An Extreme Love of Coffee

by Harish Bhat

  The Yamamoto brothers turned to face the voice. Everyone else in the room turned too.

  There, clad in a beautiful, lightly patterned, blue and yellow kimono, stood Neha. Her lips were bright red like a senior geisha’s and there were big white flowers in her hair. She seemed to have entered unnoticed. In her hands was a brass box that looked like a small treasure chest. Neha, the food blogger from Mumbai and, more recently, coffee lover from Coorg and Copenhagen, had just made the most dramatic entrance of her life.

  Takahira Yamamoto looked at her. His expression was stern. ‘We know you well, Madam. You had come to Yanaka-reien with your boyfriend, Rahul. What is it that you have for us? Let me see.’

  He walked across to her and looked at the brass box closely. ‘You are wearing a very authentic Japanese costume, that I will admit, Madam. But no, this small brass chest is not our treasure. I can see. This is just an old box you have bought from an antique shop. Don’t try to pass this off as our treasure. I already warned Haroon-san that we will not tolerate such cheats,’ he said and waved his sword again, rather abruptly and violently this time.

  Neha lifted her eyes, like a dainty Japanese maiden would, and responded softly: ‘Yamamoto-san, it’s not the box. That’s not what I meant. But within this small box is what you seek.’

  With her right hand, she slowly lifted the lid.

  Haroon and Shinko Yamamoto moved closer to see what was inside. Karthik, overcome by curiosity, left his camera and wedged closer. This was turning out to be a very different film shoot for sure.

  Ram Prakash, not knowing what to make of all these recent dramatic developments, also moved towards Neha but kept a safe distance from the Yamamotos and their swords. Manufacturing mattresses with patented Japanese springs was difficult enough. He had no desire to get embroiled with Japanese swordsmen now.

  And then, in the midst of all this turmoil, who was this Indian woman in Japanese clothes, holding a brass box? A lurking suspicion entered and laid its ratty seed in his mind. He wished he had not commissioned an agency of madmen with links to Japanese gangsters to make a film for his beloved mattresses.

  Meanwhile, Neha had lifted up the lid. The inside of the box was covered with soft, red velvet on which sat two small brass keys.

  Takahira Yamamoto peered into the box and stared at the keys. He saw the faint Japanese characters marked on them. He picked up one key, turned it over in his hand and read the faint markings. Then he picked up the other one and read the markings on that too.

  He repeated this process a couple of times. Everyone at close quarters could see the glint in his eyes behind the rimmed lenses. Then he called out to Shinko. Both brothers peered at the keys closely, taking an unduly long time.

  Eventually, Takahira spoke. He held his bald head high and lowered his sword. His voice reflected both joy and immense relief.

  ‘Rahul-san and Neha-san, we thank you with all our heart. Here I declare today, these are indeed the keys to our family treasure. From the markings on these keys, my brother and I have understood exactly where the treasure is stored, securely locked in Tokyo. We have been searching for this treasure high and low our entire lifetime. We thought you would cheat us, because cheating others for self-benefit is the curse of our times. So, we stalked you and warned you. But you have been truthful. We are grateful to you for having found our treasure and returning it to us. We have valuable gifts for both of you and Haroon-san too.’

  It was a climactic moment, and so Rahul felt compelled to respond.

  ‘Neha and I are grateful to you, Takahira-san and Shinko-san, for having gifted us the finest coffee adventure we could have ever imagined. And yes, I am grateful to you for the story of the shogun, which gave me the idea for this script. Those are greater than any gift that you will give us now.’

  After a brief pause, he added, ‘But yes, of course, we welcome your gifts too.’

  As a final afterthought, a gesture towards his boss, he added, ‘I have no doubt that Haroon-san is also grateful to you for your story, which gave us the idea for this film.’

  Haroon nodded vigorously. This was reaching somewhere good after all. What had happened was puzzling, and he had no idea where those blasted keys had come from, or why this beautiful girl had burst into their set, dressed like a geisha. But the Yamamotos appeared to be happy, which was good news, and right now, shooting the film was his priority. The rest of the story could wait until he sat down for a beer with Rahul. After all, Haroon reminded himself, he was the head of an advertising agency, not a company that searched for secret treasure.

