerk who had run away with a local woman. That’s a different story for some other time; it didn’t end well at all. Our agents there, they took me to visit some sheds where coffee beans were being dried. Very large spaces actually. What struck me then was that all the coffee there wasn’t green or brown; it was actually pale yellow and gold. Almost looked like real gold.’
Rahul woke up immediately when he heard this. Usually, he would sit up for a few minutes, rub his eyes open and then close them again to try and meditate. If Neha was next to him, he would cuddle up to her and they would lie close together for some time, safe and soft and warm. Sometimes, he would even lapse back into the twilight zone between sleep and consciousness for a few minutes, and then wake up once again. But today, he was up with a start.
‘Mangalore? How do we get there? Neha, did you hear that? We have something to work on!’
Neha had heard RG. ‘I know of Mangalore, Rahul. Lots of my friends are from there. It’s a beautiful coastal town with many scenic beaches. I’ve been to a few delicious Manglorean restaurants in Mumbai, and blogged about them too. I am excited to finally visit; I’ve never been there myself. Tell me, when do we start?’
‘We should start today, Neha. Right away. We only have two weeks before I return to work. Haroon’s already getting hyper about the Nippon film shoot. He texted me thrice yesterday saying that I have to be there at least a couple of days in advance. He began to complain that my holiday was getting too long, but I pointed out that he was the one who asked me to take this vacation in the first place.’
RG piped up. ‘I can come with you to Mangalore. It’s close enough and within my boundary. Would you like that? Actually, don’t bother answering, I will just come along. I will join you in Mangalore though. I want to fly across the marvellous Western Ghats, high over the hills. Flying is such a beautiful prerogative of being a ghost, definitely a lot more fun than driving down in a boring car.’
Rahul and Neha, being mere living humans, had to hire a ‘boring car’. Later that day, they wer
e bouncing down the mountain roads to Mangalore. Rahul was dreaming of coffee coated in layers of yellow gold, being poured into huge bags somewhere. Neha, blogger of food and lover of seafood, was dreaming of eating the kane (lady fish) coated in rawa, a Manglorean speciality she loved. And then blogging about it! Both of them were also dreaming about the solution to the third clue. And, well, about each other.
They were in blue-blooded coffee country. They stopped en route in the small, quaint town of Madikeri for a hot cup to refresh themselves. There were coffee stores lining the narrow road on both sides. Out of sheer interest, they stepped into a store called Golden & Silver Mist Coffee. The shopkeeper, a bald, portly man dressed in a dhoti, welcomed them profusely and launched into stories about his coffees.
‘I am Avinash Machaiah at your service, Sir. This is our very famous light-roasted arabica coffee, Sir. A very pleasant taste and aroma. My special light roasting; I do it in my own roaster just behind this shop. It retains so many of the natural qualities of coffee, Sir. You will find sweetness in the coffee, even the lingering smell of forest flowers. For just five hundred rupees, you can buy this pack. Will stay fresh for over two weeks, Sir.
‘And here is our most expensive coffee: the civet coffee. Do you know that this coffee is eaten and excreted by our own civet cats? We have three types of civet cats in the forests of Coorg, Sir. They eat coffee berries in the wild and then excrete the seeds. We pick up these droppings and clean out the coffee beans. I have people to do just that when it is the right season. It is a most wonderful and interesting taste in the world, Sir, because these coffee beans have been coated with the intestinal juices of the wild cat.
‘And let me tell you a secret about the civet coffee, Sir. Madam, you should hear me too, because this is important for both of you. I have eighteen regular customers from Germany to whom I send this coffee every month. They insist on it. One of them—I have his name here, Herr Helmut—tells me that this coffee gives him manly strength, you know what I mean. It is an aphrodisiac, he told me. I am an honest coffee merchant, Sir, so I told him that there is no proof of this, none at all. But if he thinks that the civet coffee gives him manly strength, who am I to deny that, Sir? He should know that best, don’t you agree? This pack will cost you three thousand rupees, Sir, but you know now that it is worth its weight in gold. Madam, you can buy one for him if you want to.’
Rahul remembered RG’s story about Trevor’s rain and elephant poop coffee, and he asked the portly shop owner, ‘That is quite a story, my friend. Do you also make elephant coffee, from elephant poop? It is pretty popular in Thailand.’
The shop owner said no. He actually didn’t know anything about elephant coffee, but he was quick to add that it did give him an idea for the future.
‘I always like listening to new ideas about coffee, Sir. Let me see how we can get our elephants to make the coffee you are describing. If coffee from civet cats gives my German customers such manly strength, imagine the strength they will get from elephant coffee, Sir. What a wonderful and glorious thought.’ Here, he laughed aloud, as this idea formed fully in his mind’s eye. For a moment, he imagined Herr Helmut in the midst of elephant-inspired manly action.
And then he continued, ‘But there is one thing. You have to be careful with elephants in these parts. They can trample you. Not advisable at all to get in their way. Who knows, they may even be watching over their own poop.’
Rahul and Neha jointly nodded and agreed with the shop owner that this risk did indeed exist. But Rahul also suggested with a wink that perhaps it was a risk worth taking, given the significant benefits the venture was likely to yield.
Avinash Machaiah was quite taken in by their interest in coffee. ‘Which way are you heading, Sir?’ he asked Rahul.
‘Towards Mangalore. We want to explore coffee there. Do you know anything about coffee in Mangalore?’ asked Rahul.