  ‘Let’s get on with the film, now,’ he announced in a business-like fashion. ‘All this was not part of the script, mind you. It just happened. This is Film City after all, anything can happen here. So move on, move on. Let’s get back to the shogun on his mattress. Karthik, shall we get started again?’

  Rahul and Neha looked at each other and smiled. The conclusion they had reached in their Copenhagen hotel room had been right. Their plan had worked well, and with a nice touch of drama that too. The only difficulty had been finding the right kimono for Neha in Mumbai, but a young Japanese lady they knew indirectly had been generous enough to lend hers.

  Rahul put his right hand into the pocket of his trousers, felt the third key which they had found and wondered where this would lead. That blasted coffee monk was controlling their lives. Neha had exactly the same thought.

  30

  A week later, Rahul and Neha met at Starbucks, across the road from Horniman Circle. This café sometimes offered limited editions of the most exquisite coffees that no one had heard of. And now, there was also seasonal baked mango yogurt on the dessert menu.

  Rahul ordered an India Estates Blend coffee and persuaded Neha to order the same.

  ‘You should try this, Neha. This special coffee comes all the way from Coorg, which we know so well now. Do you remember our time through the lush green coffee plantations there, with RG floating behind us? This coffee will remind you of the plantations for sure. It has beautiful herbal notes, with hints of citrus and a chocolatey mouthfeel. Listen, Neha, I have tasted this coffee before, and I could almost taste Coorg in my cup. A medium-roasted arabica is what you will get.’

  ‘Stop showing off your coffee knowledge all the time, you idiot. But yes, I’ll go with an India Estates Blend too. Let’s see what it holds for us.’

  They sat silently until their coffee arrived in huge porcelain mugs. It had an intense sweet aroma and a bold flavour with notes of citrus. Neha thought that she could also sense chocolate and cinnamon, and that was when the coffee teased her tongue with more complex tastes which she could not put her finger on. The coffee sent shivers of satisfaction down their spines.

  ‘Rahul, I wish we had those pink beans with us again, the coffee that took us all the way to Japan. Was that magic, I mean, what really happened to us then?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Neha. Maybe we will never know. That’s why magic is magic, because you can never fully understand it. Sometimes, we should not try to pierce the magic veil. All our lives desperately need some magic from time to time. But I think we were finally right, you know. Those two keys belonged to the Yamamoto brothers and our coffee monk wanted us to find the keys and hand them over to the rightful owners. That’s why he had sent us to Japan in the first place to meet them. That’s why he left a label attached to only the third key, telling us that this specific key alone was for us. This implies, as we rightly surmised, that the first two keys were not for us. They had to be handed over to the Yamamotos. I wonder what treasures those keys will unlock back in Japan!’

  He continued. ‘But you know what I think, Neha? Those pink beans that took us to Japan must have been stolen from the monk’s plantation by that wrinkled old lady. We experienced the pure magic of his special coffee and it took us where he wanted us to go.’

  Neha reached out and held Rahul’s hand. ‘This India Estates blend is taking me places, Rahul. It is so beautiful. Superb reco
mmendation by the only coffee grandmaster I know. Did I tell you, I am getting to really like him?’

  And before he knew it, she switched the topic abruptly. ‘Hey, listen, have you brought the third key with you? What do we do now?’

  Rahul took out the key from his pocket, as if on cue, and handed it to Neha. She looked at the paper tag attached to it. It was a musty old card with faint, but very clear, writing.

  This one is for you. Ask Pandian.

  ‘We go where the key wants us to go, Neha. We can’t leave our adventure unfinished, can we?’

  *

  Rahul and Neha went to H. Jerome Pandian, loyal housekeeper to the monk and keeper of his secrets. They arrived at Pandian’s house in Suntikoppa to a very warm welcome.

  ‘Ayya, Amma, sit down, sit down. Always coffee first and talking later.’