‘You are talking to absolutely the right man, Sir. My grand-uncle, Sharad Machaiah, lives in Mangalore and knows everything about coffee. Anything you want to know, he knows it all. Actually, he is a coffee processor and exporter. You should speak to Sharad Uncle when you reach there. Here, let me give you his phone number. But he can be a difficult man to catch. Always on the go, but a good man, Sir. Very helpful. You will see.’
Rahul and Neha thanked Avinash Machaiah, bought a pack of Golden Silver & Mist light-roasted arabica coffee, politely declined the civet coffee notwithstanding its unique benefits and said goodbye. As they left, the coffee merchant began making notes in his book, presumably about elephant coffee.
Rahul and Neha drank a quick cup of hot filter coffee in a small shop—it was frothy, milky, sugary and delicious as usual. Refreshed, they resumed their journey to Mangalore, the town where RG had seen yellow and gold coffee so many years ago. Did it still exist? If it did, would it actually take them one step closer to the unknown treasure the monk had left behind?
22
As they reached the coastal belt near Mangalore, they could feel the deep, humid, coastal air all around them. This was pure, silky, beach-and-mountain air, which combined the salty fullness of the sea with the clear, pristine beauty of the Western Ghats. The soil was deep red in colour. Rahul and Neha were struck by the lush green hills, tall coconut palms and dark red-coloured tiled roofed homes on both sides of the road.
RG, who had flown in from Coorg, descended smoothly into their car through one of the windows, immediately after the hills had ended and a few miles away from Mangalore. He seated himself at the back, next to Neha, and stretched his transparent white legs.
‘How was your flight?’ Neha asked in a matter-of-fact way.
‘Oh, it was nice, Neha. Took off and landed right on time, which is rare these days given your overcrowded airports,’ RG responded. ‘And an interesting flight too. I ran into a few large birds along the way, black eagles mainly. Large birds of prey with very sharp talons and beaks, so one has to be careful and avoid them. But I’ve found that birds fear ghosts too, so it’s not too difficult to stay clear, especially when both of us try to avoid each other. And then the black rain clouds. That’s quite a journey, flying through thick clouds, unable to see clearly, not knowing which way to go. But that also makes the journey fun, trying to navigate in low visibility, and so here I am. A very smooth landing too.’
At precisely that point, Rahul’s mobile phone rang, quite loudly. It had been silent for a long time. It was not Haroon and he could not recognize the long string of numbers that were showing on the screen. He took the call.
A distant voice spoke. Rahul recognized the accent immediately. Japanese.
‘Is that Rahul?’
‘Yes, it is. Who is this? And why have you called me?’
The Japanese voice ignored him and carried on in a grave tone.
‘Rahul, I know you are in Mangalore today. We are watching your every move. Do not try to cheat me. I repeat: do not try to cheat me. Your boss and you think, very foolishly, that you can pass off old Japanese antiques from Mumbai as my family’s sacred treasure. You are mistaken, so mistaken. Don’t even think about trying that. Unless you find the real treasure and hand it over to me in fifteen days when I meet you in Mumbai, you are in big trouble, Rahul. I want our treasure, the one the monk stole from us, the one you are following his clues towards. Forget everything else, just remember one thing: I need that treasure. It belongs to my family, and you will find it for me.’
Rahul tried to interject. ‘Who are you, and what is this treasure you need?’
But the Japanese voice ignored him totally and continued, ‘If you don’t do this, then beware, my friend. Today, you will see the first sign of the real dangers that can come your way if this does not happen. Be careful for your life, my young friend. You do not want to end up in Yanaka-reien in a hurry, do you, with your beautiful young girlfriend?’
Before Rahul could speak again, the man had disconnected the call. Rahul tried calling back, but all he heard was a Japanese voice mes
sage repeating itself, followed by what could only be described as mean and evil laughter.
He turned to Neha. ‘It’s that crazy Japanese guy again, Neha. This time, I think it is the other Yamamoto brother, calling all the way from Tokyo. He knows where we are and he is threatening us quite directly. Find the treasure and hand it over to him, or end up in that cemetery, that’s what he said. He mentioned you too. What do we do?’
Neha was surprisingly calm. ‘It’s all empty talk and sword-waving, Rahul. Nothing more. What can two bald Japanese brothers do to us, in India that too? Let’s just carry on. We are enjoying this adventure, aren’t we?’
Neha had barely finished speaking when they saw an elephant charging towards their car. They were on a small village road, still a few miles away from Mangalore, and the large lumbering animal was running towards their vehicle. Running surprisingly fast, right in front of them.
Seated on the elephant, metal spear in hand, was a strange-looking man. Neha recognized him instantly. It was that silent, tall man who had accompanied Yamamoto during their brief encounter outside Annapoorneshwari Temple in Coimbatore.
The elephant was hurtling towards their car. Their driver, shrunken and frightened, froze in his seat, unable to move. This did not look like a relaxed animal that had just eaten or pooped out coffee beans. It looked like a beast out to wreak some real havoc.
Before they could react, the elephant had attacked their car. It butted the vehicle with its broad head and trunk, and the car shook violently. Then, it stood right before them, contemplating its next move. Rahul and Neha sat completely still, feeling really scared.
The elephant butted their car once again, and then a third time, with considerably more force. The last push ensured that the car was completely off the road; it nearly toppled over, but fortunately regained its balance. They saw the tall Japanese man, still sitting atop the animal, shaking his spear and looking directly at them.