  He served them filter coffee in small steel tumblers, just like he had done on their first trip several weeks ago. The south Indian kaapi, rich with milk and sugar, with froth at the top, had a golden glow. Neha sipped a little, and after their long drive, it felt like the nectar of heaven on the tip of her tongue.

  ‘Ayya, Amma, I made this coffee for you from the new season’s coffee crop that has just come in. These are washed robusta beans from my master’s plantation, Edobetta. Roasted by me, right here in my home, on my own iron pan. I learnt the secrets of roasting from my master, God bless his soul.’

  Pandian was in an expansive mood that morning. As they sipped their coffee, he spoke about his roasting technique.

  ‘Ayya, the beans change colour from green to yellow to golden brown on my iron pan. All this while, I need to constantly adjust the flame. My master taught me how exactly the flame should behave. Then, suddenly, I hear the first crack, and soon I have to lower the flame. After a few minutes comes the second crack; the beans are dark brown. Ready to brew, ready to serve! The secret lies in the heat, the stirring of the pan at the right time. Would you like to see?’

  Rahul was tempted to say yes because he wanted to roast his own beans too. That would be wonderful; it would take his coffee involvement a few notches higher. But they were here on a mission and they had to get back to Mumbai within a couple of days.

  ‘Thank you, Pandian. Sometime later; not now. You know, we are here just to ask you a question.’

  ‘Ayya, my master had told me to expect you back with a question. And he had said that I should also brief my son, just in case I wasn’t alive when you returned. I am now ninety-eight, Ayya. See my hair and my skin. I don’t know how much longer I will live. But God, and my master, gave me a very good life. And this wonderful moustache. I am happy. Ask me, Ayya, ask me.’

  Rahul reached into his pocket and produced the third key, the one with the number ‘215’ marked on it, and the small card that said: ‘This one is for you. Ask Pandian.’

  ‘Pandian, do you know anything about this key? We found it in one of the pouches of coffee beans that your master, the monk, left for us.’

  Pandian looked at the key carefully. Then he asked Rahul to hand it over. He cupped it in his hands, closed his eyes and turned towards the heavens. For a few minutes, there was no movement. He appeared to be praying. Then, he opened his eyes and spoke, ‘Ayya, Amma, I am so happy to see this key again. I know it very well. I used to accompany my master when he used this key. Now, he has left it to you. He wants me to take you to the place where it will work. And I will take you there, right now. But first, finish your coffee, and I have some more left in my filter to serve you.’

  They finished their coffee and got into their car, accompanied by Pandian. Pandian directed the driver. Neha’s face betrayed excitement. This was the culmination of such an interesting chase. They were finally close to the treasure that the monk had decided to leave for them.

  When they reached, they realized that it was the local branch of a large bank. Pandian took them to the person manning the lockers at the branch. They displayed their key, Pandian affixed his thumb print and they went into the strongroom. A bank official followed them with his own master key.

  Inside the strongroom, they stood in anticipation as the bank official found locker number 215. It was at the bottom. The official first used his master key and then asked Rahul to insert his key. The key glided in smoothly; there was a quick twist and the locker opened.

  There was a large, sealed manila envelope inside. Neha was overcome with impatience, so she dived in and extracted the envelope. Rahul and Pandian stood by her side.

  On top of the envelope was a single line, written in the monk’s handwriting.

  For you who love coffee so much.

  Here is the treasure I leave for you. I hope you will accept it.

  Slowly, now with trembling hands, Neha looked at the envelope, turned it up and down, and finally handed it to Rahul. Pandian felt the tension in the air, so he stepped back gently, twirled his grand moustache and said, ‘Ayya, Amma, this is my master’s gift to you. Take it with you. May my master’s blessings be with you forever.’

  31

  They opened the envelope seated on the verandah of Cottabetta Bungalow. Unknown to them, RG was there too. He was perched invisibly on a chair nearby, with his steaming cup in his hands. The sun was setting on the coffee plantations. Dense greenery dropped down on the mountains all around them. A few birds twittered, anxious to reach home quickly before nightfall. Pooviah had just served them hot coffee with banana chips on the side.

  Inside the envelope, Neha found a sheaf of documents held together by a large clip. On top of it all, she found a letter written by hand on a ruled paper, in turquoise-blue ink.

  She wedged closer to Rahul on the cane sofa and began reading aloud.

  My dear fellow coffee lovers,

  I do not know who you are, but I know that you love coffee dearly because you have reached so far. How could you have solved my coffee puzzles, my friends, unless you were so steeped in the magic of this beloved drink? Thank you for indulging me by following the clues I left for you. You have done well and I want you to know that my secret treasure can now be yours. Not yet, though. I may be dead and gone, but please indulge me one more time, my friends.

  Let me tell you my story first. I am Asahi Saito, a monk from the city of Osaka. ‘Saito’ means an image of purity and divine worship, and my order required me to be pure in search of the divine. I was engaged in prayers all the time in Japan. Then, one day, I met Shogun Yoshinobu who had retired from active life. He liked me and got talking to me, and then he introduced me to something that changed my life. He gave me my first sip of coffee.

  It was magical. I remember drinking from that cup in Yoshinobu’s home and was convinced that it was divine nectar in my hands! Yoshinobu shared my excitement because he had obtained this coffee only a few days earlier from the land you now call Turkey. He was, in fact, the very first man to bring coffee to Japan.

  For the next many months, we sampled a hundred different varieties of coffee from many parts of the world. Yoshinobu was very well-connected and many couriers brought him coffee beans, which he carefully roasted and brewed using a method that he alone knew. He taught me that method too and we shared our views about the merits of each coffee. Oh yes, he took great pleasure and pride in all his coffees.

  Yoshinobu had hosted foreign delegates with special coffees too. One of those coffees, he told me, was totally magical. He said this particular coffee made people live out their dreams. Sometimes they went crazy when they drank this, he told me, and sometimes they became wise. But they always liberated their minds and became what they wanted to be. He said this coffee came from a secret source and was marked by pink beans. He wanted me to preserve this secret for the future. He gave me a box of these fresh coffee seeds, which he had obtained from somewhere, and asked me to plant them and nurture them. I promised him that I would do that.

  Initially, I planted these seeds in my yard in Japan and a few coffee plants grew there. Yoshinobu was right. The coffee from these plants was
magnificent and magical. Once, when I drank it, my mind was transported to India, the land of the Taj Mahal, the monument of love which I had always wanted to see. So, after Yoshinobu passed away, I decided to travel to India. I spent two months here and fell in love with the country, one with beautiful, happy, talkative people. Not a wealthy country, but indeed a rich land. I also discovered that coffee was grown in the southern part of India. So, I decided that I would fulfil my promise to Yoshinobu by moving to India forever and living here as a planter of coffee.

  That is how I established the Edobetta plantation, which was the love of my life. I bought land in Coorg and, at the very beginning, I planted the special pink coffee seeds, which I got from the plants in my own yard. Then, I planted other well-known varieties of Indian coffee too. The life of a planter was destined for me. I loved this life, the greenery all around, the fresh outdoors and the elephants and flying squirrels. I cultivated Edobetta with all my heart: it became part and parcel of this beautiful coffee-growing land.

  I gradually fell head over heels in love with Indian coffee. What amazing variety of coffees this country has, which the whole world should discover someday. My favourite was always filter kaapi with milk and sugar. And then coffee with jaggery: they call it bellada kaapi. Then there were washed robustas; monsooned Malabar coffee; Mysore nuggets; arabicas of the Shevaroys and Manjarabad; and so many more. All treasures of this fertile land.

  But in the midst of this, I had not forgotten Yoshinobu and Japan. Before he died, Yoshinobu had left with me two keys to a treasure, which he wanted to share with the sons of his good friend Yamamoto. I assured him that I would do that. I brought those keys with me to India and decided to hand them over to the Yamamotos when I next visited Japan. I visited Japan a few times to be sure, but unfortunately I could never locate them. So, the keys stayed with me. My friends, I’m sure you now know which keys I am referring to.